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The Old Man and Me
A sly, funny novel about an American girl trying to make it in 1960s London–and discovering that she's in over head.
In The Dud Avocado , Elaine Dundy revealed the life of the young expatriate in Paris in all its hilarious and heartbreaking drama. With The Old Man and Me , written when Dundy was living in England in the early 1960s, she tackles the American girl in London, a bit older but certainly no wiser.
Honey Flood (if that’s her real name) arrives in London with only her quick wits and a scheme. To get what she wants, she’ll have to seduce the city’s brightest literary star, no matter how many would-be bohemians she has to charm, how many smoky jazz clubs she has to brave, or how many Lady Something-Somethings she has to humor. But with success within her reach, Honey finds that in making the Soho scene, she’s made a big mistake.
In The Dud Avocado , Elaine Dundy revealed the life of the young expatriate in Paris in all its hilarious and heartbreaking drama. With The Old Man and Me , written when Dundy was living in England in the early 1960s, she tackles the American girl in London, a bit older but certainly no wiser.
Honey Flood (if that’s her real name) arrives in London with only her quick wits and a scheme. To get what she wants, she’ll have to seduce the city’s brightest literary star, no matter how many would-be bohemians she has to charm, how many smoky jazz clubs she has to brave, or how many Lady Something-Somethings she has to humor. But with success within her reach, Honey finds that in making the Soho scene, she’s made a big mistake.
231 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1964
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3091 people want to read
About the author
Elaine Dundy
14 books116 followersElaine Dundy (1921–2008) grew up in New York City and Long Island. After graduating from Sweet Briar College in 1943 she worked as an actress in Paris and, later, London, where she met her future husband, the theater critic Kenneth Tynan. Dundy wrote three novels, The Dud Avocado (1958), The Old Man and Me (1964), and The Injured Party (1974); a play, My Place (produced in 1962); biographies of Elvis Presley and the actor Peter Finch; a study of Ferriday, Louisiana; and a memoir, Life Itself!
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 151 reviews
September 25, 2017
Blistering pace lurks just around the nearest corner in this unassuming little romp. There are miles to go before we sleep, but we start as one always must with London, by the river. Raw weather and constant fog are countered gallantly with gas fire and cup of tea. It's the edgy finish of Austerity Britain, with the city not just yet in 'swinging' shape.
It was a Sunday, I think, and everything was closed. It was a hideous ride with warehouses and smokestacks on one side of the river and Bovril and Milk advertisements on the other but by then I wasn't particularly in the mood to get upset about the looks of a river. It had rained almost steadily since I arrived and I thought London the ugliest city on earth. Marble Arch and Piccadilly Circus. Ugh. The dirty-green grass patch called Leicester Square surrounded by Movie Palaces, restaurant windows full of chickens revolving on their spits and the new Automobile Association Building — hardly Art Nouveau. Oxford Street. Ugh, ugh.
Elaine Dundy narrates a nicely-turned Rake's Progress tale, but from the female perspective. We are led along by a fascinating young American woman on the make (and on the skids, on the lam, on the razzle.. what else have you got?) It's really not so much a coming of age tale as it is the making of a young scoundrel-- endearing though she may be. Dundy has mentioned she was after doing a counterpunch to the Angry-Sink boys, notably Kingsley Amis, but here she channels the grand masters of grift, too-- Barry Lyndon and Moll Flanders come to mind. Entrepreneurial spirits all.
The novel quietly proceeds to a dive bar from that bleak beginning, and we're off. Dundy has her protagonist encounter a spectrum of untrustworthies, shy extroverts, eccentric flakes --and she decides on the spot that if she truly wants to mingle with the quality, she'll have to impersonate one of them. Along the way we get miniportraits of Britishers of all tints; our perky American of presumed great expectations becomes catnip to a whole range of suitors. An assumed name, a file of characteristics borrowed from an old friend in the states, and she's on her way.
