Free Last Tango in Toulouse by Mary Moody

the drunken, noisy slob you have portrayed in your book, I can’t possibly take offence.’
    Thank heavens for his self-deprecating sense of humour. Jock generally refuses to acknowledge reality and drifts through life with a blind optimist’s adoration of his much loved little patch of the world. Perhaps he’s indicative of men in general, who cannot really see themselves as dispassionately as the rest of the world (especially women) see them. A medical survey carriedout a few years ago tested individual perceptions about weight and appearance. Most men, no matter what their size and shape, had a view of themselves as being quite slim and in good shape. They looked at their peers and commented on how they had ‘aged’ but couldn’t actually see themselves as being in the same boat. Women, on the other hand, no matter how slender, complained of looking unattractive and of being overweight. They worried at the first sign of aging and generally had a critical view of themselves.
    Inside Jock’s large, mid-seventy-year-old body there beats the heart of a man much younger and more energetic. He still sees himself as being about thirty years old, rakishly attractive (which he still is, of course) and with a constitution that can effortlessly tolerate a wild and often hedonistic lifestyle. He must have been blessed with a fantastic set of genes and a cast-iron constitution, but he also has certain medically based limitations – lungs that wheeze and splutter after more than seven decades of chronic asthma and a heart that has successfully undergone major surgery and should be treated with a little more respect.
    Jock’s main problem is that he is such a popular and entertaining guest that his summer diary is crammed with invitations for lunches, dinners, drinks and general merriment. All his friends worry about him because from time to time his entire system falls apart, and on at least two occasions he has ended up in hospital with a life-threatening illness, the last one pneumonia. However, it takes more than a little brush with death to stop Jock in his tracks, and after a week of slowing down to recover he’s back on deck, ready to party.
    The contrasts in Jock’s life are profound. During the long,hot days of summer he is on a non-stop treadmill of social activities, with house guests and parties that stretch for weeks into months. He gains a lot of weight, becomes even more florid in the face and often looks as though he’s been to hell and back a few times. In winter the entire social scene calms down and, as temperatures plummet to below zero, Jock hibernates in his small stone house, often remaining in his study, where the only heater is, before wandering into the icy kitchen to cook up some dinner or up to his equally frosty bedroom to sleep. He attempts to brighten this dreary winter hiatus by throwing the odd dinner party – he’s an excellent and creative cook – but friends attend with some trepidation. A mutual friend recounts sitting through a delicious four-course dinner wearing her overcoat, scarf and gloves; others claim they furiously stoke the fire but still shiver all night. Last winter his oldest friends, Margaret and Lucience, ganged up and insisted that he install some electric heaters. However, Jock is still inclined to absent-mindedly leave a door or window open, so it’s never cosy.
    In summer Jock reverts to his wild ways, exhausting by association all those within his orbit. It’s not uncommon for him to attend a lunch that lingers on until five o’clock, go home for a snooze then out again to an evening meal or party that starts at 7.30 and goes until well after midnight. Concerned about his health, I once emailed him from Australia saying that I had heard via the grapevine that he had been ‘overdoing it’ a little, considering he was not long out of hospital. He replied with an amusing slice of his diary, detailing his