Something very strange starts to happen to a woman in her forties – and I imagine in her fifties, sixties, and beyond: she enters her sexy older woman phase and young men in their twenties start to hit on her. Now, it’s not strange that women in middle age should be hit on – of course not, we are sexy as hell – but it can be very disconcerting when you are not expecting it. Largely because when you are in your forties, someone in their twenties looks extremely young. Like, insanely young. They don’t look like they should be trying to buy you a drink so much as a juice box.

At least, they do to me. Did you ever notice that doctors and police officers start to look really young once you’re firmly ensconced in middle age? Well so too do the 20-year-olds who start to hit on you. If a 22-year-old told me they were taking their GCSEs or couldn’t play out because they had to go home for their tea, I wouldn’t bat an eyelid.

There is a serious mismatch happening here. The young fella sees himself as suave, debonair and charming. His face, unbothered by the tedium of choosing a pension provider or the crushing weight of losing the guarantee on a Ninja air fryer. Cool and confident. Meanwhile, the object of his affection is trying to work out if she knows him from her son’s gymnastic squad.

It’s happened to me twice in the past couple of weeks and on both occasions, I didn’t immediately clock that I was being chatted up. This isn’t a humblebrag, by the way. We live in a world where men will turn to soft fruit for pleasure. In 2023, a man in Wiltshire was arrested for allegedly having sex with a tree, so it’s hardly impressive that once in a while one of them will wander over and shoot their shot with an actual human woman. I am just noticing that the age demographic of men who approach me has shifted downwards.

Weirdly, both times were on trains, and that is a bold move, young fellas. To just wander up to a perfect stranger on a train, in real life, and start flirting is old school and not something I was expecting from a Gen Z. I had assumed if they wanted to flirt, I would be given some kind of QR code, or be invited to a TikTok live, which may partially account for my not understanding what was happening.

But the biggest reason for my confusion is that to me, they look like Mouseketeers, so my reaction is more maternal than minx. (And if you don’t get a joke about Mouseketeers, you are definitely too young for me to be dating.)

The first hopeful came and sat next to me in the train station and started asking me which train he should get. He was a lovely looking chap but clearly in his early twenties. I duly answered his questions, but then the conversation changed to “where is good to eat around here?” and “where do you like to go when you go out?” Yet because he looked so young, I responded to his line of questioning as if he was a toddler who had started asking me about trains. “You like trains? I like trains too! Are you here all by yourself? That’s very grown up.”

I didn’t realise his persistent questions were an effort to flirt until I was heading away from him, sat on the 12:03 to Sheffield. No wonder he looked so upset at my suggestion we play I-spy.

The second time was on a train when a twenty-something-year-old came and sat next to me. He began by asking me about my watch, before moving onto how much he liked my outfit, my hair, etc. To me, in his oversized clothes, he looked like he was dressed for either a pyjama party or a nap, so it didn’t occur to me that this was an effort at seduction. I viewed it as an earnest request for clothing advice and started giving tips on dressing well for interviews. It was a disaster and both of us walked away from it confused.

Maybe it’s the neurodivergent in me that struggles to understand flirting unless it commences with clear instructions that this is a romantic exchange, but I simply do not look at men whose frontal lobe hasn’t fully developed as sensible dating material. I know there are plenty of successful age gap relationships out there that work out, and good luck to them. But, seriously, what do you talk to a university student about when you are old enough to sign up for a Saga cruise? How do you look at their unfurrowed, unbotoxed brows and see anything but a cast member of School of Rock?

I know that there will be many people reading these words thinking: “Shut up and take the compliment, Kate!” And I do, I really do. But this skewed dynamic will never not be hilarious to me. He thinks he’s Paul Finch, seducing Stifler’s mom, and she’s wondering if he has any idea how to fold a fitted sheet. I think it’s the audacity that cracks me up more than anything else. As if a woman who lived through the transition from dial-up to AI data centres is going to want to get involved with a 21-year-old who still thinks Nando’s is the height of sophistication.

Someone once told me that as young as they look to you is as old as you look to them and I have always thought this very sage advice, only now something seems to be shifting, and not from my perspective. They still look very young to me, but now, apparently, I am worth a shot at.

There’s a strange irony to it. I am finally in my Milf era but can’t look at anyone under 30 as being anything but urchin-like. “Please ma’am, may I have some more?” No, you may bloody well not! Now go home before I call your mother!