Once we're grounded in the non-specifics of the heroine-- spoiler, she'll be shifting her identity a few times on a whim here and there-- Dundy's book begins to take shape. Once she proves she can navigate the crusty byways of London bohemia with enough flair, our narrator is invited along for that most novelistic of Uk pastimes-- the upcountry visit to a weekend manor party. Horses, drinks, shooting, drab skies, drizzle, the works. No cliché is spared-- the faded Aubusson stretching down long galleries, the pale Claret, even the classic of the genre, the Ruined Abbey:
... before she went, she wanted to tell me about the Abbey. The Abbey was on the grounds, not too far away, I could see it from the corner of my window. The Abbey, or rather its ruins, was a twelfth century one that had been razed to the ground during the reign of Henry the Eighth and all the monks slaughtered and I was in the Blue Room, Clara’s—she’d insisted on that because from there, if one was lucky, one could sometimes hear the ghostly voices of the friars at their matins. Clara hadn’t. It was one of their big disappointments. She devoutly hoped I might. And then she was off too. And now I was totally alone.
After a few false starts I found my way back to my room and looked for my suitcase to begin unpacking. Gone. Wrong room? Nope, it was undeniably blue. What had happened was that invisibly fairy hands had pressed, folded, and hung up every stitch of my clothing, polished my shoes, laid out my toilet articles on the washstand and my make-up on the dressing-table, drawn my bath, made off with my suitcase and disappeared without a trace. I looked out of the window at the afternoon splendour, located the Abbey ruins pink in the sun’s reflection and lay down on the fourposter bed. A neat little fire had been lit in the fireplace. The peace, the quiet, the perfection—it was all rather exhausting.
Before heading back to London again, any sacred cow within spearing distance comes to an untimely misfortune. Lucky Jim and The Talented Mr. Ripley are the guideposts; in between cringeworthy brushes with withering stares and unforced faux pas, there is satire, brightly piercing the fug and ritual. Truly, "rather end-of-tethering," it is admitted by one of the participants.
As will be apparent, once this sort of thing is off the ground it becomes a performance piece, an anti-gravity act that can only be witnessed, not described (in a review). Dundy has enough up the narrative sleeve that she manages it with ease, floating deftly from upcountry back to London, a side trip to Paris and then back. The proceedings are certainly unwieldy, but the path is peppered with enough odd turns and detours that the reader just goes for the ride. Which of course ends up not where we may have expected. "Eau rarelie?" inquires one of the posh-monsters.
Just when it all seems too shaggy dog and quixotic-- Dundy brings the coda, an emotional scene with a purse, a comb, a streak of red lipstick-- that stands in nicely for the heroine's quest. A smear, a streak. A mad stab at time. A heartfelt lunge at life. Youth. You know the deal.
It was a Sunday, I think, and everything was closed. It was a hideous ride with warehouses and smokestacks on one side of the river and Bovril and Milk advertisements on the other but by then I wasn't particularly in the mood to get upset about the looks of a river. It had rained almost steadily since I arrived and I thought London the ugliest city on earth. Marble Arch and Piccadilly Circus. Ugh. The dirty-green grass patch called Leicester Square surrounded by Movie Palaces, restaurant windows full of chickens revolving on their spits and the new Automobile Association Building — hardly Art Nouveau. Oxford Street. Ugh, ugh.
Elaine Dundy narrates a nicely-turned Rake's Progress tale, but from the female perspective. We are led along by a fascinating young American woman on the make (and on the skids, on the lam, on the razzle.. what else have you got?) It's really not so much a coming of age tale as it is the making of a young scoundrel-- endearing though she may be. Dundy has mentioned she was after doing a counterpunch to the Angry-Sink boys, notably Kingsley Amis, but here she channels the grand masters of grift, too-- Barry Lyndon and Moll Flanders come to mind. Entrepreneurial spirits all.
The novel quietly proceeds to a dive bar from that bleak beginning, and we're off. Dundy has her protagonist encounter a spectrum of untrustworthies, shy extroverts, eccentric flakes --and she decides on the spot that if she truly wants to mingle with the quality, she'll have to impersonate one of them. Along the way we get miniportraits of Britishers of all tints; our perky American of presumed great expectations becomes catnip to a whole range of suitors. An assumed name, a file of characteristics borrowed from an old friend in the states, and she's on her way.
