I've found the answer! Plan B!

Big chap and I made a date for a drink initially and possibly dinner, depending on how the conversation was going. I’d given the problem I mentioned in the previous blog some consideration and, being a lateral thinker non pareille, came up with a splendid solution. What do you think?

I’m still not a hundred per cent convinced though. Of course, it does add a certain S and M flavour to the proceedings (which I’m not greatly in favour of because it might give my  future inamorati peculiar ideas that I’m not prepared to follow through, in theory, at this stage), but in the absence of Plan C, this will have to do.

Oooh – but wait - hang on a minute… there is a glimmer of Plan C percolating through. My neurons have gone into a psychotic frenzy. Quick! Paper! Pencil! Stay here - don't move!


I’ll be back shortly...

Knock yourself out!

Profile pictures can be most misleading, but this one told it as it was. Here was a guy who was definitely on the chubby side; that's me being kind. Actually, he was huge, enormous. Lie him down and stick a sheet over him and we're talking Ayres Rock. Now I've never been fattist, having spent a lifetime yo-yoing up and down in weight, so I'm quite sympathetic to anyone who loves food in gargantuan amounts; it shows they have a love of life. Pathetic eaters irritate me; they deserve to be slapped. 


Also, one of my favourite husbands (not mine, a friend's - I've only had the one' unsuccessful coupling' as D called it) carries enough chub to satisfy a women's rugby team in a ruck, and it's never affected my deep and abiding affection for and devotion to him. However, having said that, him being the friend's husband and all, I've never travelled the dangerous road of including him in my lascivious fantasies.


So, back to the internet guy. Amusing, witty profile, pretty smart, worth a go for a bit of a laugh if nothing else, and he'd sent a pleasant introductory email, the only drawback of which was the ending 'Hugs and and kisses'. Erm.... no. No. No. Unless you are sixteen and hormonally at boiling point (and not 55), hugs and kisses are for people you already have a relationship with, not for complete strangers; he overstepped the cute and fluffy boundary there. However, in a instant of magnanimity, I decided to overlook that. By the second email, he mentioned a physical relationship  i.e. he was not looking for eternal emailing or pure friendship; he put his cards on the table. Reading between the lines, this is what I saw, 'Look, let's not beat about the bush. I'm fat. The likelihood of my changing is minimal, and if you can't get your head round that, let's not waste each others time.' Refreshing in a way, don't you think? 


I discussed it with the Oracle.


'Stella, ' I said, 'I've never had sex with somebody who is that large. Your ex was big. How exactly does that work? I don't want him to have a heart attack, drop dead and squash me.'


She looked at me as if I were one ingredient short of a boiled egg. 'What are you talking about? Where's your imagination? Have you ever actually had sex in your life at all?' Was that necessary, dear followers? But then it's Stella. 'You'll go on top, of course. Duh!'


'On top?' I said.


'Yeeeeeeeeees, on top!' She rolled her eyes. 'Are you saying you've never been on top?' She looked stupefied. 'Would you like me to spell it out for you or shall I log into Amazon and buy you a book?'


'Of course, I've been on top - don't be bloody stupid!' I did seem to recall that scenario in the dim and distant past; hmmm, when was that - weren't the Beatles at number one with Can't Buy Me Love?  'But I'd rather hoped.... I could, erm, you know, avoid it these days.'


'Why?'


Why? Sometimes I think Stella doesn't have an iota of empathy. Here's she is - eight years younger than me and barely filling her measly 34 C cup - asking me why bouncing around on top of Mr. Ayres Rock doesn't fill me with joy unbounded. Did you see what the good Lord has seen fit to endow me with? I bet the Janes Mansfield and Russell had a similar problem; how to avoid knocking yourself out whilst engaged in a lengthy session of jiggy jiggy. That's bleeding why!


'You're making too much of it. They don't care. They're too busy focussing on themselves to be bothered to examine your bristols.' Bristols. See. Charming. 'What about normal sized guys? Hasn't it dawned on you that you might have to do the same with them?'


Ooer. I hadn't actually got that far. I mean - give me a chance - I've only just removed the whisker and the wart! The mechanics hadn't occurred to me yet.


So here I am considering the possibility of the fat chap, and all that comes to mind is this.

I'm going to have to work on Plan B. 

Moving on up and nothing can stop me

The other day I met someone I hadn't seen in ages. Our children went to school together all those eons ago. It was great to see her because she's a bit of a loony class act, and we more or less managed to stop the pedestrian traffic while we gossiped and caught up with what the kids are doing, what we are doing, what everybody we knew from those days is doing. 


