Au Revoir, Mes Chers Amis...

...for a few weeks. Here you go - open this on another page now and you won't be disappointed. Well, you probably will be, but it might take you old uns down Memory Lane for a moment. Done it? Don't it just make you wanna break plates? 

OK, guys! Time to hit the convent trail! I’m packed and all iPodded and Kindled up. The iPod is chocca with the likes of this, this and this, and there are equally weird combinations of literature going on in the Kindle; plenty of stuff en francais, of course, some gloriously free classics like Middlemarch along with what could turn out to be my favourite (hehe!) Rampant - very, very dodgy! It’ll keep me amused in the wee small hours… ;)

Stella, unlike me, has been busy on the dating front, very busy, so I shall at some point be posting her latest adventures, you’ll be glad to hear. She is, it has to be said, consistently more reckless crazy hopelessly romantic interesting than I am. Plus, she's willing to put in the (wo)man hours involved in achieving her goal; that's what I love about her - the relentless inability to learn optimism. So, in between 

Matins : the night office (2 am),

Lauds : the early morning service of divine office (5am)

Prime : The 6am service,

Terce : the second of the Little Hours of divine office (9 am),

Sext : the third of the Little Hours of divine office (12 pm),

Nones : the fourth of the Little Hours of the divine office (3 pm),

Vespers : the evening service of divine office (4 - 5pm),

Compline : the last of the day services of divine office (6pm),

I’ll try to sneak out my netbook and tell you what’s been going on in her life of late.

Lord, I’m gonna be knackered from all that praying, and it’s gonna play havoc with my knees, I can tell you, but there is also the merest possibility that I might be able to sneak out when the Sisters aren’t looking - you know, hide myself in a passing haycart or something - and if I get any, ahem, ‘action’ anywhere, you shall be the first to be informed. Don’t hold your breath – me and my luck, setra. 

You're Ugly, You're Old And You're Bloody Irritating...

...
Geddit? You clicked in because you thought it was someone saying it to me, right? Nah! Or me saying it to someone else. Also nah. But...

Oh my word! Remember this, followed by this, culminating in this? Well, the emails kept on a-comin’ until I finally got heartily sick of 'em.

I am quite sure the initial ‘flick off’ was clear, elegant-ish, and, as far as I’m concerned, quite kind really. This was not enough. Either it’s a Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus moment, or else it goes way beyond that and he is, after all, mildly deranged, a psychopathic stalker a very needy person. Or, as someone more generous than I pointed out, he just fancies me. 

I told him that:

• We really didn’t have enough in common for me to imagine a relationship
• I could not envisage him in most of my life’s scenarios
• While I enjoyed his company for a very long and arduous day, merely feeling OK in someone’s company was not in itself sufficient to make me want to seek more, particularly with the life I lead.  

OK, I phrased it all slightly better than that, but that was the gist.

He got back to me with the vast number of things we have in common. (Er… that’ll be two. Two things which I would be happy to do perhaps up to three times a year; I've since learned he does them week in week out.) He then told me (note TOLD me) that he knew exactly why I was putting him off: I was merely afraid of having a physical relationship with him and that I need not worry because he is a patient man. (Well, yes, good grief! He’d have to be very, very, very patient if he expected me to get into bed with him. When is Armageddon exactly? Let me just shake off that little spinal shiver there… woueghph!)  Oh yes, and that in fact he’d been in a similar situation before, and the lady in question (not boasting, he said, just the reality) ended up telling him he was a wonderful lover. Good for her! Then there was a pile of nonsensical stuff about my thinking my family and children might get in the way and that I should not sacrifice my happiness for theirs; I should follow my feelings. How I love these "Should Scenarios"...

What feelings would they be then? Because the only feeling I am aware of at this point is that I am right royally fromaged off with this whole business. Go away, you irritating little mouche!

Anyway, I think he has finally got the message now. I did it to the very best of my ability without actually saying the F word accompanied by an O and a further 2 Fs; I'm tellin' ya - it ain't easy. Diplomatic and proud! Sign me up for the Foreign Office! 

Fortunately, I'm going into prolonged seclusion shortly, back to the convent for a little downtime where the internet is only available intermittently and that’s only if I can smuggle in my laptop and keep it concealed under the wafer-thin mattress. I might be able to post the odd few words in the dead of night when Sisters Marie-Claude, Clothilde and Bernadette are busy whittling candles, but I can't promise - depends on their level of concentration during the process - ya know what I'm sayin'. The likelihood of an inspiring male turning up (except for the obvious one and that's, erm, kind of blasphemous...) is minimal; however, I can get reception on my phone there, so - with any luck - Stella might have something to tell me which I can pass on to her enormous fan club. 


