Cauchemar! Kate Middleton - you have been warned...

Mon Dieu! What a nightmare! 

Before I went to the convent for my little vacation from internet dating I made an appointment. The whole exchange was super easy. OK - the guy was a little too old for me perhaps (have we been here before?), but not as old as Lettuce Man. It boiled down to ‘Your profile and pics sound and look nice’ from him, and a not quite so effusive response from me, but I was intrigued by the laconic three sentence description of himself. And then ‘Shall we meet?’ from him. 'Not immediately possible,' I said. He said ‘No problem.  Let’s meet as soon as you get back.’ How easy was that? Date sorted with none of the usual same-old, same-old preamble.

Upon my return from the convent, I emailed in the morning to check it was still on – two weeks is plenty of time to forget or change your mind after all. No response. By the time I got home from work there was still no reply. So, since I was un peu fatiguee, I dropped on the sofa, switched on the telly and had forty winks, but something possessed me to check my emails half an hour before the time of the date; he’d finally answered. Of course, he was going to be there! He was really looking forward to it! He had been thinking of nothing else for the past two weeks!  And here was his mobile number! By this time, I was not in date mood. Let's face it - how often am I?  Still, blergh, uh, the over-abundance of Tigger-like exuberant exclamation marks made me feel I shouldn't ruin his day; if he was going to make the effort to be there – his journey was far longer than mine – and since noblesse oblige, I’d better make an appearance. So I texted him I’d be there a little late, smeared on some alluring lippy and added the customary spray of Soir de Paris. 

The venue was a coffee/shop/wine bar/eaterie place. He was instantly recognisable as I walked in, not because he looked anything like his photo, but because he was the only solitary middle-aged bloke there. Sister Therese, who was my old English teacher, frequently lamented my lack of descriptive ability, and I'm afraid nothing has changed over the years. I’m stumped as to how to describe his face. But I’ll give it my best shot; superimpose a giant red spider’s web on a lard-covered sack of potatoes and you’ve kind of got the picture. In front of him were the remains of a pint of Guinness.

He offered me a drink (mine was a coffee) and bought himself another Guinness. And then, dear followers, began the long, slow torture. I swear I have never worked so hard. There was a reason for his laconic profile; he had next to nothing to say and, even when pushed, cajoled, encouraged, had only one topic - his local hostelry and inmates thereof and even that was all monosyllabic. Now, you may have noticed I’m not someone who struggles with talking bollocks and networking, so I carried on valiantly doing the decent thing by trying to bring him out of himself. After all, I’ve done psychotherapy courses! I am Anna Freud, see me roar. Lord! The effort! The labour! I could feel every sinew, cartilage, vein and artery start to calcify which all culminated in some kind of weird flashback or maybe a flashforward, I don't know – a vision of all my teeth cascading into my cappuccino.

I was desperate, desperate I tell you, to leave, but years of etiquette training made me offer to buy him the quid pro quo beverage. He went for another Guinness. And he would shortly be driving back to his house a good hour away. Ping! PING! PING! PING! As I sat down again, I realised what had made my teeth fall out. The answer was as plain as the W.C. Fields nose on his face. 

He was the carbon copy of my ex husband - in looks, personality and drinking habits. Why hadn’t I seen it immediately? I struggled on for another fifteen minutes, and then I really, really couldn’t do it anymore – I thought I might have to fish out the empty Grab Bag of Walker’s crisps I had in my coat pocket and start panting into it. I made up a crap excuse about not wanting to be wandering around alone in the city centre at night and said I had to go.

He came outside with me and said he would really like to see me again because... we seemed to have so much in common! Erm, WHAT? Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Don't laugh. Don't shriek. Don't be cruel. Deep breaths. 

Meh! 

And then I just couldn’t be arsed for a second longer; I told him I couldn’t possibly meet him again because he reminded me too much of my ex husband. Yes, I did. ‘There’s no need for that to be a barrier,’ he said amiably, taking my hand in his. ‘After all, you fell in love with him once.’

I was on the point of gagging by now. Yes, once I did. When he was a fun, interesting, nice-looking, go-getting, adventurous young man, which was before he too discovered the local pub on a nightly basis and became somebody I no longer recognised. 

Lock up the drinks cabinet, Kate. 

Next! 

Convent 0 - Canary Islands 1

Salut, mes amis! I’m back. I repented. A bit. My apologies for the absence of ecclesiastical up-dates, but clandestine trips to the convent’s computer were not as easily achievable as I had imagined, and I was confined to my cell a fair amount. Fortunately, I had brought my Bazooka that Verrucca with me, so that kept me occupied, and the daily administration of said medicament yielded spectacular results; I never knew such massive pleasure could be derived from pulling the annoying little bugger out. My other solitary occupation (you can only confess and pray so much after all…) was finding fresh and laterally thought out uses for the beeswax candles I’d nicked from under the altar. More of that later.

