THE LADY FAYE

I've a thing for a lady named Faye who works in my building. Just smitten. Our paths cross in the hall or elevator, we nod or exchange pleasantries and I'm swooning inside.

At a lean six feet, with shoulder-length - albeit 'encouraged'- blonde hair (way too long and way too blonde for a woman in her 60s but who's noticing?), Lady Faye is the goddess that towers above me. I'm pretty sure she's had work done on her nose.

Yesterday she oozed intention for attention. She'd gussied up real special. So what if it was a weekday morning? She sashayed through the lobby in pointy-toed white stilettos, hair flapping in her wake and hips swinging with such vigour her deep pink, loose-fitting flared miniskirt bounced above her knees, pasty bare legs exposed like a Rockette.

Up top she wore a low-cut, sleeveless white blouse with probably too much cleavage for the office and ropes of stringy fringe jiggling around the neckline and armholes. Her golden tresses framed the weathered face, emblazened lips coloured to match the magenta of her skirt. No eye makeup. She was a hybrid of Stevie Nicks circa 1977 and a majorette who'd seen better days.

But don't get me wrong; I type these words with admiration and affection. She's ravishing. The lovely Lady Faye, just so perfectly Faye: living out loud, true to herself and to hell with everybody else.