Might just catch you before I go. Kiss, kiss, hug, hug and all that palaver. :) 

The Slave and Stella

Stella was contacted by a rather good-looking 31 year old. Not her usual fare, being over 10 years younger, but he was a great guy, wrote an articulate message and their initial chats were very chummy and normal. But time moved on. Several emails in, they started Instant Messaging, and then he said he had a secret that might be seen as weird by some people. Well, you know how nosy she is."Do go on," she said. 

(Just a mo’ - let me get my notebook out to see exactly what she reported. Ah, here it is...)

Him: Please don’t get offended. You look really gorgeous and I want to be your slave. I’m sure that sounds strange to you.

Her: Yes,it does.

Him: Don’t be scared or anything. I’m not talking about sex or anything like that, unless you want to that is. I’m not at all pervy.

Her: I see. I’m not sure I understand what you mean.

Him: It’s not something you can easily discuss with people. Be open about. I’ve just always wanted to be someone’s slave and do things for them.

Her: What kind of things?

Him: Just the usual.

Her (suspicious): What usual?

Him: You know hoovering, washing up, ironing.

Well! WELL! You can imagine how Stella perked up at this prospect! Someone to do the housework – how flippin’ marvellous! (I was already at "Where’s the dotted line? Sign me up!" at this point in her narrative.) 

Her: And what would I have to do?

Him: You? You don’t have to do anything. You can just come home and I’ll have dinner waiting for you, then I’ll run the bath for you, put candles round it. That sort of stuff. I’ll rub your feet if you want.

Her: Why would you want to do all that?

Him: Honestly? I don’t know. It’s just been my dream ever since I was a teenager.

So there you go. Nowt so queer as folk. Now assuming that he is a genuine person and this really is all he wants, what could be the root cause of such a fantasy? Of such a need? According to Stella, in all their correspondence he was charming (but not in a slimey way), decent, not one comma’s worth of lasciviousness. (Sorry if that word is too long for anyone ;)) Her words to me were, "He was a lovely guy, and while I’m giving you the story for the blog, you are on no account to make fun of him."

Well, I’m not and I won’t. It all comes down to this human frailty business again and the lottery of internal wiring. Is this something to do with his mother? Is this something to do with his sexuality? Is being under someone else’s control comfortingly familiar? I haven’t got a clue.

Stella ended the conversation by saying that she was flattered and thanked him for his offer, but she would have to decline. If she accepted, she said, the situation would make her become a mean person and she didn’t want to be that. Nonetheless, she wished him good luck in his search for someone who will let him express his desires.  

OK then. Story over. Let’s get down to business…

Roll up, roll up, roll up! 

It’s just the housework we’re talking about here, girls! You gotta be in it to win it…

Not So Mellow, Mega Yellow

Somebody give me a good slap!

Did I say I would extricate myself elegantly? Did I really, uberpeanut-brained as I am, imagine elegance is possible in these situations?

Let me describe what I’m up against. Since yesterday morning Martin has sent me:

• Two messages on the website
• Three emails
• One request for IM
• Eight texts of which four have been of the ‘Can I phone you now?’ followed shortly after by  ‘Can we have a chat now?’ variety. The answer has thus far been no because I’ve either had other people around me or have genuinely been otherwise seriously occupied with something else. You know the kind of stuff – about to get in the shower to get ready for work, driving, diagnosing friend’s nervous breakdown, putting my finger in the dike that’s holding back the pile of crap that’s about to engulf me etc.  

That’ll larn me! Bollocks! Not ‘appy, not ‘appy at all. If only I weren’t such a mealy, pathetic, cowardy, cowardy custard…

Anybody got a backbone they could spare?

Plus Ca Change, Plus C'est La Meme Bleedin' Chose.

So, yeah, merci beaucoup, fellow countryman Jean- Baptiste Alphonse Karr. When did I last post anything on here? Hmm. It seems an age. This is because I have been on 3,290 dates. Well, OK, not quite that many. But it feels like it. That’s why I haven’t updated – too busy being miserable!

Here’s my new rule, and if you really love me - family member, friend, follower - please, please, please don’t let me waiver from it. If it’s not absolutely firework-explodingly magnificent on the first date, it is for sure, for sure, not worth revisiting, no siree!  Where might be the most suitable place on my body to have this tattooed?    

So, most recent dates - Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday, of which two nonsensical repeats. Why do I do to myself?

Do you remember the person I went out with last week, let’s call him, Martin, well, we had an ‘activity’ date – more like mooching round places than activity - but it wasn't merely coffee and/or dinner.