In the meantime, however, mega outrage and spitting!

I can’t remember if I mentioned my friend and colleague Jo to you in an earlier blog. She’s on the same dating website as I am, and when she told me she was getting no hits, I invited myself to her house to investigate. The reasons were simple; in a very half-hearted attempt at self-promotion, she’d included a close-up photo (by that I mean a more or less a direct route up her nasal cavities) that made her look like an escapee from a Victorian psychiatric institution, and also her profile was diazepam dull. Anyway, things picked up marginally when we tweaked a few of the more obvious flaws in her marketing strategy and uploaded some of my David Bailey shots, although there were still no candidates to make her juices flow.

I had hardly walked in to work today when she came bounding over with what can only be described as glow. Her complexion seemed to have improved significantly.

‘I kept thinking about your blog and the floppy tits, but I did it anyway!’

‘Did what?’ I said.

‘I had a shag!’

‘You had a shag?’ Yes, I know how cruel that sounds, but I didn’t mean ‘What? You (of all people) got laid, while I, vision of youth and uberpulchritude, who have been depilated, coiffed, coloured and lasered, can barely scrape a second date and am still languishing unfulfilled in the leg-over department?’

That wasn’t what I meant. Well, not much anyway. Jo has only ever slept with one man, her husband, and the last time that happened was three years ago, which was why she was being such a wimp about her website profile: nerves.  Transpires she went on holiday to the Canaries, got courted by some local Spaniard for a whole week, and on the night before her departure thought ‘Sod it’ and went ahead. Totally burkha-less. Must have been with the lights off then... I'll check that out tomorrow. 

‘Was it good?’ I asked.

‘It was OK,’ she said. ‘But that wasn’t the point. All week he was attentive, charming, complimentary, never pushy; he made me feel like a woman. So I had a Shirley Valentine moment (you must watch this for the clichéd ocean waves metaphor – haha!), why not?'

And she accomplished this just by being herself, which incidentally is an attractive, lovely, modest, gentle person. Ugh, I hate her. The bitch.

‘And now I’m over it,’ she said. ‘The fear’s gone. I’m not going to wait for them to look for me. I’m going to start making the first moves.’

And here’s a bit of Byron for you literary bods – seems appropriate. “A little she strove, and much repented, And whispering, ‘I will ne’er consent’ – consented.”  Go Jo! You shameless trollop! 

So, dear follower, if the website has not come up trumps for me by the end of July, where do you think I should go on holiday?

Will you miss me?

Friends, followers and occasional lurkers… Lend me your oreilles!

Sadly I must leave you for a few days. I have been summoned to my old convent where, according to the Sisters Bernadette and Marie-Claude, there is only limited internet access. I’m not likely to be going on any dates either, that is, unless Pere Jacques comes up trumps, and that’s hardly likely since the randy old goat must be 95 by now. If I’d had the foresight, I would have bought some of this, desperate as I am, but I didn’t.  Anyway, if I can sneak out of matins and get me to a computer, I shall inform you if there’s any new priestly totty.

The sisters aren’t happy with my behaviour; they were trying to buy some new wimples on line when they came across my blog and recognised me immediately; they say I have let the order down with my illustrations and pics. Although, as far as I'm concerned, that feat of engineering  looks like something Opus Dei might be interested in, in a kind of a self flagellatory way. Add one of these, possibly in black, and you’ve got all you need – two items of torture. So, I really don’t know what the Sisters are objecting to; it’s all pretty much of a muchness, a mon avis.

Therefore, instead of wondering how to deal with the various inconveniences of ageing and catching up on moronic emails from moronic men, I shall be busy going to confession and repenting for putting such trash into the ether.

Ugh, black is just not my colour.

And then I’ll come back and start all over again ;), because I haven't gotten round to spilling the haricots verts about Laurie yet. Mmm. Lush. 

Alternative engineering

Stella (who incidentally has been filler-ed and botoxed and came round here looking like a chipmunk - I did my best not to laugh - failed!) doesn't like the burkha idea. Here's her solution to my problem. Yeah, as if. At my age?

On the other hand, cheaper than the georgette- a snip at £16.

I'll have to give it my considered attention. It might, in the absence of any further suggestions, be a goer.

Be honest though - should a woman of my age be considering such an item? Would you wear it? Am I being a prig? And finally, do men really find this a turn on? Meh!

Oh the ignominy and shame!