Once we're grounded in the non-specifics of the heroine-- spoiler, she'll be shifting her identity a few times on a whim here and there-- Dundy's book begins to take shape. Once she proves she can navigate the crusty byways of London bohemia with enough flair, our narrator is invited along for that most novelistic of Uk pastimes-- the upcountry visit to a weekend manor party. Horses, drinks, shooting, drab skies, drizzle, the works. No cliché is spared-- the faded Aubusson stretching down long galleries, the pale Claret, even the classic of the genre, the Ruined Abbey:
... before she went, she wanted to tell me about the Abbey. The Abbey was on the grounds, not too far away, I could see it from the corner of my window. The Abbey, or rather its ruins, was a twelfth century one that had been razed to the ground during the reign of Henry the Eighth and all the monks slaughtered and I was in the Blue Room, Clara’s—she’d insisted on that because from there, if one was lucky, one could sometimes hear the ghostly voices of the friars at their matins. Clara hadn’t. It was one of their big disappointments. She devoutly hoped I might. And then she was off too. And now I was totally alone.
After a few false starts I found my way back to my room and looked for my suitcase to begin unpacking. Gone. Wrong room? Nope, it was undeniably blue. What had happened was that invisibly fairy hands had pressed, folded, and hung up every stitch of my clothing, polished my shoes, laid out my toilet articles on the washstand and my make-up on the dressing-table, drawn my bath, made off with my suitcase and disappeared without a trace. I looked out of the window at the afternoon splendour, located the Abbey ruins pink in the sun’s reflection and lay down on the fourposter bed. A neat little fire had been lit in the fireplace. The peace, the quiet, the perfection—it was all rather exhausting.
Before heading back to London again, any sacred cow within spearing distance comes to an untimely misfortune. Lucky Jim and The Talented Mr. Ripley are the guideposts; in between cringeworthy brushes with withering stares and unforced faux pas, there is satire, brightly piercing the fug and ritual. Truly, "rather end-of-tethering," it is admitted by one of the participants.
As will be apparent, once this sort of thing is off the ground it becomes a performance piece, an anti-gravity act that can only be witnessed, not described (in a review). Dundy has enough up the narrative sleeve that she manages it with ease, floating deftly from upcountry back to London, a side trip to Paris and then back. The proceedings are certainly unwieldy, but the path is peppered with enough odd turns and detours that the reader just goes for the ride. Which of course ends up not where we may have expected. "Eau rarelie?" inquires one of the posh-monsters.
Just when it all seems too shaggy dog and quixotic-- Dundy brings the coda, an emotional scene with a purse, a comb, a streak of red lipstick-- that stands in nicely for the heroine's quest. A smear, a streak. A mad stab at time. A heartfelt lunge at life. Youth. You know the deal.
January 27, 2012
The late and great Elaine Dundy is a very interesting woman, who lived near Book Soup and was a customer as well. Little did I know of her writing career till I read "The Dud Avocado" which is fantastic by the way. So her history is fascinating in that she was married to British theater critic great Kenneth Tynan and also wrote the first serious in depth biography on Elvis.
So of course "The Old Man and Me' would be of interest, but beyond that, it is quite a remarkable novel on various levels. The thing that really caught my attention is that she really got into the language of the British and its difference from American English. Two, she has some knowledge (of course) on the British personality and how that works with the American personality. And three, this is a really smart novel about how cultures merge - especially in early 1960's London. The main character resembles a much sweeter Patricia Highsmith twisted character who is dealing with identity and revenge of sorts. She knows what she wants, but does not know why she wants it. And that is the main problem with "Honey Flood." She goes out to seduce, but she gets seduced and its a weird journey from naive to knowing.
The book captures the culture of London in the early 1960's -before the Beatles and in some ways London itself is one of the characters in this novel. Its a great piece of London literature.
So of course "The Old Man and Me' would be of interest, but beyond that, it is quite a remarkable novel on various levels. The thing that really caught my attention is that she really got into the language of the British and its difference from American English. Two, she has some knowledge (of course) on the British personality and how that works with the American personality. And three, this is a really smart novel about how cultures merge - especially in early 1960's London. The main character resembles a much sweeter Patricia Highsmith twisted character who is dealing with identity and revenge of sorts. She knows what she wants, but does not know why she wants it. And that is the main problem with "Honey Flood." She goes out to seduce, but she gets seduced and its a weird journey from naive to knowing.
The book captures the culture of London in the early 1960's -before the Beatles and in some ways London itself is one of the characters in this novel. Its a great piece of London literature.
August 12, 2009
I find it impossible to review Elaine Dundy's books because I enjoy them SO MUCH that all I want to do is implore you to read this in all caps times 100. I should temper that by saying Dundy has created a nuanced portrait of a young woman living the heedless life of an ex-pat in 50's London/Paris perfectly. Her characters are infectiously likable even when they are being bitchy little monsters.