How shallow am I? I feel like such a schmuck telling you any of this  He was a perfect gentleman in all respects: he held the car door open for me, walked on the outside of the pavement, open all doors, bought me a little present (a book about a subject he knows I’m interested in), but… but… No!

The age thing only got worse because I noticed he has this annoying habit. You know when elderly people are reminiscing about something, and they come to the end of a sentence, and then they sort of inhale and exhale with a little groan-sigh, as if ruefully contemplating the magnitude of what they've just said. Well, he did that. All the bloody time.This would invariably be followed by a little shake of the head. It nearly drove me nuts! I remember my Grandpapa doing exactly the same thing when he used to sit at the kitchen table talking portentously about the War. Plus, Martin's voice grates – sort of lugubrious. Combine Eeyore, Clement Freud and Amy Turtle. (Haha! How ironic we should be talking about age – who the hell remembers Amy Turtle except me!) Anyway, you get my drift?

To go on this activity date, I had to ditch my car and get into his. Another new rule: never get into a car with a strange bloke. Yes, I know it’s obvious – but he was harmless except in one respect: he sort of kept me hostage. This has happened to me before; it’s a little unconscious manipulative ruse employed by lonely people to stave off the inevitable moment of coming face to face with no-one but themselves. (Or, if you want me to be a halfway decent human being about it, they like you and want to spend time with you.) So they metaphorically grab you by the wrist in a vice-like grip and won’t let go. Martin’s version of this was to prolong the date till 2017; lunch got later and later, then the walk in the park, then something else, and something else, then when we finally arrived back at my car where yet another coffee was required in a local hostelry. 

Guys! Here’s the thing. I have lived alone for a while now and, on the whole, I like it. The kids (when they are around for long periods) thankfully bugger off to their rooms to do time-wasting, self-removing things with Xboxes, books and computers; good mates and family get told to haul their ass off the sofa and go home when I’ve had enough of them; even that shining beacon of wonderfulness, Stella, gets thrown out after three hours!  You can see the problem, can’t you? I get People-Overload Syndrome. So what am I doing internet dating, right?

But anyway. Oh my God, what did I do after that? When Martin asked me for my email address, I gave it to him because I just couldn’t dissemble quickly enough.  Grrr. Why do people put me on the spot!? So, that’s another one I’m going to have to extricate myself from… elegantly. Sheesh... come on, Bette, muster up a sense of humour, woman. 

Two of the other dates were pretty much the same as this root vegetable scenario. Once again I tried to give them opportunities, leads, inroads into the fascinating subject of moi, but did they take them? Did they hell! One of the men had a moment of clarity (for him) when he suddenly registered he had been talking non-stop for half an hour about everything he had done that week. Out of the blue he said ‘And what about you?’ I was so glazed over by this time that I actually replied ‘What? Oh sorry. Did you say something? I was miles away.’ No, I did! Really I did! Can you imagine?! And I got a distinct feeling of deja vu, possibly blushing after I realised what I’d done. And because he caught me unawares, all I could muster was ‘Oh, you know. Work, friends, stuff.’ I failed to mention all the other mind-numbing dates. ;) Anyway, it appears that ‘Work, friends, stuff’ was more than adequate for him because he then blithely launched into Part Two! I gave it my best polite shot – an hour in total. Sainte Bette.  

Finally, one of the repeat dates (and actually I’ve never mentioned him on here because he became a friend after a minor hiccup) turned into a really pleasant soiree. We had a fun time, gossiped about nothing in particular, caught up with news about work, the kids, summer plans. I had to leave early because in order to get there on time I’d foregone the opportunity to get some petrol, and my tank was left with about two drops. And this is the 21^st century in the UK in the sticks - no guarantee of petrol anywhere after 10 pm. Ridiculous. Anyway, bless him – he followed me around until I found a petrol station so that I wouldn’t be stranded in the middle of nowhere. Quel gentilhomme! And you know what… he’s good fun, articulate, smells nice, solvent, my family and my kids would like him, but why, oh why, oh why can’t I ever see myself under a duvet with him? Drat!

Stella is gob-smacked that I'm having such a run of bad luck. (She, by the way, is currently all loved up, wandering round being… erm… disgustingly unnatural. Still, keeping my fingers crossed for her...) So, in the spirit of true friendship and wanting to see me serviced happy, she’s come up with a new plan. Since I am clearly crap at choosing people, she’s going to sign into the site as me and choose suitable candidates on my behalf. Let’s face it, nobody could do a worse job than I’m doing. Watch this space… 


Oh yeah - and then there's her story from a couple weeks ago which I haven't yet reported. That's next. You won't believe it; it's one of those 'It could only happen to Stella' jobs. You know what's she's like...