Anyway, she told me her brother has entered the internet dating scene. He's pretty much the same age as me, but it seems he's seeking a younger model on the basis that someone in their early thirties (let's say) is going to look better in a bikini than an old bat either approaching or having passed the half a century mark; preferably somebody without the inconvenience of children. I can see his point. To some extent. I mean I could probably force myself to admire this hunk for more than five minutes if you strapped me down and deprived me of all other entertainment. 

True - she probably will look better in a bikini. Certainly better than me - I don't think I have worn one of those things since the Treaty of Versailles; it's not the best look for stretch marks and random wobbly and/or bobbly bits. But then she may get that clock ticking thing we women are prone to and eventually want to reproduce in her own image.

I am so glad I'm not a man! They are much more likely to get bamboozled into a secondary bunch of sproglets.Think of your pensions, lads! You thought you'd be swanning off around the world enjoying some well-earned R and R, whereas in fact you'll be having to stump up another gazillion grand to get the new batch through college. Good luck to you! 


One family is more than enough for me, ta! Twenty five years of dreaming up delicious and nutritious meals that will please everyone (Ha! yeah, right...as if) has had its toll. When the last chick gets kicked out of flies the nest, I'm going to kiss goodbye to the pernicious purveyors of domestic pipe-dreams and take all the gadgets, mixers, fancy pots and pans, food processors, melon ballers, strawberry hullers and other unidentifiable gizmos that I was fooled into thinking would a/change my life b/make me into Nigella and put them into semi-permanent storage; I shall live on salad, cake, baked beans and take aways. So if you're planning to visit, you have been warned. Bring your own egg whisk and make sure you drop into Tesco on your way here. 


Which is why I check the profiles for cooking ability... That's a definite thumbs up moment! 


A here's a prayer of thanks I thought I'd never say:

Dear Lord, Thank you for the menopause. Amen.  

You won't find another fool like me, babe (New Seekers 1973) PS

There was another reason why I didn’t want to write about this; it wasn’t just about my being a fool. I felt, despite everything, an element of disloyalty. Yes, I know it sounds deranged, but don’t forget my strict French, Catholic, 19^th century upbringing – these things are hard to shake off, mes chers!

As it happens, after Stella had a go at me and I began to realise I’d never write another blog if I didn’t get the biker out of the way, I got another email from him. It was about an entirely unrelated matter – he just wanted the phone number of someone I'd mentioned who might be willing to help with one of his charitable projects. He was embarrassed to ask, obviously, but thought I would understand. I did. The Greater Good and all that crap.

But my conscience was pricking at me too. I knew I wanted to write about this fiasco, but – oh, you know - blergh, bloody scruples – I hate them. Remember I told you he was a poet and a writer?  We had, in fact, chatted about the possibility of co-writing something; I’ve never done that before and thought it might be fun.  Even the porno rewrite might have been amusing!

So I plucked up the chutzpah and I asked him if he’d mind if I wrote this story.  And he said, assuming anonymity was assured, not at all.

He… said… Not… At… All.       

He said he'd behaved like a prat, and as crazy stories go, it’s a good one. 

See - told you he was nice. Deep down.  

Oooh, what was that that just floated by?

Somebody ping it for me, for Christ’s sake!

You won't find another fool like me, babe (New Seekers 1973) Part 3

The email said:

My dear Bette,

Thank you for your kind reply and for letting me off the hook so easily. I really don’t deserve it. There is so much to tell you. The lady I was with went back to her husband – she had omitted to tell me that she was separated, not divorced, and was in constant contact with him.

Etc. More explanations and then-

I know it is a lot to ask, but would you consider giving me another chance?

What? WHAT?? WHAT??? 

ARE YOU NUTS? 

DID YOUR MOTHER DROP YOU ON YOUR HEAD AS A BABY? 

Actually, you’d probably like me to have really thought those things. I didn’t; I just thought how sad, how very, very sad. My bubble had burst and there was no way I could reconstruct it just to satisfy his need.  For me, there was no going back; the fantasy had crumbled. Whereas he – well, Gilbert O’Sullivan’s 1970s song came to mind – was alone again, naturally. I felt so sorry for him.

I replied saying all the above, more eloquently though, and wished him well again.

Then I got another email.

My dear Bette,

I can fully understand your feelings, but given time we can make bigger and better bubbles.  Please reconsider. I think, in your heart of hearts, that you are perhaps frightened of the possibilities of this relationship. You too have been alone for some time now and we both know that change is a terrifying business. I’m sure if you think about it, you’ll see you should take this chance.

