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.
11 comments:
The e-male equivqlent of a pr"*k tease!!
What a loser - & hey pink georgette curtains for the boudoir!!
Hang ('em) in there kid!
Dear CB I lurve your blog! someone who says it as it is. I too am nearing that magic number.... do you think there is something about this stage is life that may cause some disturbance in brain function? How else can you explain a not unintelligent woman finding herself in the following situation? Sixth senses and prickle to the fore.......
Current beau (or is that bore) is in his early forties and has never been married - prickle
has not a penny, and I mean NOT A PENNY to his name - prickle
has not one asset of any kind - no house, no car, nothing. The original life in a carrier bag - prickle
has used all my not considerable savings to dig himself out of copious amounts of debt and feed his gambling habit -prickle (or is that pr**)
has as much idea of thinking of anyone other than himself in the bedroom as, well, a prickle.
Not so much prickle as ruddy great 1000 volt electric shock eh so why, CB, why in gods name am I still in this relationship?? Is it some hopefully temporary brain disorder? the fear of being alone?
Anyway, I certainly am not equipped mentally or physically to cope with the whole internet scene and don't own a pink burka anyhow
Kettle hunter, my dear - I found a use for the georgette; I know you'll be proud of me. The nuns at the couven in Rheims taught us to be frugal and not waste God's bountiful blessings. The great reveal will be in the next blog.
Must put mes lunettes on when I post. Of course, I meant couvent.
My dear Anonymous, I’m real happy you enjoy my blog. While I would not wish to insult you in any way, I fear you are indeed suffering from some brain disorder, which makes you one of millions of women. Few people want to be alone, although I can promise you that being alone is infinitely preferable to loneliness within a relationship. So, this is my considered advice to you – and I say this in a caring, sharing, deeply psychotherapeutic, gentle-pat-on-the-knee, here-have-a-bar-of-Galaxy kind of way - get rid of that spineless fucker! You probably don’t have tits that are as droopy as mine, won’t need a burkha and you deserve more than you are getting. And as for the cyber scene, I know for a fact that several readers of this blog found happiness through the internet dating. I am ever hopeful!
Look Honey - two things.
1.You are a writer - OK - so other writers have to be off limits - otherwise all you will do is spend hours discussing how he can best finish his children's story. His will be cr*p anyway and you won't have time to devout to your own great stuff.
2. Forget the Burka thingey. Buy a blindfold and some handcuffs (for him) and he will be thrilled. AND if he is rubbish - don't bother to untie him afterwards ...
Ma Chere Sarahnet, I very much like your second suggestion... in some ways. The burkha is now a rug, so I shan't be bringing that out again - unless I decide to recycle it, of course. The blindfold and hand cuffs though - my plan is for any potential suitor to 'service' me - is it possible in such a get up? And do you have any experience of this that I could draw on? ;)
Devote not devout! I realise too late. Well reading your astounding latest update - not at all surprised that he can't write for toffee.
I myself met an older ex lover at the weekend. Not seen in years. He spends a lot of time telling me about his root canal surgery. It was never thus may I say.
Then he turns piercing eyes on me (behind the glasses) and says anxiously 'how are your teeth my dear.' Never mind the teeth I want to say, what about my boobs?
But manage (as I have all my own teeth) to bite back ripost in case he turns frisky and other things fall off...:-)
HELP: AT WHAT age should we start worrying about teeth above all else?
My dear Anonymous - I have had one crumbler already (fortunately at the very back) - I blame it on those calcium-sucking sprogs I had, and I am about to start spending (about to?) their inheritance on Bette's oral maintenance and renovation. The Hollywood smile is also on the agenda. Ping! Kerrching!
Your ex lover sounds as fascinating as my Lettuce Man. Must be the most unusual chat up line I've ever heard... How are your teeth, my dear? Hilarious. I might have to use it!
In fact, thanks for that. I've just remembered an internet experience I had put deep into the recesses of my psyche. I'll resurrect it for your delight and delectation.
Ugh Bette, sorry to be checking in so late. What a total douche. I hate guys over the age of 40. I swear, they are all pussies! I have had SO MANY guys do this! Act all excited, build everything up and then wimp out at the last minutes. Who knows if they ever actually intended to go through with anything or not, but it would be awesome if just one could manage to pull his head out of his ass and follow through!
You can do better anyway .... hottie ;-)
Anonymous....kick the bum outta there!! you could do so much better sister!
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