Heeeeeeere's Johnny!

Ugh!

He messaged me; I looked at his profile before answering and saw there was something in it that could be une petite quelque chose we might be able to talk about - a mutual interest, let’s call it. The picture, on the other hand, was definitely more inclined to this. I should have been alerted further, however, by his job: a psychiatric nurse.

Anyway, I replied politely though succinctly so as not to overly encourage. Almost immediately he wrote back with what would have been around two pages of A4, and most of it, it has to be said, semi-drivel with hardly any punctuation, so it was totally unintelligible. I skip read it and resolved to do the decent thing and reply eventually... at some stage.

Three days later I managed to get round to it – just a few words in acknowledgement of the fact that he too is a (some kind of) human being kind of thing. 

Whoa! Oh dear! The man has clearly been a psychiatric nurse for far too long (if that’s the truth anyway) because as far as I can see he’s been infected by every mental disorder listed in the DSM. His message back to me was quite unnerving. He was quite miffed that I had taken so long to reply because he is already madly in love with me, is so besotted he can’t stop looking at my photos, immediately wants to 'bed' and 'shower me with pleasures unknown' and, to cap it all, I’m exactly the woman he wants to be his Mrs.

BLOCK! 

Our Father, who art in Internet Heaven, give me this day just one nice, normal, not too old, not too young, not too clever, not too stupid, solvent, educated, amusing guy, and if you could make him a minimum of four inches taller than me and prettier than Jack Nicholson in the Shining that would be a massive bonus. Amen. 

Oh, Grow Up!

OK. So, here’s yesterday’s date. Pleasant man all in all. Quite gentlemanly. Interesting-ish.  Merely five years older than me and yet - so very, very ancient! Looks and outlook. Methuselah... only without the beard. What I'm conveniently forgetting (hehe!) - and this is because I put on 'happy' music to drive to dates, hence arrive there aged just 22 - is that women have the advantage of make-up, hair dye and 21st century corsetry.  

But anyway - why didn't I fit or gel with him? He was a proper bona fide grown-up. Am I really so juvenile? Don’t answer that!


And the minute he said something about cuddling up on the sofa with a good DVD, I was infested with scrambling ants in my pants. Stella says I've got to get over this aversion; it's not that I don't like draping myself over someone for a half hour of DVD - my kids let me do it on occasion with them - it's just not what I'd call an occupation. It's the absence of occupation, and I don't think I could do it more than once a week. So when men go on about it as if it's a life-style choice, into my head pops a vision of this happening through the upholstery with my already not unample derriere. 


Somewhere back at the beginning of these blogs, I revealed my misanthropic tendencies, and perhaps I claimed to revel in impending decrepitude. But, ya know, I was sort of lying. Because old age brings with it the inclination to denigrate anything fresh and new and to dwell on crap like ailments (remind me to never discuss my teeth ever again!), pontificate on how A levels were much tougher during Oliver Cromwell’s time, and recall the days when washing machines lasted for a full five hundred years before you had to call in an engineer. All of which, ultimately, makes you more of a drain than a radiator. 

(I think) I’m fortunate that I'm frequently in the company of young people, and frankly, on the whole, I like 'em. Even when they are bitching about something, they manage to do it with some level of humour. Ooh, hang on, corrigendum - only if they are at the end of their obnoxious teens, that is. Old people merely moan, whinge, groan and drone and make me want to insert earplugs or sign up to join this lot.  

So, when I am with old people i.e. some of my dates, there is a stifling atmosphere of...

 GREY FUG. 

I swear I sit there waiting for them to say something that's going to make my hackles stand to attention. Yesterday, for example, there was the mildest hint of racism, the merest smidge of homophobia, the teensiest tad of bigotry – all of which is usually more than enough to put me right off someone. Instantly. 


In fairness to him, these comments were not statements of opinion, just little throwaway lines that elbowed their way in among some self-deprecatory gems, but I have these well-hidden and rather annoying antennae which ping out when I’m assessing and evaluating. And while the shagability rating (in this case, erm, let’s face it, zip, nada, none) must be considered, the other criterion is 'Could I just drop this man into my life, my family, my friends?' With those views, if they are his views, I don’t think so.


Hmm. Anyway, I'm still going to go out with him a second time (probably whilst doing some kind of activity because I'm all coffeed, drinked and dinnered out)) for the following reasons:

• We had a two-way conversation.
• We covered lots of topics.
• His work and hobbies were interesting, and I learned from him. 
• As a result of his knowledge (an autodidact by the way, left school at an early age), I found some information on the internet that I'd been looking for for ages, and that's made me grateful and almost ecstatic. 
• Since he insisted he pay for dinner (I couldn't be bothered to argue and let him), I'm going to have to repay the favour somehow.    

