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.