READ THIS.
READ THIS.
READ THIS to the 77th power.
READ THIS.
READ THIS.
READ THIS to the 77th power.
May 4, 2010
Mad props to NYRB for reprinting another brilliant and wickedly funny gem from Elaine Dundy with a PERFECT cover illustration and a whip-smart, irresistible heroine whom you can't help loving even if you suspect she may be crazy as a loon. Honey Flood (or so she calls herself) is a bright young American woman, recently arrived in London with no money but a plan so far-fetched and diabolical it just might succeed. To get into the particulars would ruin the plot, so let's just say it requires the seduction of the great C.D. McKee, an older British poet of some renown but much greater fortune. Readers may be tempted at first to write Honey off as just another gold-digging American broad, but they quickly learn there's much more to her than first meets the eye. Hysterically funny, razor-sharp commentary on the battle of the sexes, the social classes and the former colony and the motherland -- a chronicle of London on the cusp of its Swinging sexual revolution as written by Nancy Mitford on amphetamines.
March 28, 2017
Witty, funny, zany in parts and well written. Elaine Dundy had a real gift for gab. I surprised myself in liking this a lot more than I thought I would. It reminded me of some of the zany British movies from the sixties. It was well worth my time. A much needed fun read that ended up on my best reads pile. 4 stars.
December 18, 2022
A lot of fun, London in the early 60s (pre- Beatles) as seen through the eyes of an American woman out to retrieve her inheritance: impenetrable fog, closed-on-Sundays, beer soaked, jazz clubs where everything is gay meaning jolly. She goes to see Psycho with her upper class mark and visits his Shropshire retreat. Lovely writing.
January 21, 2023
This was a disappointing offering from Elaine Dundy.
Whereas I loved The Dud Avocado, this story was just silly and whimsical. The premise was great but the story arc was unconvincing with caricatured players and daft scenarios.
And the ending, just utterly imbecilic.
It's a no for this one. Poor show Dundy.
Whereas I loved The Dud Avocado, this story was just silly and whimsical. The premise was great but the story arc was unconvincing with caricatured players and daft scenarios.
And the ending, just utterly imbecilic.
It's a no for this one. Poor show Dundy.
March 1, 2021
FABULOUS! An American girl who “hates everything English,” (hi it’s me) careens her way through London of the early ’60s, on a mission to find, seduce, and... well... sharing what she wants with C.D. McKee (the wealthy, old man of the title) would be a major spoiler. This story is entertaining but not just fluff. For a book that was released in the mid-1960’s, Elaine Dundy’s style feels eeriely relatable today.
“I don’t know what it is—them or me. I’m either ahead of it or behind it but I’m not with it.”
PS: The Old Man and Me > The Dud Avocado
“I don’t know what it is—them or me. I’m either ahead of it or behind it but I’m not with it.”
PS: The Old Man and Me > The Dud Avocado
November 6, 2013
It looked like ordinary satire - young American girl crosses the pond, attempts to seduce and fake her way through London literary scene, etc. I was wrong. Dundy's main character is a monster of appetites and hatreds, a truly terrible person who manages to be a delightful narrator. The blackest and (eventually) bleakest of black comedies. The early sections read a little like Waugh with added vitriol, but it rises to a pretty frightening crack-up, and a nicely disquieting end.
July 6, 2009
I won't go so far as to say that is was a dud avocado, but I will say that is was no Dud Avocado, if you know what I mean.
January 18, 2016
I am not one to shy away from unlikable protagonist (one of my favorite novels is Cather in the Rye), but this novel brings terrible decisions and deceit to another level. On top of that, I was bored by most of the characters we meet in the story. Did not finish this one, sadly.
July 7, 2016
Vaguely amusing, but a sad, sad disappointment after the wonderful Dud Avocado.