Not sure all of that is enough. What do you think? Maybe he'll grow on me? 


A little like, erm, mould? 

The Injustice!

Treat yourself to this on another page, while you are reading. :)


Yesterday evening I was in a restaurant having a bite to eat with a girlfriend when I noticed someone watching me in between vaguely attending to the conversation that was going on at his own table.  He was roughly my age, very delicious looking (I mean, oh, sigh, from my point of view, absolutely drop-dead-let’s-not-bother-with-any-conversation gorgeous), and he kept catching my eye - ooh, get me! So, I met his gaze – briefly, tantalisingly briefly. As my friend and I were leaving, I could sense him looking at me again, so I thought ‘Sod it!’ and turned round and smiled. He smiled back, mouth, eyes and - if I'm not very much mistaken - brain. Swoon!

Bummer! Why can’t he be on the website? Why do I get bloody mushrooms, fat men who won't cook a measly dinner, farty old men who get lettuce stuck in their throat, silly tele-wankers, pathetic men whose masculinity is threatened by long words, ignorant twerps etc. etc. It’s sooooo not fair!

How’s about this for a fairy tale? Next Friday I shall go to the same place again on my own. He, totally besotted, will also go back there to see if it’s one of my regular haunts. We'll glance at one other for ten minutes, and then he’ll come over and ask me if I’d like to join him, or whether he can join me. He will, of course, be interesting, funny, strong, flirty, manly, considerate, gentlemanly, massively solvent. While I'm in the Ladies, he'll unobtrusively pay the bill, and then he’ll offer to walk me back to my car. When we get there, he’ll immediately say “When can I see you again?” And the rest, dear friends, family, followers, random people who have popped into here, will end in the words “and they snogged and shagged lived happily ever after.”

There's that noise overhead again! 

Meanwhile, until the happy ending materializes, I'm off on a date tonight...  

Further Non-Adventures in the Life of a Potato's Escort

There is something of the natural born teacher in me. It’s not that I admire academic excellence above all else, but I do love it when I see creativity, hard work, progress and pleasure in personal achievement. And so it is entirely with this in mind that I shall send the following didactic email to my last date in the hope that it will help him learn and find some absorbent and deaf sponge a partner.

Dear Dave,

Thank you for coming to meet me today. The coffee and cakes were delicious, weren’t they?

At the end of the date when I said it was most fascinating to meet you, I meant it. Then you asked me to get in touch to arrange to see you again, but I’m afraid I will have to decline your kind offer. 

Because, my dear Dave, the reason it was most fascinating to meet you was this: I have never yet been on a date with someone who doesn’t have the gumption to ask me my real name. Not only did you never find that out, but when I thoughtfully provided you with little entrees into the subject, you either totally ignored them or were oblivious to them.

Suggestion Number 1

Ask the person sitting opposite you what her real name is well before you get to the date stage.

******

The full thirty-year history of your career was most entertaining, and I enjoyed hearing about your travels. I learned a lot about customs in Dubai, Bahrein, about the gun culture in Mexico City, the favelas in Brazil  – oh, etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. However, you seemed to assume that in the first instance I was born; and then, in the second instance, I arrived at 50 having spent the interim in a box that was never opened.

Suggestion Number 2

When you are blurbing on and on and on about describing the places you have been to, ask the person sitting opposite you if she has been there too.She may or may not have been there, but she may be able to compare and contrast with places she has been to. When you mention off shore investments, and the person says something knowledgeable about them, ask how she knows these things. You might learn something to your advantage. When the person hints at having lived somewhere exotic, take the opportunity to make further enquiries.

******

It is not a good idea to tell the person sitting opposite you how you regularly fleece your company by purposely going to the most expensive restaurants, choosing the most expensive items on the menu and claiming it all on your expenses. It doesn’t make you big, well-travelled or clever: it merely makes you cheap.

Suggestion Number 3

Examine your conscience and give some thought to karma.

******

When I asked you what your interests outside work were, you seemed to have very little to say for yourself. From this I can only deduce that internet dating is your hobby; and if that is all you want it to carry on being, by all means continue to behave in the way you behave. You will fill in the odd hour here`and there, but in the process you will be wasting somebody else’s time.  

Suggestion Number 4

Cultivate a richer inner life and give the women of the world a well-earned break.   

******

And on that note, I will end my message. I hope my suggestions help you find the lady of your dreams. 

Yours in kindness and optimism,

Cousine Bette. 