It was right about now that I began to see red.  
Did you see what I saw? 
Notice that word - SHOULD? 
Notice the word before it - YOU? 


There are only four people in the world who are allowed to use that filthy, disgusting word in my presence: Stella, my sister, my Mum and Dad. And even they have learnt to duck when it accidentally slips out. Because in my vast experience, dear followers, SHOULD is generally SHITE. And somebody, a man what is more, presuming to know what I SHOULD do just plain pisses me off. Oh dear... passez moi les sels... I think I got un peu overwrought there. And breathe...

I replied, saying none of the above in that format, but making it clear, yet again, it was a no go.

I got another email. Finally, he accepted it and said he hoped that someday in the future a meeting might still be feasible, although he now understood no relationship would be possible.

So, there you have it. I’ve discussed this with a couple of my girlies and they said they’d be less a/forgiving b/stupid (no surprise there then!) c/willing to ever consider internet dating. Oh yeah – and that, bottom line, all men are not only frogs, they are also card-carrying arses.

But they’re not, are they? Not ALL of them, surely?  And he isn't really either - just a flawed human being like so many of us. You won't be surprised to hear there's another little bit to this story - what you might call a post script, but I've gone over the wretched blogger word count again, so next time. OK? 

Nearly forgot! Confession. You remember the Deutsch-speaking, lettuce-retching, brain-witheringly dull date of a couple of blogs ago? I arranged that encounter in a little piquey tantrum on the day I was dumped by the biker; it might have been wiser to see what else had arrived in the mailbox.

Lessons learned?

•   A maximum of 6 emails between parties.  
•  A quick meeting to get it over and done with.
•  Don’t assume that the ability to pen more than two sentences is an indication of anything whatsoever in common. (I hadn’t actually learned this by the time of Lettuce Man.) 

Linguistic addendum. To my reader in Borneo - welcome! How fabulous! I thought it might help you to know that in the English language shit and shite are almost interchangeable. However, shite conveys a stronger sense of outrage and emotion. I believe it is more commonly used in the north of England. 

You won't find another fool like me, babe (New Seekers, 1973) Part 2

Three days until the date and email-wise we were practically walking off hand in hand into the cyber sunset with Mantovani's orchestra in the background. You can click the link and play it in another window while reading… Ambience, doncha know?

I’d ransacked my wardrobe for something suitable to wear – smart/casual  I thought would be most appropriate – and, taking Stella’s example about feeling good about yourself, I’d nipped in to town to buy some new lingerie. Before you get any ideas, I was not planning on revealing the afore-mentioned undies; I just thought it might put an added spring in my step.

Oh, did I tell you that he had a beard? It had caused me some consternation initially - not that I’m pogonophobic, you understand. No, I had another worry. I spent most of my 21^st year being madly in love with a guy with a beard, and let’s say we were both in the happy position of counting kissing as our main hobby. Yum – he was such a good snogger! (Hehe! Wouldn’t it be great if you could put that in the Skills and Talents section of CVs?) However, the cruel facts are these: beards and moustaches irritate delicate skin, so for most of that year I looked like this.

My beloved didn’t care: I didn’t care. The tongue action and ancillary stuff was worth it. Still, on reflection, it’s not an optimum look for a woman moving into that 50 plus bracket. Besides, according to Stella, I have a moustache of my own. ( Ha! I’ve just had a vision of our two moustaches rubbing against each other like two bits of twig and precipitating a forest fire. But I digress. Bit of a Salvador Dali moment there.) 

Anyway, two days before the date I got an email. The abridged version went thus.

My dear Bette,

I have no idea where to begin or how to put this into words. I have been looking forward so much to us meeting that I have barely thought of anything else, now sadly that cannot now happen. I have always been totally open and honest with you, my life, my past and my hopes for the future. In that continued manner of honesty I have to tell you that a few days ago I met someone and started a relationship with her.

Erm, I'm sorry? What? WHAT? WHAT?

I sat there for a couple of minutes, waiting for it to sink in, wondering if the whole thing had been a massive hoax by some Nigerian in a spider-infested basement in Lagos trying to scam a few grand off some desperate idiot woman (***waves at friends***) on the other side of the world… How weird! But the email went on to say that he had some bad news about something and in a moment of (let’s call it) frailty, maybe loneliness, for want of anything better,  when this opportunity presented itself i.e. a willing female with a pulse, he grabbed it.

He went on to say I had every right to think of him as the bastard of all time – oh, and a whole pack of other stuff. Explanations, justifications:  yada schmada, etc, and so on and so forth.

