MADELEINE WEST: 'Welcome to the hot grandpa era.'

We're all familiar with MILFs and DILFs, but there's a new acronym on the block. Ladies, let me introduce The HAHG. Hot As Hell Grandpa.

There is no question that we are seeing a generation of Hollywood icons quickly qualifying as geriatric. Yes, I'm talking Pierce Brosnan, Michael Caine, Robert Redford.

Just your garden-variety demi-gods, for whom entering dottage has done nothing to diminish their sex appeal. Now this is all well and good, and to be expected, for those untouchables striding across the silver screen. I just didn't think the hot grandpa could be a phenomenon in real life, too.

That was until last Friday's school sports carnival. 

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I was just minding my business, triangulating the long jump, the 200m, and the discus in an attempt to capture my kids' individual chariots of fire moments in slo-mo and panorama, whilst simultaneously feeding my baby.

Waiting beside the shotput, I found myself chatting to a fellow mum whose daughter was friends with one of mine, when she turned and waved frantically, shouting "Dad! Over here".

That's when I saw him.

The silver fox dismounting his bike. And I mean proper road bike complete with snug-fitting leathers and windswept hair. Far removed from the Sunday-cycler-clad-in-Lycra-type I would generally associate with this gentleman's age group.

He strode over towards us, running fingers through aforementioned very full head of white gold hair, tipped his aviators down just enough to reveal a pair of bona fide Paul Newman baby blues, nodded to his daughter, then cast his eyes over me with a gruff 'Ladies'.

Noticing I had managed to drop my box of sultanas (always handy breastfeeding snack food), he purred, 'I think you dropped something. Let me get it for you'. Then squatted down and up fluidly, with nary a pop of the knee or clutch of the lower back, and passed me my Sunbeams with what I took to be quite a provocative smile and wink.

I'm not sure if it was a girlish blush, a hot flush or too many sultanas, but I was melting.

Witty banter about the weather and our kids' sporting prowess followed, before my friend announced that our daughters were friends. 

'Oh, the little one isn't your first?' 

'Nah, it's her seventh'

'Pardon?'

'She has seven. '

'Sorry, darling?'

'Seven! Seven kids. She has seven kids, Dad!'

Again he dipped the aviators, blitzed me with his baby blues.

'How does a mother to seven look like that?'

Given I was wearing stained tracksuit pants, my best birds nest up-do, and a moomoo-type arrangement I don for easy access baby feeds, that was quite the compliment.

So what if he was a little hard of hearing? I preferred to interpret it as a studied insouciance, which made him even more alluring.

Perhaps it was the fact that he was six-feet tall in his black riding boots, that his leather jacket broadened his shoulders and cinched in his waist, achieving the always desirable V-shape biology associated with a fit and healthy male physique.

Maybe it was his deep gravelly voice, those piercing blues, or maybe it was just the fact that he was so invested in his grandkids' sporting achievements. Maybe I was romanticising the whole encounter like only a mum so deprived of sleep she's verging on delirium could. Maybe it was all those things, whatever, combined they created quite a heady brew.

This strange and curious creature was one I never knew existed, let alone find myself drawn to: the HAHG.

A man who predated the death of chivalry. Still capable of feats of derring-do if a bit creaky, but even then creaky in a cute way. Dashing, debonair, qualifies for seniors discounts. What's not to like?

Now before you accuse me of being a gold digger, or perchance a platinum digger in this case, calm your horses.

Let's remember I'm a working mum, with a bun fresh from the oven. If romance hasn't been hygienically pre-packed and presented for my televisual viewing pleasure, aka As Good As It Gets, The Notebook or even Farmer Wants A Wife, I've no time for it, and I've no intention of scoping out the local assisted living facility in search of well-aged meat.

No. I don't know if this fine man is currently married, otherwise partnered or has the slightest inkling I was momentarily pondering whether he'd like to expand his now-grown brood by seven.

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My point is, it's so heartening when you feel like you are stumbling through your days like someone just dragged you backwards through a thorn bush, to encounter a true gentleman. He turned his dazzling attention on me, and turned my lights back on, if only for a moment.

As the day's proceedings drew to a close — encouragement ribbons handed all round — the gaggles of parents began to disperse.

Hot Grandpa gifted me one last dip of his aviators and a Cool Hand Luke wink as I bid him farewell.

HAHG mounted his metal steed and revved the engine. My friend pecked his cheek as he readied to ride off into the sunset.

"Bye Dad."

"Pie plate? Yours? I don't have it, love."

"No BYE, Dad."

"What do you mean, sweetheart?"

"BYE, DAD. B.Y.E!"

"Alright, alright, darling. You don't have to shout!"

Well, even our idols have their shortcomings.

Feature image: Supplied/Instagram - @msmadswest.