Friends, followers, family and all the rest of the people on this planet - please, please, please tell me why men say they want to see you again when they haven't asked you one single question, not one, and haven't shown the slightest bit of interest in anything about you? Beats me. 


Next! 

Spud-u-like?

Stella and I were having one of our loll-about-on-the-conservatory-sofas kind of conversations a short while ago. It seems that a guy she'd been chatting to, a fireman no less (yeah, I know... all the predictable jokes about hoses etc. yawn…), and had almost had a date with – she turned up, he didn’t – had got back in touch with her. After the non-date, he had barely apologised, and so she rapidly called it a day.  

And here he and his hose were again. Not surprisingly she asked him what it was he wanted in a not over-welcoming tone, and he was clearly taken aback that she wasn’t fawning over him. He asked her if she’d been on any dates since speaking to him. She told him in a very matter-of-fact fashion that she’d been on six.

“Six?” he said. “Six?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Oh,” he said.

It appears that his tone was one of disappointed surprise, crest-fallen almost.

Could somebody please tell me why a man who has messed somebody about, stood someone up, and then only got in touch two weeks later imagines that a gorgeous woman like Stella would hang about waiting for his gracious call?

Sheesh!  You gotta wonder about the emotional intelligence, haven’t you?  

Such a Fungi!

Well, looking on the bright side – he turned up. As for the rest, I don’t think so. Don't get me wrong - he was a nice person, but I just don't want to be the responsible adult all the time. 


It all seems to be a matter of extremes where I’m concerned. One minute it all goes pear-shaped with someone who is afraid of long words and the odd metaphor, the next minute I’m in the presence of a practically Nobel Prize winning super-brainy scientist, but nevertheless someone who is remarkably childlike.  And, what is worse, someone who has yet to learn that, according to internet dating etiquette, you don’t immediately ask if your date wants to see you again: you go home and write a message. Like normal people.

And so it is that I find myself having said yes to another date that I absolutely don’t want to go on. Oops! It’s not as if I haven’t said no before on numerous occasions, this case being the most notable, but he was so diffident and yet puppy-dog eager that I couldn’t find the euphemisms to convey the no word.  

Anyway, he wasn't for me for a number of reasons. I could overlook the fact that he was six years younger; I could overlook that he had young children (been there, done that); but I couldn't overlook that each time I gazed into his eyes this is what I saw. Only fatter, rounder and greyer, and just a few inches short of seven foot tall. 

This is because when I was at uni I shared a flat in a hall of residence with two microbiologists. We called them Mr and Mrs Mushroom; they lived in a room in which the curtains were never opened and from which emanated pungent aromas of the fungal kind. Other than going to lectures, Mr and Mrs hardly ever emerged and seemed to do everything else that might have meant coming into contact with other people (e.g. cooking in the communal kitchen) in the dead of night. But quite the most fascinating thing about them was the noise they made. The rest of the flat sharers - six of us - would pile up on the bed of Mr and Mrs Mushroom’s next-door neighbour (should you ever come across this blog… Hi Aled! Did you ever resolve your sheep issues?), put glasses to the wall and try to figure out what exactly was going on. Weeeeeell… we were nosy and stupid young, naïve… Always willing to take the mick to learn.

Her: Mia-ooooooow...

Him: Woof! Woof!

Her: Mia-ooooooow...

Him: Woof! Woof!

Her: Miiiiii-aaaaaaia–ooooooooooooooow. Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Him: Woof. Sniffle. Woof, woof.

And so on and so forth, all resulting in massive crashing about and then rhythmic pounding noises which we assumed was them at it, having completed the, ahem, imaginative foreplay. 

Ah, halcyon days.


I wonder if I can bring myself to do it? Hang on… Miii-aaa-ooooow… Purrrrrrr... Mi-a-oow. Nah, not a Cousine Bette kind of scenario really, is it? 

Oh bugger! I do soooo hope he finds someone more interesting – and quick! Oh, wait a minute! Stella has three pussies... 


What do you think? A bit of recycling again?

New Set, All Set!

Woop! Woop! No more Post Traumatic Dental Disorder.


Look what I've got! 

Finally, the bridge has arrived and been installed. My teeth feel all smooth and porcelainy and lovely. Goodbye Abe! Which is very handy for tomorrow's date with the tall chap. I'm feeling so perky that I may just have to initiate some snogging. I'll bring one of these just in case. ;) 

You know what - well, I'll tell ya. Here you go.

And here's a little gift for someone and someone else.

The 'Stella Is An Even Bigger Prat Than I Am' Story

Stella was having what you might call a stressy day. Her daughter’s car had packed up, so Stella was driving her around hither and yon, having completely gotten out of the habit of being chauffeur. At the same time she had her own To Do List to accomplish. On top of this she has several major deadlines coming up, personal and professional, which involve loads of work and organisation. And she’s also about to move, so her place is stacked to the roof with packing cartons. She's a busy woman. 