Now, I don’t know about you… But me, apart from being taken aback by the complexities of human nature, I just thought, ‘OK, girl. You’ve been a twerp. You are probably well out of it. If this person is so needy that he succumbs to temptation at the whiff of Smartie, you are well out of it.’ More than anything though, it was a bubble bursting moment; one second the optimism and happiness was palpable, next second no trace. Rien. Nada.

However, it was really less about temptation, I think, and more about need, and with regard to this, I felt sorry for him. Need, loneliness, the desire for human contact. Women have it easier on this score. I’ve got my kids for affection; I have a loving family to whom I can turn at any time; I have a whole bunch of girly friends whom I can hug whenever I please. Bella thinks nothing of it if I drape myself across her while we’re watching telly when I’m at her house, and neither does her husband. Even that prickle bucket Stella rarely leaves without a little hug and kiss, no matter how revolting(ly) I behave, look or smell, which as you know is generally très on all counts when I’m chez moi in blob mode.  

So I replied politely - no reason to do otherwise - and said I wished him well and hoped everything would work out for him and this lady. Followers! What would be the point of anything else? It had cost me nothing (we’ll discount the hair cut/colour, lingerie and lasering because they are all long term projects), I had in fact had a super time living in this Lala-land, and no harm was really done.

Three days later I got another email. Gob-smacking it was. 

Now I've read somewhere that blogs should only appear in bite-size chunks (I've failed already!) because none of us has the attention span we used to have in the old days before GM foods, and our lives are way too busy to read whole chapters at a time. So, this seems a good moment to let you do whatever your life currently demands. 

You won't find another fool like me, babe (New Seekers, 1973)

Right. Well, it’s taken me a while to get round to telling you this because I was finding it hard to get my head in the right place to decide which lessons (if any) I’d learned from it.  

You remember I mentioned the biker chap (Blog - A Minor Ishoo) and my qualms about getting on his throbbing machine? Hmm. I wanted to keep the tone light, but the truth is a very warm correspondence developed. He sounded sooo nice, and he wrote long, considered emails, full of wit, charm, reassurance and eventually some disclosure. Most of the time he even seemed ahead of me in what I was thinking.

He’d had a variety of jobs over the years, but each and every one of the jobs was, in one way or another, community-minded, and while I’m not a rabid do-gooder, I really appreciate those qualities of decency, generosity and consideration in other people. The more I chatted to him the fonder I became.

There were a few misunderstandings on the way, nothing major, because it’s quite hard to convey the full spectrum of emotions in the written word without actually spelling everything out. Then finally a few phone calls, but between us neither could find the right time to meet.

Perhaps that’s not strictly true. You remember I mentioned the lasering? Well, ultimately it was a success, as I said, but not straight away. I looked fine when I left the place – more or less – then the scabs developed.

I wasn’t going to go on my very first date and with someone I was really keen on looking like that! So, I told a couple of minor white lies about why I wasn’t immediately available, giving time for more touching emails to be exchanged. But we did set up a date, and I was really looking forward to it and dreading it at the same time because by now, the lurve/lust thing had started kicking in. Bike or no bike. Every day I moisturised and ate nothing but lettuce so that I’d look drop dead gorgeous when the time came. Sad, isn’t it? A woman of my age. I shudder.

I’d let myself get carried away by the fantasy of it all. Oh, and another thing – since I’d said on my profile that I enjoyed writing a bit, he sent me a few of his poems and a short story to look at. He’d won some prize for one of the poems; it was good, very good, and I was moved by it.

The story, however… It began well: charming, lyrical (you’d expect that from a poet, eh?), a few sections of super imagery; and then it developed into something entirely different. Erotic. Actually, no, not erotic, more like porn. In fairness, he did say he’d done it for a laugh, for fun, and hadn’t intended it for publication. (Good job really…)  He just wanted to see if he could write in that way. Follower, I am here to tell you he couldn’t. Can anybody? I won’t quote it verbatim because, you never know, there might be someone out there who publishes this stuff, and I might be done for infringing copyright one day.

Quoi qu’il en soit, here’s a modified example.

“He put his hands beneath her thin, blue woollen jumper and circled her nipples (Did he have a felt tip then?); they rose to the occasion. (Please be upstanding for the Queen. I had a vision of the National Anthem being played!) She reached for his manhood, now bulging against the tight leather of his trousers. As he unclasped her bra, his mouth searched for her eager buds.” (Oh, per-leeeease! Me! Me! Come and get me! I'm first!) 

It gets worse.

