Dirty Old Man.

My word, I am indeed a dirty dirty old man. Walking along the train platform this morning, my attention was lured away from the ground in front of me and up towards the inescapably captive motion of a woman walking ahead of me. Grace. Confidence. Innocent abandon. Legs.

I was so very hopeful she was on her way to a fancy dress party. Or maybe she was playing the role of a character much younger than her on the set of movie. But alas no. The hordes of other uniforms and the fact it was 7:30am made all deductions assimilate the fact that she was indeed a school girl.

I forced myself to look away. The school uniforms aren’t exactly conservative in Ballarat. This lass must’ve been close to 5’10” and it seems they only made dresses for students up to 5’6”. Whether she intended to advertise this or not, she had legs, and she knew how to use them. A movie star harlot when compared to the gaggle that was now busy establishing a pecking order on the platform.

When I looked away, I passively observed almost everyone around glancing or flat out staring at her. So sultry was her walk, I half expected the sun to go down, a spotlight to shine on her, a microphone to drop from the rafters and witness her cascade into a piano bar jazz number.

The fantasies continued as she flicked her long blonde hair over her shoulder and turned to enter the coffee shop. At that point, the shampoo advertisement director in me yelled, “Cut! Perfect, you got it, that’s a wrap!”.

Judging by the height of the students and the broken voices of the males, I estimate they were in their final year of school, putting them at 17 or 18 years of age. If I was the same age, my thoughts could be interpreted as an adorable crush. But I am not the same age and that makes me a dirty dirty old man. Like every single other bloke there.