Anyway, her mobile rang. She was going to ignore it, too much to do, but quickly glanced at who was calling - Paul. Oh Paul! A potential date with whom she’d been in serious-ish, normal cyber conversation for a few evenings, chat that had culminated in a bit of flirty banter a couple of nights ago during which he said he’d get in touch by phone to arrange a date. They hadn’t talked the evening before because he’d been at his friend’s stag do.

Her: Hi Paul.

Him: Hi Stella.

Her: Nice to hear from you. Have you recovered?

Him: Er? What? Yes, I suppose I have. Are you busy or can we have a chat?

Her: Well, I am busy, but for you, I can always make myself very, very unbusy. (I can almost hear that cheeky, sexy voice she puts on…) What exactly do you have in mind, hun? (I know, I know – hun – I’ll have to speak to her about that…)

Him: We need to talk about a time.

Her: Hehe! For you - any time!

Him: Er… OK. Thank you. When would be convenient?

Her:  That depends on what you want to do, where you want to do it and how much time it might take.

Him: Sorry? I want to come round to your place, of course.

Her: Oh now, hey! I think you may be getting a little ahead of yourself there, don’t you? I’m not saying it’s completely out of the question, maybe, one day, but for the first time it’s not something I’d planned on.

Him: What? There’s got to be a first time. I can understand your not wanting to do it, but the sooner we start the better. You don’t have to put yourself out - tidy and clean will do.

Her: Oh dear. I think you have misunderstood me entirely. I’m not that kind of woman. I’d love to go for a coffee with you or maybe even dinner, but anything else at the moment is out of the question. Really. I’m sorry if I made you think otherwise.

Him: Stella, do you know who you are talking to?

Her: Yes, of course I do. Paul.

Him: Yes, Paul. Paul Barrington? The lettings agent? I’ve got some new tenants I need to show round…

Paul Barrington. The lettings agent. Last time she’d seen him at the agency he’d had a cold and was busy snotting it up into a tissue. 65 if he’s a day, 17 stone if he’s a pound. Probably never been on an internet dating website in his life.

PMSL!

Just how many Pauls does she have in that smart phone of hers? 

Where's Roy Orbison When You Need Him?

Here! Go on, open it on another page - you know you want to! 

Have you missed me? Time to face facts! This is sooooo never going to happen - a shag or owt else by the look of it. But the thing is – I’ve promised myself I’m going to keep writing this blog until it does happen, so I simply have to persevere. We could be here some time. folks! 

I can’t wait to tell you what the deal-breaker with Mike was. Are you ready for it?

Holding your breath?

Well, I’ll tell you. It was the fact that I use long words sometimes. Can you believe it? I mean – big deal! I also use very short words (mainly of the s**t, c**p, poo, f**k variety – apologies to anyone who hasn’t heard those words before: I only ever use them if I drop something on my foot – honest!) I think Mike also misunderstood some of the, ahem, ‘poetry’ in my soul. I guess it might be frightening; and by poetry I mean anything that is not spelt out word by word, syllable by syllable, letter by letter. It is probably a ‘man’ thing: they are such simple creatures at heart. All of them. Every single last one.

Now I know I said this might turn out to be a very philosophical post; I thought I was going to drone on about examine La Condition Humaine, loneliness and what prevents us from taking risks. But happily for you, my dear friends, family and followers - I’ve rallied as usual.

I am back on the website and busy sorting. So far, four potentials, of which one is a super brainy giant, and hundreds of thousands of many total idiots. 

PS I have had another date in between, but I can’t possibly tell you a thing about him because - you’ll never guess what – he sussed my nom de plume about two weeks ago. I tell you what – I nearly passed out when he sent me a one line email with just my name and a question mark. I was like this    

for about fifteen minutes. I’m fairly sure he hasn’t read any of these blogs, otherwise why would he still have come on that date? And he didn’t mention the blogs on the date itself. So anyway… erm, he’s a very nice guy. That’s just in case, like. And I like him. We’ll keep it to that, shall we? ;) 

You Never Do Stop Learning

So.

Let me clarify the Mike situation. At first it seemed as if we were going to have another date. Then it didn’t. Then it did. Then it didn’t. Then – hang on – which day of the week are we now? There may very well be some more did and didn’ts in there. We appear to have some kind of weird hiccup going on in the emails/texts between us and frankly I haven’t got a clue what is going on. Therefore, let us just put that to the side at the moment. One way or another it will be resolved, and you shall be the first to know. Honest! And possibly in a gigantic philosophical post, so get the coffee, biscuits and tissues ready…

Suffice to say – the bridge fiasco in itself did not contribute to the hiccup.  

