Multitasking

The proper way to write a blog is to make it short and snappy and not bore the pants off the unsuspecting fooIs friends you've managed to con into reading it. Hi guys and gals! 

This appears to be rather long, so you may want to sign out now; I've had three cupfuls of finest French and gone into overdrive. I blame it on Stella; it’s her fault. She was round here on Friday night with a hilarious tale of her latest adventure with a condom – she's even allowed me to spill the beans in the interest of literary art my blog. Typical Stella. But for the mo', let’s get back to me, me, me!

She wanted to show me the photo of a guy she’d received an email from on the website, so we logged in using my account so I could check him out. By the time we'd found Stella’s new conquest, four new messages arrived in my inbox. Since she and I were chillin', no need to yack, I responded immediately. I’d penned two replies when another five magically materialized. Stella, meanwhile, was observing, mouth agape.

‘How do you do it?’

‘I've absolutely no idea. None.’

She can confirm (because she saw) I say nothing suggestive, nothing untoward - actually nothing remotely interesting! My initial responses usually resemble job rejections. You know, thank you for your interest. Unfortunately we have no vacancies at present because

a.       I am old enough to be your mother.

b.      I am old enough to be your grandmother.

c.       You live much too far away.

d.      I couldn’t possibly spend my life with a man covered top to toe in tattoos.

e.      I couldn’t possibly spend my life with someone who drinks like a fish.

f.        I couldn’t possibly spend my life with someone who looks as if they are about to croak, and I might have to bring toileting facilities to their bedside. (That is, of course, unless said person would like me to call the solicitor in for some immediate Will and Testament revision.)

The responses are possibly better phrased, but you can’t fail to grasp the gist. However, do these people give up? Not on your nelly!

A few of you dear unsuspecting fools friends have seen me up close and personal and know the truth, recent beauty treatments notwithstanding.  I can only imagine that the pics  Stella took concealed all the warts, whiskers, open pores, wrinkles, thread veins, crow’s feet, marionette lines and baggy bosom, belly and bum. It’s not that I’m pug ugly (Oh God, revealing moment of crushing vulnerability – perhaps I am!), it’s just that by no stretch of the imagination can I be described as pretty; so what draws them? Stella thought the same - I could tell, kept scrutinising me, thinking 'That ragged old bint is eight years older than me and look at the state of her! How can this possibly be happening?' 

In the end, she buggered off leaving me to field on my own, and I dealt with correspondence for two hours.  One rather nice man piqued my interest, but in order to keep the conversation going with him (on a very light level – actually a proper exchange of views and anecdotes, as opposed to mindless drivel), I obviously had to stay logged in.

When I opened my Hotmail account on Saturday evening I saw – wait for it - 51 – yes, you heard me – 51 – new messages of which 41 came from the website, one day; and this is because while I went to the convent, I withdrew my profile; so what with new guys coming on the scene, old guys resurrecting themselves, I ended up typing at the rate of one of Barbara Cartland’s secretaries.  Of course, not all of them were proper approaches; some were those 'Musslykok fancies you, wants to meet, thinks you’re a hot babe' tags which anybody with an ounce of sense deletes without even opening. 

I logged in to answer the nice guy’s (let's call him NVQ) email in the evening and hoped he might be there; then one of the half-way-OK bunch IMed me – too young, I’m not interested, but funny.  In another moment of reckless masochism, I replied, mainly to see if he was as sharp with no time to compose a response; he wasn’t. In the cyber flesh, he was lol man.  

Within fifteen minutes, NVQ is logged in, I’m IMing with funny-ish Cougar Chaser and, because all the others I responded to yesterday see I’m there, they send me more irritating messages. By this time I’m juggling about 9 conversations, and can I remember who is who? Can I fanny! 


That’s because I am so ancient I’m on the verge of Alzheimer’s; so I forget I've just been talking to Chap A about cooking and launch into something about rugby, and vice versa with Chap B. Chap C has just told me about his job and I reply with something about organic veg. Then I'm also 'nursing' the sweet, gentle guy who is  lonely and merely wants some cyber TLC; why do these people make me feel as if I have to provide this social service single-handedly? Isn't there some kind of agency that could be called in? Oh yes! Almost forgot - chap F is persuading me to revoke all previous emails stating I won't go on  a date with him because he's convinced if only we met yada schmada. And the bottom line? I only really want to talk to one of them, NVQ!  

The upshot of this malarkey is that I’ve sent NVQ my hotmail address, not my real one – just the one I reserve for dating and explained exactly why i.e. a much condensed version of this blog. Only when I pressed the send button did I realise I probably sound so firmly wedged up my own jacksie that he's unlikely to reply.

And then I’ll have to go on that sodding website all over again. Ugh.

I’ve just realised what the experience reminds me of  – walking through a souq. 
Never mind - Stella's condom story is keeping me buoyed. ;)