Further Non-Adventures in the Life of a Potato's Escort

There is something of the natural born teacher in me. It’s not that I admire academic excellence above all else, but I do love it when I see creativity, hard work, progress and pleasure in personal achievement. And so it is entirely with this in mind that I shall send the following didactic email to my last date in the hope that it will help him learn and find some absorbent and deaf sponge a partner.

Dear Dave,

Thank you for coming to meet me today. The coffee and cakes were delicious, weren’t they?

At the end of the date when I said it was most fascinating to meet you, I meant it. Then you asked me to get in touch to arrange to see you again, but I’m afraid I will have to decline your kind offer. 

Because, my dear Dave, the reason it was most fascinating to meet you was this: I have never yet been on a date with someone who doesn’t have the gumption to ask me my real name. Not only did you never find that out, but when I thoughtfully provided you with little entrees into the subject, you either totally ignored them or were oblivious to them.

Suggestion Number 1

Ask the person sitting opposite you what her real name is well before you get to the date stage.

******

The full thirty-year history of your career was most entertaining, and I enjoyed hearing about your travels. I learned a lot about customs in Dubai, Bahrein, about the gun culture in Mexico City, the favelas in Brazil  – oh, etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. However, you seemed to assume that in the first instance I was born; and then, in the second instance, I arrived at 50 having spent the interim in a box that was never opened.

Suggestion Number 2

When you are blurbing on and on and on about describing the places you have been to, ask the person sitting opposite you if she has been there too.She may or may not have been there, but she may be able to compare and contrast with places she has been to. When you mention off shore investments, and the person says something knowledgeable about them, ask how she knows these things. You might learn something to your advantage. When the person hints at having lived somewhere exotic, take the opportunity to make further enquiries.

******

It is not a good idea to tell the person sitting opposite you how you regularly fleece your company by purposely going to the most expensive restaurants, choosing the most expensive items on the menu and claiming it all on your expenses. It doesn’t make you big, well-travelled or clever: it merely makes you cheap.

Suggestion Number 3

Examine your conscience and give some thought to karma.

******

When I asked you what your interests outside work were, you seemed to have very little to say for yourself. From this I can only deduce that internet dating is your hobby; and if that is all you want it to carry on being, by all means continue to behave in the way you behave. You will fill in the odd hour here`and there, but in the process you will be wasting somebody else’s time.  

Suggestion Number 4

Cultivate a richer inner life and give the women of the world a well-earned break.   

******

And on that note, I will end my message. I hope my suggestions help you find the lady of your dreams. 

Yours in kindness and optimism,

Cousine Bette. 


Friends, followers, family and all the rest of the people on this planet - please, please, please tell me why men say they want to see you again when they haven't asked you one single question, not one, and haven't shown the slightest bit of interest in anything about you? Beats me. 


Next! 

Spud-u-like?

Stella and I were having one of our loll-about-on-the-conservatory-sofas kind of conversations a short while ago. It seems that a guy she'd been chatting to, a fireman no less (yeah, I know... all the predictable jokes about hoses etc. yawn…), and had almost had a date with – she turned up, he didn’t – had got back in touch with her. After the non-date, he had barely apologised, and so she rapidly called it a day.  

And here he and his hose were again. Not surprisingly she asked him what it was he wanted in a not over-welcoming tone, and he was clearly taken aback that she wasn’t fawning over him. He asked her if she’d been on any dates since speaking to him. She told him in a very matter-of-fact fashion that she’d been on six.

“Six?” he said. “Six?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Oh,” he said.

It appears that his tone was one of disappointed surprise, crest-fallen almost.

Could somebody please tell me why a man who has messed somebody about, stood someone up, and then only got in touch two weeks later imagines that a gorgeous woman like Stella would hang about waiting for his gracious call?

Sheesh!  You gotta wonder about the emotional intelligence, haven’t you?  

Such a Fungi!

Well, looking on the bright side – he turned up. As for the rest, I don’t think so. Don't get me wrong - he was a nice person, but I just don't want to be the responsible adult all the time. 


It all seems to be a matter of extremes where I’m concerned. One minute it all goes pear-shaped with someone who is afraid of long words and the odd metaphor, the next minute I’m in the presence of a practically Nobel Prize winning super-brainy scientist, but nevertheless someone who is remarkably childlike.  And, what is worse, someone who has yet to learn that, according to internet dating etiquette, you don’t immediately ask if your date wants to see you again: you go home and write a message. Like normal people.