July 21, 2023
similar to the dud avocado by dundy, this book starts humbly in the middle of a european scene, inducting us into a unique life being lived by a clever girl, where we are invited to join her in her pursuit of a rich man and of a future ripe with excitement as an expat in london. she assumes a new identity, that of her old college roommate, claims this girl from her pasts name, honey flood, and lies and flirts her way into the circle of C.D. mckee, a rich man with an elusive self yet a wide presence. left at a young age to her own devices, her mother dead, her father somewhat recently deceased, all of his money left to her stepmother, she’s determined to sniff out her own fortune, unflinchingly manipulative in her pursuit. honey proves to be less genuine than she tries to come across as, and yet continues this farce, unsure who to be and how to go along if not as this contrived woman she’s been pretending to be. how do you go along as a woman destitute of all you expected to be waiting patiently for you? honey attempts to recreate her future in the face of her own destroyed expectations, flailing in her secretly desperate attempts to endear herself to strangers, just a grown woman still naive from her sad simple childhood, never truly taught how to pave her way or navigate relationships. “but i thought he liked me. all i want is to be liked.” she’s prone to love-hate relationships, never having known true devotion, incapable of the simplicity of a favoring towards just one strong feeling for someone. “besides, i hated him but i loved him too. yes. i know all about that sort of thing.” dundy knows how to write the precocious yet directionless woman, forcefully extroverted to the point of self sabotage, a woman desperate to gain meaning from relationships with strangers, yet destined to go back to her room alone and stare at the moon, grasping at anything possibly up in the sky for guidance. “suddenly I wanted to run to - God knows whom, maybe God Himself - why is there never a face I can put to whom I want to run? -“ she seeks a face towards whom to run, a marking post on which to confirm her existence on, a reachable handle with which to use steer her own life. “fate was playing my hand for me and for once in my life I knew better than not to go ahead and let it.” honey refuses to release the future she had promised herself, even if she has to fake it until she makes it, even if fate tries to tell her it’s long gone.
February 2, 2025
Years ago, I took a creative-writing workshop during my undergrad years that was memorable for one thing. No, it wasn't my brilliant stories nor those of my classmates. It was memorable because of one dude whose stories were terrible. They seemed inspired by the current (circa 2006-2007) cultural moment in horror, featuring zombies and vampires and (the detail that sticks most in my mind) heavy bricks being used to hold down accelerators so that a car could be driven into a body of water without someone driving it. The stories also featured characters suddenly realizing that they had scimitars on their backs just in the nick of time for a battle with the undead. These stories were memorable, yes, but for a "so bad it's good" quality.
"The Old Man and Me" isn't even "so bad it's good." It's more of a disappointment than anything else. Last year, "The Dud Avacado" was my penultimate book of 2024 and my introduction to Elaine Dundy. It wasn't flawless, but I could see some real talent there in the prose. The story meandered a bit, but in a charming way. I decided to read more of Elaine Dundy's work. "The Old Man and Me" might've killed that impulse flat dead.
The story concerns a young American woman in London who makes a beeline for an old British academic. Why, you ask? Not for his looks; it's a revenge play, in Swinging London. I won't give away why she's targeting C.D. McKee, but Honey Flood (an alias) does so and concocts a scheme to separate him from the money his ex-wife left him upon her death. Hilarity fails to ensue.
This is really a weird book for me, because the promise shown by the set-up (and by Dundy's obvious talent) fails to come through. It's not funny, it's not insightful, it's not entertaining except in a "wow, this is bad" way. And I would say that "The Dud Avocado" is the book to stick with when it comes to Dundy, because of the two I've read so far that one is far more entertaining than "The Old Man and Me." She only wrote one other novel, which I doubt I'll seek out anytime soon. At the very least, I'll remember "The Old Man and Me" as (so far) the worst book I've read in 2025. So there's that, at least.
"The Old Man and Me" isn't even "so bad it's good." It's more of a disappointment than anything else. Last year, "The Dud Avacado" was my penultimate book of 2024 and my introduction to Elaine Dundy. It wasn't flawless, but I could see some real talent there in the prose. The story meandered a bit, but in a charming way. I decided to read more of Elaine Dundy's work. "The Old Man and Me" might've killed that impulse flat dead.
The story concerns a young American woman in London who makes a beeline for an old British academic. Why, you ask? Not for his looks; it's a revenge play, in Swinging London. I won't give away why she's targeting C.D. McKee, but Honey Flood (an alias) does so and concocts a scheme to separate him from the money his ex-wife left him upon her death. Hilarity fails to ensue.
This is really a weird book for me, because the promise shown by the set-up (and by Dundy's obvious talent) fails to come through. It's not funny, it's not insightful, it's not entertaining except in a "wow, this is bad" way. And I would say that "The Dud Avocado" is the book to stick with when it comes to Dundy, because of the two I've read so far that one is far more entertaining than "The Old Man and Me." She only wrote one other novel, which I doubt I'll seek out anytime soon. At the very least, I'll remember "The Old Man and Me" as (so far) the worst book I've read in 2025. So there's that, at least.