“He smelt the gentle fragrance of perfume blended with the sensual aroma of woman. (That'll be Domestos and chip fat, I imagine.) His hands cupped her cheeks over the sheer black silk and he pulled her wet womanhood towards his tongue and licked her sweet tempting body, waiting until her juices flowed into his mouth.” (For goodness sake! What is this? The Angel flipping Falls?) 

Flaubert it ain’t. But even Flaubert had to start somewhere. To be honest, as I read through the, ahem, 'sexy' section of the story, I was killing myself laughing most of the time, not because it was so dreadful (even though it truly was at this point), but because it nevertheless had some je ne sais quoi. I kind of loved him all the more for it, for trying, if that makes any sense. Manhoods, womanhoods, members, juices, shafts, heaven, buds. Every euphemism and/or synonym you could think of; it was a struggle to get to the end without wetting myself – mirth you understand, nothing else. (Perhaps I do need that gadget I mentioned earlier!) When I suggested he might as well put the real words in because it was getting a bit repetitive, he told me he’d tempered it for me. Aw, bless, sweet! I’ve never heard of a vagina or a penis. I knew he was considerate; I’m such a delicate creature, on a par with Beth March in Little Women, practically.

I know what you’re thinking. You are thinking why did I go along with this, and I’ll tell you why. People who write write. That’s it. They need to write, and people who write get that about other people who write. We all pen crap much of the time, weaving fantasy with reality, what ifs, fleeting tableaux embellished into scenes, mixing experience with hope, and generally, at some point, come to our senses and chuck most of it out. He was willing to share it with me. In theory, his risk, not mine.

So that’s the background.

Part Two anon. 

Chaque chose en son temps

Stella came round yesterday. She’s had a cut and colour (burgundy red - I kid you not!) and looks absolutely fantastic as per usual. She was dressed in a kind of semi boho ensemble, not always pull-offable for a woman of her age, but she always manages to do it, probably because she has the panache of someone who knows she’s wearing sexy (and matching) bra and pants.Yeah, whatever. 

 I, of course, was in my customary chez moi mode: long sleeve T-shirt, skanky cardy, jeans that should have been chucked in the washing machine two days ago, no make-up, Olive-On-the- Buses specs, hair all over the place. 

Weeeeell, I do wish people would phone before they decide to descend. But on the other hand, it’s only Stella, and she’s used to me. Anyway, I forgave her because she brought hot cross buns.

She gave me a monumental dressing down because I haven’t been entirely truthful with you, my faithful followers.

“Either you’re writing this blog or not. Where’s the next one? You said you were going to write it regularly. You said twice a week. So? Stop being such a flake, for fuck’s sake!”

“I know,” I said, “But I can’t bring myself to put it on the screen. Actually, I can’t even stomach thinking about it.”  

“Well, you’ve got to. Stop prevaricating.” Honestly – that’s what she said – prevaricating. I think she’s been reading or something. “Now that you’ve decided to do it, you’ve got to be honest. And you’ve got to put him in.”

Easy for her to say. Easy for her to say because she has the skin of a rhinoceros, whereas I really don’t want the entire world (OK, what is it? Erm, ten of you?) to know what has happened because I feel such a bloody fool. Not for the first time. God forbid I should ever do anything that gives me that 15 minutes of fame because I just can’t bear scrutiny of any kind. This is not because I have anything in particular to hide morally-speaking, it’s just that I can be such an idiot at times.  

And anyway, is there some kind of Blogger’s Bible in which the fifth commandment is ‘Thou shalt not omit a single detail’? I think not.

“Stella,” I said, “Now that you’ve eaten the hot cross buns, isn’t it about time you went back to the bosom of your loving family? I’m sure one of them must need a lift somewhere.”

“I mean it! If you haven’t written Him by Friday, you can forget going shopping next week.” She can be ruthless. Last week she offered to be at my beck and call as my personal shopper; she has some uses. I hate shopping; nothing ever fits and I loathe getting dressed and undressed a thousand times to find the next size up or down, so she said she’d be my lackey for the day.

So, either I have a nervous breakdown on my own in Debenham’s… (I nearly did that once in Ikea. When they finally realised they had a nutcase on their hands, they gave me a lad of my own to hoick stuff off the self-service shelves. You might want to remember that – look like a ‘woman on the edge’ and they give you whatever you want!) Or, I spill the beans.

 So, the next blog will detail what a complete and utter prat I’ve been. It was the biker chap.  In the meantime, I’ve got jobs to do. By Friday. Lo juro. (I think that means I swear in Spanish or Italian – have I seen it in a film somewhere? Or is it part of some quote? Funny, how weird little things stick in your brain.)