Youngest son and I went to the mall - him to meet a mate and buy some new clobber, me to get my eyebrows threaded as basheeran suggested; I even passed on the helpful money spinner - Nasal Trimming 4U. It was a little painful, though happily nothing like childbirth or a tooth abcess. This pre-date/snog/shag beautification business is doing my head and bank balance in. 


When the lady had finished my eyebrows, she said 'Would you like to me do your upper lip now?'


Er? My upper lip? Really? 'Why?' I said. 'Do you honestly think I need it?'


'Hmm. It's fair hair, of course, but there is quite a lot of it, Madam.' Bitch. She and Stella could form a double act.


So I felt compelled to say yes. As I tilted my head backwards to allow her to remove the moustache in full view of the perambulating throng, I saw the reflection of my son's horrified face in the mirror in front of me as he and his friend walked past, son pretending this nightmarish vision was not his mother. I then got a text saying, 'In Burgerking. Don't come 2 find me. CU in car park 4.30'. Kids, eh? No empathy.  

But look a me, folks! Sharon Stone has competition!

Almost nothing in it now... So! Time to get back to the emailing because - as you all know - per ardua ad astra! Smiley face, kiss, lol, lmao and all that other merde. 

Part 5 of something (which is the part that follows the other four parts)

I found a use for the bales (OK - four yards) of lurid georgette. Look at this – it's amazing what one woman can accomplish in the space of one day when she is thoroughly pissed off. 

It's a little quelque chose to drip my make up and nail varnish on.  Actually, I don’t wear nail varnish yet. I expect that’ll be Stella’s next mission – those awful three inch jewel encrusted talons you see on people on American day time TV shows. You know the kind of thing - a bell rings 'Ding dong', and the hostess says 'Who can that be? It’s your wife, Vulvodynia and her sister Syphileesha,' cut to man's horrified face 'who both say you cheated with their best friend Empahzymia. Looks like you got some explaining to do, you dirty dawg!’ But I digress.  

Anyway, back to my rug; I've impressed myself. I have sisters Bernadette and Marie-Claude from the Rheims convent to thank for that; they taught us thrift, inventiveness and self-sufficiency; nowhere better exemplified than in this - two nuns in a shower 'Where's the soap?' says one. 'Yes, it does, doesn't it?' says the other. Who needs a man, right? 

So I sent back the ‘I respect your decision… I’m sorry you feel that way…  Good luck in the future …’ missive, that is to say, same cacola, different day, the reply to which was this:  

Dear Bette,

Thank you for being so understanding. I expect you might consider this a little bit cheeky. You remember we talked about the book I’m writing? The children’s novel? Would you mind reading it for me and telling me what you think? (Did you just hear me gasp at the sheer effrontery, dear followers? I think that you have gone too far, matey! I think that you have you have well and truly pissed on your frigging frites and shat on your poisson, that’s what I think!) I have included it in the attachment.

Well, I had to look at it – I can’t help myself, I read any old crap; I’m the woman who falls down escalators on the tube craning my neck whilst trying to read all the posters that go by. Hell, I even read my train tickets.  It was some cutsie rubbish about a caterpillar which, as many of you no doubt know, is a topic that has been done to death. And it was – well, words cannot describe it really, but they must: shockingly, brain-blisteringly awful. I won’t go into it here; I’ve already divulged the porno content of my previous non-show date, and if I carry on like this, you might think I have no regard for the arts.

But here’s what I discovered about my profile; the section that ought to be removed is where I say a write a bit. Because when the would-be Hemingways see those three little words, they must think I’m being modest, and that really I'm Margaret Atwood and Flannery O’Connor morphed into some kind of literary Mother Theresa. And folks, I know I am gradually (thanks to Stella’s constant interference) becoming a femme fatale extraordinaire, but hello! I write a blog. Duh! I doubt that anyone from here is going to come knocking at my door in the immediate future.  

Still, I just had to have a go at editing his story. I got to the end of page 2 and gave up. Yes, it was that bad. Who (who has got beyond Year 6) gives the chief caterpillar protagonist a nine, you heard me, NINE syllable name and then persists in using it every single time when a personal or possessive pronoun would just as easily do. My creator must be thrashing around in his grave. 

Lessons learned?

• Get excited about nothing.
• Do not plan on wanton sex, especially if frivolous purchases are required. 
•  Don’t assume that the ability to pen more than two sentences in an email is an indication of anything whatsoever in common. (That's the third time for that one now; I must be very, very thick.)  - 

If All Else Fails cont. from Knock Yourself Out (Part 4 - kind of)

From that moment on, I was getting emails asking me what my favourite dishes were, would Italian, Indian or Greek cuisine suit, did I have any special requests for pudding, did I prefer red or white wine, which music would I like etc.; he was certainly injecting maximum effort into making the evening a convivial and culinary success.