April 12, 2020
Breezy comedy filled with lively and highly snobbish conversations and culture-clash debates about debunking British myths about Americans in early ‘60s London, a pretty dreary place!
September 5, 2024
Elaine you firecracker! I love you 🩷
Read
October 31, 2019I read this book.
February 23, 2022
A young American girl comes to England calling herself Honey Flood (this is not her real name, she is using it for a reason that becomes clear eventually). She attaches herself to a middle aged English writer called C.D. McKee, again for a reason that will become clear later. We see England, London, and C.D.McKee through her eyes, and her opinions on all three are vivid and strongly expressed. This is a very amusing black(ish) comedy with several surprising twists, set in the London of the early 60s (before it became swinging).
December 4, 2019
An odd one. It's no Dud Avocado, that's for sure. Didn't care for the ending either.
April 23, 2024
Humorous tale of a fraudster in the vein of Anna Delvey with a taste of the Revenge TV show. The narrator breaks the 4th wall and brings you in as a coconspirator. You know she's lost it, but so does she.
It has that floating river, 70s style language. I had no idea what twist was coming. The narrator was truly capable of anything. I found the portrayal of British old wealth to be enlightening.
Warning use of the n word once.
Quotes:
A great simple truth struck me with surprise: charm is availability. How had I ever thought otherwise? 22
Even looking at the likeness I could feel the same rage and hatred I felt towards that other ring. How ugly it was! An innocent object lying innocently in its velvet case harming no one. But it wasn’t innocent. It was evil. It was a thing of evil. It stank of corruption, sorrow, and death. The sight of it released in me the same ruthless determination to get rid of it, get it out of my sight for ever, revived in me the same scheming plots and plans to remove it from her, from me, for ever at all costs— get him away from her even if it meant taking him away from her myself. Seeing it there shining with evil, I felt justified; reassured that my motives, whatever they looked like from the outside, had been pure. I had been a loyal friend to Honey, had not wanted to see her hurt, had wanted only her happiness. 74
There is a time for asterisks and a time for speaking out. I don’t know— will all this morbid introspection into my terrible itch for that randy old man reveal itself merely as an exercise in self- indulgence, a senseless waste of time? Or will it be that, having put down clearly and to my own satisfaction once and for all precisely what it was like sleeping with foxy grampa, I may finally come to understand what was going on in me? And what was making me go on like that? Maybe not. We must hope for the best. But it’s so hard. I write three words and at the fourth memory seizes me. I waste hours mooning over a situation that play it as I may could only have been resolved by disaster. 152
I consulted myself seriously, pleading with myself to let me in on what I was really up to. 159
“Not really. I went along with her last night. I don’t know what it is—them or me. I’m either ahead of it or behind it but I’m not with it. 160
We had a good meal at some polished walnut of a restaurant and lots and lots to drink and then he took me back to his place where he—well, we’ve been through all that already, haven’t we? 163
Dody looked at me dazedly, poor little lost satellite skidding bewilderedly between orbits, her head drooping to one side. 169
I received this with more irritation than satisfaction. If only she’d become angry, resentful, suspicious, put up some decent resistance, I would have been spared the false but persistent fear that I was taking advantage of her. After all, the thing to remember was how crummily Scotty had been treating her all this time. I was merely doing the right thing for the wrong reason. 169
That I’m going to fill, I promised myself as we sat quietly together in the night- club, that distinguished old man and me. I was happy. I really love him, I thought. I really love this bad old man, though of course, I checked myself, remembering the money, I wish him dead as well. For there it was: C. D. stood in the way of my getting my money but— and here was the catch— my money stood eternally in the way of my getting C. D. For sooner or later he must find out who I was and then— And then what? 176
I saw that my youth, my ordinarily strongest ally, was against me. For I was unused to failure, thrown by it, helpless to rise above it. He, the old man, so old and so vigorous; and me, young but so tired. 228
I had only wanted the money because it was mine. I’d never had any idea of what I would do with it, had never given it a thought; a truth as irritating to him as it was bewildering to me. 230
It has that floating river, 70s style language. I had no idea what twist was coming. The narrator was truly capable of anything. I found the portrayal of British old wealth to be enlightening.
Warning use of the n word once.