The Learning Curve

I’ve had my very own first date! Whoopee doo!

Not.

I’ve been receiving all kinds of weird propositions, and I’ve answered them all – God knows why – something to do with being forced to send thank you letters as a child I imagine. The single-brain-cell one liners are a severe pain in the arse because it’s hard to reply in the same vein and not sound rude or dismissive. Especially when your inclination veers towards ‘Have a rummage and see if you can dislodge your other brain cell from its hidey hole; the combined efforts of the two of them might, given time, application and a transplant, produce a subordinate clause.’ 

So, when a five sentence email appeared in the inbox, it was a novelty. I can’t say it looked very promising because it didn’t; more interesting than promising. A quick resume: down side - a full ten years older than me and a bit on the portly side (not that that's ever worried me before); plus side - a lawyer (so at least literate), and he sent me a couple of messages in German, which was a bit more imaginative than ‘hi sexy, what did you have for lunch lol?’ One other thing - and I’m not saying this swayed me (although, you know, any opportunity to don my dirndl…) - he had a home in the Swiss Alps. Furthermore, as I’d just downloaded a free copy of Heidi’s Lehr- und Wanderjahre by Johanna Spyri into my Kindle, I thought that must be a sign from the Himmels. God, I’m such a moron! Remind me to never trust my Glas-halb-voll moments!  

We arranged to meet at a pleasant little French café for lunch. I was on time: no sign of him. I waited. Then came the phone call – he’d just arrived at the restaurant, he said – where was I?  I was at the café with a very similar name! He was up town, I was downtown. Not the best start. It wouldn’t take him long to get there, so I ordered a cappuccino and enjoyed some fine people-watching – mainly well-heeled, designer-clad, freshly coiffed (or is that coiffured?) ladies-who-lunch and a few smart couples. Eventually he turned up. Well, I’ve got plenty of friends who are around 60, and I’ve never felt they were too old to be my mates. But here was my granddad! That’s not fair to my granddad, even in his current condition, come to think of it, and he's been six feet under for the past thirty years. I hid my disappointment and thought we'd just have a convivial hour and that would be that. We quickly ordered two salads.

And then it began – sheesh! Double sheesh! The full, bloody, glorious technicolour, surround sound history of all his relationships over the past forty years: two wives, three further long-term partnerships and all the dalliances in between. But not only did I hear about all of them – no, I also heard about the siblings, parents, next door neighbours and cousins three times removed of all of the aforementioned partners. (By the way, the sister in law of the second live-in partner was invited to Charles and Diana’s wedding. Fascinated? No, me neither!) I did my best to look as if I wasn’t about to slit my wrists, but you know, stifling the yawns had already become tricky by the second wife. Anyway, the salads, which were a very welcome distraction for me, were served. At least I had a/something to do while he droned on b/ something to satisfy my palate if not my lugholes.  

Suddenly he was seized by an ear-splitting coughing fit; a piece of lettuce had lodged itself at the back of his throat. The thing is - he just couldn’t stop hacking and everybody (I mean everybody – staff, customers, bods walking past the establishment) was staring at us. I offered to whack his back, even suggested the Heimlich manoeuvre, but he declined. Although he managed to control the coughing for short periods when he took the opportunity to return to his favourite topic (at which point I decided this was my karma, and I had been a murderer in my previous life), something kept setting him off again. To be honest, I actually felt rather sorry for the poor sod; how embarrassing for him. However, my sympathy was ultimately compromised by a thoroughly unforgivable peccadillo. All this expectorant activity had propelled great wads of nasal hair downwards, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell him to shove the offending tufts back up, so had to sit there and look at them. Ugh.  

At the end of the date, we politely shook hands and went in different directions. That evening I received an email from him.

Dear Bette,

Thanks for the date and it was good to meet you. Sorry I got a piece of lettuce stuck in my throat - next time will eat something that goes down more easily! (Complan?)
I have the impression (could be wrong but doubt it) that there was something that you didn't like about me! It is easy for me to give the impression of a 'serial changer' but in fact both wives left me against my will. (I wonder why!) So couldn't do anything about that. I left the partners against their will, without third party involvement, but Joanna would not sleep in a bed with me (Again… I wonder why!)  (unlike the other four), Pamela kept bringing stray cats home and Fran had the problem of her psychotic son who was at one stage sectioned and locked in a hospital secure unit after attacking his sister and the newsagent. I do like you but it takes two to foxtrot and must leave it to you.