But in the meantime, I have had an epiphany and I don’t know why it has taken me so long to work this out: I must be (almost) irredeemably thick. I’ve always thought that the cougar chasers’ line of ‘Age is just a number’ was a six foot high heap of horse manure, whether as a chat up line or a long term proposition. After all, who wants to be forced into giving her partner history lessons on who David Cassidy was?  

But take away some of what makes us human - reason, intelligence, society – and reduce two people to two animals, seeking one another's warmth, or huddled together against the barren, piercing cold of winter, and age does indeed become just a number.

This has nothing to do with Mike, by the way; he’s older than I am. And yet it does.

That’s all I have to say on the subject. For now. I think. 

When You're Deaf, Keep It Buttoned Part 2

It started so very well. Mike and I met at our designated place. He looked exactly as I'd remembered him all four days ago - not lip-licking scrummy, but something kind of appealing around the eyes.

What I haven’t told you is that what I'd referred to minimalistically as a temporary crown was, in fact, a temporary bridge, an appliance made necessary by my darling children donkeys' years ago when I was still suffering from a three year bout of chronic Lovely Mushy Mummy Syndrome. I’d had two of the annoying little buggers dear sweet things on my knees, one in front of the other, and was jigging them up and down on my lap whilst singing them some dorky song. A word of caution - never stimulate a male of any age in any way – it will all end in tears. As it did in my case. The child in the front got a bit giddy, slammed his head into the kid at the back who slammed his head into my teeth – the front one of which went flying to the back of my throat. The only thing that could be done was to file down the teeth on either side, vampire style, to accommodate a bridge.

Now it just so happened that a few days before the date with Mike, I'd severely chipped said bridge whilst opening a beer bottle at a Hell's Angels rally in Brighton. Oops, sorry!  Unreliable narrator moment there! Where was I? …whilst trying to disengage the vacuum packaging from a halogen light bulb. (Spit, grumble, mumble, moronic designers...) The bridge had to be replaced before it crumbled. The dentist said it would be TWO WEEKS before the cruddy temporary plac contraption could be exchanged for my brand new set of gleaming porcelain gnashers. Such is the state of dentistry in the UK: you give them hundreds of thousands of pounds for their craptastic service, they inform you 'two weeks minimum' without so much as apologising that you’re going to resemble Abraham Lincoln for the next fourteen days.

When Mike had pushed for an early date and I’d said I’d rather not because of the crown, I thought the white lie would be irrelevant because he wouldn’t see me anyway. But the Abe look might be harder to disguise...

We caught up on the week over starters. He didn’t seem to be peering at my mouth as I fluttered my eyelashes in a feeble attempt to look alluring. He had, after all, said he needed  a correction to his laser eye treatment. For the main course I’d chosen some fancy chicken salad. What I hadn’t banked on was that the chef also needed some laser eye correction. Don’t ask me how it happened – I have no idea. I’d already eaten about three quarters of the salad, chewing with my molars mainly, when I chomped into what was supposed to be chicken breast; but it was a bone. It dislodged the bridge. I put my hand over my mouth in a sort of ‘I'm listening intently to everything you're saying’ kind of way, made captivated (sic) eyes at him as he spoke, all the while surreptitiously trying to put the bridge back in place with my tongue. But the more I fiddled with it, the looser it became until finally the bloody, sodding, shitty piece of British-made rubbish slid off altogether. 

In the meantime, Mike, who’d been telling me about his time in the Falklands, asked me whether I remembered where I was when I heard the Belgrano had sunk  – the usual stuff of second dates, I should imagine. Well, I couldn’t answer, could I? Not without revealing my predicament. He asked me again. I just grinned, closed-mouth, going “Mm. Hmm”. (I'm killing myself laughing here - there's just something gloriously absurd about the juxtaposition of discussing the Belgrano and my teeth falling out - go figure!) 

“Belgrano?” he said. “You do remember the Belgrano, don’t you?

Me still grinning like the village idiot after a three week bender. 

“Are you all right?" he asked finally.    

Aw, bugger and thod it! I thtood up, thaid “Ekthcuthe me for a thecond” and throde off to the Ladieth to thee whether thomething could be thalvaged from thith horrendouth thituation.

Once in the loo, I managed to stick the bridge back on the stumps. Of course - you won’t be surprised - not before another of the female diners walked in and caught me, toothless, rinsing it under the tap.

So, all in all, yeah. A brill evening. Thanks for asking.