Quotes:
A great simple truth struck me with surprise: charm is availability. How had I ever thought otherwise? 22
Even looking at the likeness I could feel the same rage and hatred I felt towards that other ring. How ugly it was! An innocent object lying innocently in its velvet case harming no one. But it wasn’t innocent. It was evil. It was a thing of evil. It stank of corruption, sorrow, and death. The sight of it released in me the same ruthless determination to get rid of it, get it out of my sight for ever, revived in me the same scheming plots and plans to remove it from her, from me, for ever at all costs— get him away from her even if it meant taking him away from her myself. Seeing it there shining with evil, I felt justified; reassured that my motives, whatever they looked like from the outside, had been pure. I had been a loyal friend to Honey, had not wanted to see her hurt, had wanted only her happiness. 74
There is a time for asterisks and a time for speaking out. I don’t know— will all this morbid introspection into my terrible itch for that randy old man reveal itself merely as an exercise in self- indulgence, a senseless waste of time? Or will it be that, having put down clearly and to my own satisfaction once and for all precisely what it was like sleeping with foxy grampa, I may finally come to understand what was going on in me? And what was making me go on like that? Maybe not. We must hope for the best. But it’s so hard. I write three words and at the fourth memory seizes me. I waste hours mooning over a situation that play it as I may could only have been resolved by disaster. 152
I consulted myself seriously, pleading with myself to let me in on what I was really up to. 159
“Not really. I went along with her last night. I don’t know what it is—them or me. I’m either ahead of it or behind it but I’m not with it. 160
We had a good meal at some polished walnut of a restaurant and lots and lots to drink and then he took me back to his place where he—well, we’ve been through all that already, haven’t we? 163
Dody looked at me dazedly, poor little lost satellite skidding bewilderedly between orbits, her head drooping to one side. 169
I received this with more irritation than satisfaction. If only she’d become angry, resentful, suspicious, put up some decent resistance, I would have been spared the false but persistent fear that I was taking advantage of her. After all, the thing to remember was how crummily Scotty had been treating her all this time. I was merely doing the right thing for the wrong reason. 169
That I’m going to fill, I promised myself as we sat quietly together in the night- club, that distinguished old man and me. I was happy. I really love him, I thought. I really love this bad old man, though of course, I checked myself, remembering the money, I wish him dead as well. For there it was: C. D. stood in the way of my getting my money but— and here was the catch— my money stood eternally in the way of my getting C. D. For sooner or later he must find out who I was and then— And then what? 176
I saw that my youth, my ordinarily strongest ally, was against me. For I was unused to failure, thrown by it, helpless to rise above it. He, the old man, so old and so vigorous; and me, young but so tired. 228
I had only wanted the money because it was mine. I’d never had any idea of what I would do with it, had never given it a thought; a truth as irritating to him as it was bewildering to me. 230
September 23, 2020
Not what I was expecting. I thought it would be some sort of scandalous affair and its after effects. There was certainly gossipy scandalous behaviour with some sex and drugs thrown in. There were messy relationship changes and dramatic consequences to family members. The narrator's delayed revelation was well played, I was wondering what she was up to for quite a bit.
I waited to read the author's Introduction (added to the reprint) until after I had finished the novel. That was a good choice and gave me more to think about as well. I find I can't discuss much without spoilers so I'll put those after the divider below.
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The book is very un-admiring of Brits and Britain. So much so that I felt a little lost at the beginning. I'm such an anglophile and this person didn't seem to like *anything* she was experiencing. At the same time I recognized the desperate loneliness of staying in a hotel as a foreigner with no roots, no resources in an unfamiliar city. The Introduction makes it plain that there was some sincere un-appreciation of post war London.
The jazz folks in the last third are racist caricatures, they are given some personality but the names Jinkie and Jimbo are hard to swallow.
I expected the young woman / older man steps of seduction story. But the way that she was so in his thrall and admired his faults as much as his virtues was surprising. I liked the semi-justice at the end of his gifting her half the loot and shutting off the affair. She takes her loot and her broken heart and goes back to NYC to apparently pace the floors and write this memoir. Is that what an anti-hero does? Maybe she had run out of anti social behavior by then.
The Betsy Lou / Honey impersonation and overtaking happens in lots of layers. How does our protag really feel about Honey Flood taking over her publishing job in her absence? That was an interesting bit of reversal and over-writing at the end.