Very sincere wishes,

Malcolm

I replied politely that it wasn’t that I didn’t like him (euphemism for 'mind-crushing bore'?) I was merely bemused about how complicated people’s lives were. Nevertheless, a relationship was not on the cards. Good luck in finding the right person for you etc etc. You’d think that would be enough, wouldn’t you?

But, no.

Dear Bette, 

That's understandable and I am relieved that there was nothing more to it than that. I have to explain my past but, on the other hand, my life is very uncomplicated now. I am now as uncomplicated as you are.
Often people do 'grow on each other' and I feel we have quite a lot in common at the cultural level. I am musical, play the violin and like literature, history and languages. Between you and me the 100% English are hopeless at other languages and my brothers' talents in that field - especially my younger brother in Abergavenny who is certainly a 'good chap' - are on the same level as my dear departed Mother's! (See what I mean about relatives? I have no idea what this refers to – I must have switched off at that point!)
If, on reflection, you would like to see what I am like on a second meeting (when all the background has already been explained) I would be very happy to meet you.

With sincere wishes,  (Er? Even that - who these days writes ‘with sincere wishes’ except on low key business correspondence?)  
Malcolm

I sent another message reiterating ‘No thanks’, and so far, fingers crossed, that’s the end of that.

Lessons learned? 

• Amend my profile requirements to no more than five years older than me. 
• Don’t assume that the ability to pen more than two sentences is an indication of anything whatsoever in common. 
• Always carry nasal hair trimmers in handbag in case of emergency.

NEXT! 

Hair piece de resistance!

I’ve been wetting myself laughing over this one.  I met my artist friend Gina for coffee the other day.  A veteran of the internet dating scene, she’s one of those people with an overly acute sense of the absurd.

She’d been on the site for some time and was drawn to the photos of a fairly pleasant looking guy who was clearly an outdoorsy type; all his pics were taken in winter, either in ski or cold weather rambling gear; he was always bundled up in hat and gloves. His profile seemed promising; fairly literate, quite amusing, had travelled a fair amount. They started emailing and discovered a few things in common, so she suggested a walk and then a coffee at the local country park. They arranged to meet by the map at the front entrance. He said he’d be wearing a navy anorak with red cuffs. As she arrived, she spotted him from a distance and thought yes, he looks OK; but as she approached, the deal breaker became jaw-droppingly apparent.

“The horror. The horror--" she said in a passable impersonation of Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now. "The man had a frigging comb-over. Like Bobby Charlton. In this day and age. What the hell was he thinking?”

She was polite, tried not to let the disappointment and disbelief (i.e. horror) show on her face; he was mildly nervous, though attentive. According to her, it was a monumental effort not to giggle, but she managed the semblance of a conversation. So far it had been a warm, sunny day, but as they meandered up the hill, a breeze developed, which brought with it the coup de grace. As Gina was telling me this, she got out a pencil and a scrap of paper. I wondered what she was up to.

“Honestly, Bette, there are some things in life that are just beyond the pale. This--” she said drawing a sketch on the paper, “This I could probably put up with.”

But this… THIS… is a bloody sugar basket too far!"

It seems a gust of wind had separated the rigid lacquered comb-over from the top of his head.  

“Bette, I couldn’t help myself. I burst out laughing and then I couldn’t stop. In the meantime, he was madly trying to plaster it back into place, going quite purple in the process. I kept saying sorry. Finally, just when I pulled myself together, he succeeded in reattaching it to his head, put his hood on to keep the errant flip-top contained and tied the toggles under his chin. Well, I don’t know why, but that set me off again. God, it was awful - awful, I tell you. Then, totally po-faced, he said ‘I'm going to head back now. I'm glad you found me so amusing.’

I said sorry yet again, asked him to forgive me and he had to admit that it was funny, but he just stormed off! Bounded down the hill, hood pulled tight, and left me there!

The next day I got an email from him - mega arsey, calling me an inconsiderate bitch, saying that all women were the same, he didn't know why he'd ever expected a decent woman to be on the site etc. etc.  And even - would you believe - said I had no room to take the mick since I was nothing to write home about myself- hardly a Claudia Schiffer lookalike! Charming!"

"Did you bother to reply?" I asked. 

"Of course. Humourless oik. Amongst several other things, I told him to keep his bloody hair on. We-eeeell, you know how it is, I couldn't resist." 

Beset by doubt

You remember that Stella was kind enough to point out my broken capillaries? I made an appointment at the local beauty clinic last week and today I was lasered! Plus, the wart has been removed. We’d sort of managed to disguise the wart for the photos with Bobbi Brown’s something or other concealer, and Stella gave me her old Chanel lipstick because it made her face look blue. I think I’m looking cuter by the minute.