Buoyed by these early indications of eternal devotion, I went shopping for the burkha. Primark did not, as had been hoped, come up trumps; though with their skimpy sizes, even if they had them, they’d have been the size of a hankie. You’d think - global village that we have become - it would be easy to get a simple garment like a pink burkha - after all, it’s not exactly an advanced Vogue Pattern - but no; not even in all the department stores. So I had to resort to buying four yards of pink georgette. As you can see, after cutting out the eye holes, I took the utmost care to satin-stitch around them; notice I did not say overlock – I said satin-stich – I was planning on looking my haute-couture best should the moment and/or manhood arise.

The hour had been set, the address had been sent, the fabulicous menu had been decided, and then, the morning when the date was due, he blew me out! But what a brush off!

Dear Bette,

I have given a great deal more thought to the possibilities of you and me and have come to the decision that I wouldn’t be able to give you everything that I would want to give you. If we had met 5 years ago then I would have been in a place where I would have been thrilled with the opportunity that a romance with you would offer - intellectually stimulating, adventurous, physically fun (you are, without question, a 'hottie'!)(Yeah, I know, Stella’s whip on my fat ass is a constant – yelp! -inspiration) and a real challenge. In the circumstances I don't think dinner tonight is a good idea.

I hope you will forgive me... (Yada, schmada...)

Followers! According to him I am bloody marvellous in every frigging way! (OK – I admit I didn’t quite recognise the description - perhaps he mistook me for someone else?) And yet… and yet… evidently not quite marvellous enough to cook a poxy, measly dinner for! I mean - what man in his right mind wouldn’t jump at the chance of me?! And more to the point, what the hell am I going to do with all that sodding georgette? That cost me over 30 quid, that did.  

Offspring who has not been kicked out of flown the nest yet requires feeding; better go and get him a worm from the freezer.

I shall be back shortly with the further email exchange. Pshht, tsk, mnyeh. Arse.

Franchement, quel culot! Now I know what I’ll have to delete from my profile – the bit that attracts the wrong sort of enquiries. 

If all else fails...

...try a new approach.

So here's my Plan C. I think it has a lot going for it, don't you?

I turned up for the date on time, walked in the pub, saw him chatting to a group of blokes (frankly, it was hard to miss him) and then made my first mistake. What possessed me to greet him with a handshake? This small gesture revealed to the assembled crowd we were perfect strangers on a blind date, so when we sat down, you could see the guys' bar stools on the verge of toppling Leaning-Tower-of-Pisa-like in order to earwig on our fascinating conversation. I resolved to ignore them.

The conversation was easy from the start: amusing, witty, welcome bits of banter.  Fat chap was an architect, currently working for a charity (notice this is the second time I've gone for the do-gooder type) and with ex wife baggage all worked through and over. He also talked about his kids with great affection and humour; another plus point. So far, so good. He'd particularly liked my profile because among my interests I'd put that I write a bit. Sounding familiar? And by the way, he had half written children's book...

It was going well though, and he suggested dinner.  Fine by me - food is generally the recompense for crap situations, but in this case I really wanted to prolong the evening. As you can imagine, he had a hearty gargantuan appetite, and as the meal progressed, he showed himself to be cheeky, mildly flirty, (though nothing to make my flesh crawl) and in possession of  a wealth of knowledge I don't have; not that he imparted it in a boorish or patronising way - it was just the stuff of chat to him.  We clicked on loads of silly references to music, art, the theatre, sweets we'd eaten when we were kids - loads. At this point I was thinking, 'Hmm. I wonder if Primark sells burkhas?'

When pudding came, he said he had something important to tell me. Gulp! Although he had had his own architect's practice, he had in fact been declared bankrupt two years ago and had narrowly missed serving a prison sentence. It seems he and the Inland Revenue failed to agree on one or two teensy weensy - so miniscule you'd have to look for them with a microscope (which they did) - accounting issues. So! Intelligent, cultured, funny, an excellent conversationalist but fat, fundamentally broke and a semi felon. Great. There was a moment's deflation there, but you know me - Pollyanna's doppelganger - I rallied!

But an honest semi-felon! After all, he'd owned up! What a marvellous guy! I wondered if burkhas came in one size fits all and could I possibly find a Barbie version in pink?

When it came to the bill, he insisted he pay, and I let him, planning to return the favour if possible. I couldn't help myself; I really liked him.

By the time I got home there was an effusive email waiting for me inviting me to dinner at his house. Followers, I accepted.