I waited to read the author's Introduction (added to the reprint) until after I had finished the novel. That was a good choice and gave me more to think about as well. I find I can't discuss much without spoilers so I'll put those after the divider below.
===============
The book is very un-admiring of Brits and Britain. So much so that I felt a little lost at the beginning. I'm such an anglophile and this person didn't seem to like *anything* she was experiencing. At the same time I recognized the desperate loneliness of staying in a hotel as a foreigner with no roots, no resources in an unfamiliar city. The Introduction makes it plain that there was some sincere un-appreciation of post war London.
The jazz folks in the last third are racist caricatures, they are given some personality but the names Jinkie and Jimbo are hard to swallow.
I expected the young woman / older man steps of seduction story. But the way that she was so in his thrall and admired his faults as much as his virtues was surprising. I liked the semi-justice at the end of his gifting her half the loot and shutting off the affair. She takes her loot and her broken heart and goes back to NYC to apparently pace the floors and write this memoir. Is that what an anti-hero does? Maybe she had run out of anti social behavior by then.
The Betsy Lou / Honey impersonation and overtaking happens in lots of layers. How does our protag really feel about Honey Flood taking over her publishing job in her absence? That was an interesting bit of reversal and over-writing at the end.
January 23, 2025
While I find The Old Man and Me by Elaine Dundy less charming than The Dud Avocado, I found this one a little funnier. The main character Honey Flood is always complaining and hates England but is spending her time there in the not-quite-yet Swinging Sixties. It's 1962 and London is still recovering from World War II. All the young and fashionable Brits are in New York City while young Americans are running the streets of Paris. London is just kind of there but Honey is making the most of it. What I appreciate about this book is that it feels more modern than other books around this time. A woman's sexuality being written by a woman means so much and I enjoyed seeing Honey's relationship develop with C.D., an older British man she connects with. Honey initially wanted to crack him like a nut but instead, she fell for the man.
November 13, 2021
More like 3.5 stars, but it's closer to a '4' than a '3'.
This is my second novel by Dundy and it is far superior to her The Dud Avocado. In fact, even if you didn't like that one, this one is so different and so better constructed, darker and funnier, too, that I would make a strong argument against not sampling the author's more streamlined evolution, writing-wise.
Honey Flood is a young sexy American bumming around London in the early 1960s, but not without purpose. Her intention is too seduce and woo the aging C.D. McKee, a wealthy Brit. The why and wherefore Honey Flood will tell you when she damn well pleases, in this case, halfway through the novel, but that's where all the fun lies. This has more sudden twists, turns, and revelations than the most hyperactive season of Game of Thrones and is great fun, a breezy, black-humored read.
This is my second novel by Dundy and it is far superior to her The Dud Avocado. In fact, even if you didn't like that one, this one is so different and so better constructed, darker and funnier, too, that I would make a strong argument against not sampling the author's more streamlined evolution, writing-wise.
Honey Flood is a young sexy American bumming around London in the early 1960s, but not without purpose. Her intention is too seduce and woo the aging C.D. McKee, a wealthy Brit. The why and wherefore Honey Flood will tell you when she damn well pleases, in this case, halfway through the novel, but that's where all the fun lies. This has more sudden twists, turns, and revelations than the most hyperactive season of Game of Thrones and is great fun, a breezy, black-humored read.
January 22, 2022
This took me straight to early 60s London (fun!) and it was a strange, wild ride. I enjoyed following the protagonist's feverish schemes and adventures. This could be a super fun movie too - I have a feeling I would have preferred the story more in that format rather than a book.
July 9, 2024
Terrifically entertaining! Really a corker. At first, I worried I would hate the characters, but I didn’t, at all. I stayed up late to finish it, which is something I haven't done in a while. Such fun.
August 9, 2022
A gritty, witty, laugh-out-loud comedy.
October 20, 2025
This girl’s got the gift of gab! Delicious tone. Clever chicklit nyrb classic. And underrated!
October 8, 2025
Same crazy lady expat vibes as The Dud Avocado. But in London instead of Paris. Couldn’t put it down!
January 21, 2022
Not an essential book but pretty good, sort of funny. Slang was off-putting at first but it grew on me. I didn’t really buy the love thing between her and CD Seedy, descriptions of sex were thankfully not descriptive. Honey’s passage abour her relationship with her dad/family backstory was the most essential/interesting.
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