I came home, having parted with the equivalent of Sri Lanka’s GDP in the interests of youth and beauty, and was quite looking forward to the further improvements I’d shortly see. While I was busy examining the stitches in my 10 x magnifying mirror, my 20 year old son strolled into my bedroom, sat on my still unmade bed, and said, ’Mum, I just don’t understand it. How is it that girls these days always say they aren’t feminists? I mean if you’re a woman, how can you not be a feminist?’

I nearly fell off my chair; Germaine Greer’s grisly spectre suddenly appeared in the mirror and walloped me on the head with a hardback copy of the Female Eunuch. There followed a thorough arse-kicking from Betty Freidan, Nancy Friday, Simone de Beauvoir and all those other icons from my youth who reside in cardboard cartons in the garage.  Feminism? I think I remember that… What am I doing here?

Would they be lasered to hide the ravages of time? What would or do they make of this complete turnaround since the 60s and 70s? If the First Wave of feminism got women the vote, the Second Wave liberated women from the role of housewife, what is the Third Wave about? I haven’t got a clue; there is some sense of freedom, more possibilities. So why am I trying to conform to some ridiculous notion of desirability?

I think this question was to some extent answered in the comments on the blog entitled I’m a Sex Symbol. Men, no matter how they look, appear to have some inbuilt mechanism of self-belief: women ought to be grateful for their company. What I don’t understand is why we ought to be grateful? What, if you’ll excuse the jargon, do men, or should I say middle-aged men more specifically, really bring to the table? Stella, of course, might posit that all they need to bring is a good shag. I assume by that she means her physical need is met by a male human being, and that’s about all. From that point of view, she is arguably a feminist. But why the need for all this titivation?  

Today I’m left with a feeling that I’ve betrayed someone. But when I think back, there was nothing more irritating when I was in my twenties than women who were stuck in the post war years or in the sixties, droning on about not having a washing machine.  Perhaps we all need to move on. All the time. Erm, I can feel a Scarlet O'Hara moment coming on - maybe I’ll think about this tomorrow; my head is beginning to hurt.  

Oh do shut up, you lot. It's like there are two armies out there and I'm stuck in the middle. Of course, I’m still a feminist! I just want to be a youthful, attractive one. That’s OK. I think. Isn’t it? Well, isn’t it? 

By the way, my biker chap and I have exchanged several emails. I think a date is on the cards. He does sound rather lovely. 

A minor ishoo

I’ve thought about it. Stella has done me another five minute photo shoot because that tiny bit of cleavage was attracting the wrong clientele. So here are the various incarnations 

 

In the final one, we have the haute couture meld of Stella’s son’s boxers beneath and her John Lewis Pink and Black Collection tea towel on the top. As you can see, I’m almost a nun. Spot the difference. 

Among all of yesterday’s dross, there were a couple of nice emails i.e. more than one liners with no text speak. One was from a chap whose pics showed him on a rather huge motor bike. His profile said that he is looking for someone who will share the pleasures of the freedom of the road. He was quite lyrical about the whole business; I was almost moved. Anyway, I’ve replied, but I’m having second thoughts, and I’ll tell you for why…

I can tell you because the likelihood of any of my prospects ever reading this blog is infinitesimal. Here it is girls – you know when you’ve had children the natural way, and you know when your pelvic floor is not as robust as it used to be… Well, voila the problem with the bike. And more specifically the leathers. I’ve been having a little, almost nothing really, how shall I put it, trickle when I cough or sneeze. Currently, I promise you it is neither here nor there, long way from becoming a torrent, but I’m having to do some forward planning here. Supposing I eventually get it together with this guy, and supposing I do go biking with him, and supposing the roads are bumpy – well, you see where I’m going with this. And having gone there, supposing my affliction gets worse over the course of this incipient romance… I dunno – I can’t see that skin-tight sweaty leathers and incontinence pads are ever going to be a perfect combination, can you? Less Easy Rider, more Weesy Rider. (Sorry.) Not quite Soir de Paris, is it? So, I’m considering buying one of these

It’s the Athena Pelvic Muscle Trainer. Have any of you used one? Does it work? And can you plug yourself in on the way to work in the car while listening to Shakira? 

By the way, Stella claims there’ll be a myriad of other benefits; I shall be more cosy and welcoming, more of a snug fit, she says. Actually, those are my words not hers. She was more to the point, as always.