And so it is that I find myself having said yes to another date that I absolutely don’t want to go on. Oops! It’s not as if I haven’t said no before on numerous occasions, this case being the most notable, but he was so diffident and yet puppy-dog eager that I couldn’t find the euphemisms to convey the no word.  

Anyway, he wasn't for me for a number of reasons. I could overlook the fact that he was six years younger; I could overlook that he had young children (been there, done that); but I couldn't overlook that each time I gazed into his eyes this is what I saw. Only fatter, rounder and greyer, and just a few inches short of seven foot tall. 

This is because when I was at uni I shared a flat in a hall of residence with two microbiologists. We called them Mr and Mrs Mushroom; they lived in a room in which the curtains were never opened and from which emanated pungent aromas of the fungal kind. Other than going to lectures, Mr and Mrs hardly ever emerged and seemed to do everything else that might have meant coming into contact with other people (e.g. cooking in the communal kitchen) in the dead of night. But quite the most fascinating thing about them was the noise they made. The rest of the flat sharers - six of us - would pile up on the bed of Mr and Mrs Mushroom’s next-door neighbour (should you ever come across this blog… Hi Aled! Did you ever resolve your sheep issues?), put glasses to the wall and try to figure out what exactly was going on. Weeeeeell… we were nosy and stupid young, naïve… Always willing to take the mick to learn.

Her: Mia-ooooooow...

Him: Woof! Woof!

Her: Mia-ooooooow...

Him: Woof! Woof!

Her: Miiiiii-aaaaaaia–ooooooooooooooow. Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Him: Woof. Sniffle. Woof, woof.

And so on and so forth, all resulting in massive crashing about and then rhythmic pounding noises which we assumed was them at it, having completed the, ahem, imaginative foreplay. 

Ah, halcyon days.


I wonder if I can bring myself to do it? Hang on… Miii-aaa-ooooow… Purrrrrrr... Mi-a-oow. Nah, not a Cousine Bette kind of scenario really, is it? 

Oh bugger! I do soooo hope he finds someone more interesting – and quick! Oh, wait a minute! Stella has three pussies... 


What do you think? A bit of recycling again?

New Set, All Set!

Woop! Woop! No more Post Traumatic Dental Disorder.


Look what I've got! 

Finally, the bridge has arrived and been installed. My teeth feel all smooth and porcelainy and lovely. Goodbye Abe! Which is very handy for tomorrow's date with the tall chap. I'm feeling so perky that I may just have to initiate some snogging. I'll bring one of these just in case. ;) 

You know what - well, I'll tell ya. Here you go.

And here's a little gift for someone and someone else.

The 'Stella Is An Even Bigger Prat Than I Am' Story

Stella was having what you might call a stressy day. Her daughter’s car had packed up, so Stella was driving her around hither and yon, having completely gotten out of the habit of being chauffeur. At the same time she had her own To Do List to accomplish. On top of this she has several major deadlines coming up, personal and professional, which involve loads of work and organisation. And she’s also about to move, so her place is stacked to the roof with packing cartons. She's a busy woman. 

Anyway, her mobile rang. She was going to ignore it, too much to do, but quickly glanced at who was calling - Paul. Oh Paul! A potential date with whom she’d been in serious-ish, normal cyber conversation for a few evenings, chat that had culminated in a bit of flirty banter a couple of nights ago during which he said he’d get in touch by phone to arrange a date. They hadn’t talked the evening before because he’d been at his friend’s stag do.

Her: Hi Paul.

Him: Hi Stella.

Her: Nice to hear from you. Have you recovered?

Him: Er? What? Yes, I suppose I have. Are you busy or can we have a chat?

Her: Well, I am busy, but for you, I can always make myself very, very unbusy. (I can almost hear that cheeky, sexy voice she puts on…) What exactly do you have in mind, hun? (I know, I know – hun – I’ll have to speak to her about that…)

Him: We need to talk about a time.

Her: Hehe! For you - any time!

Him: Er… OK. Thank you. When would be convenient?

Her:  That depends on what you want to do, where you want to do it and how much time it might take.

Him: Sorry? I want to come round to your place, of course.

Her: Oh now, hey! I think you may be getting a little ahead of yourself there, don’t you? I’m not saying it’s completely out of the question, maybe, one day, but for the first time it’s not something I’d planned on.

Him: What? There’s got to be a first time. I can understand your not wanting to do it, but the sooner we start the better. You don’t have to put yourself out - tidy and clean will do.

Her: Oh dear. I think you have misunderstood me entirely. I’m not that kind of woman. I’d love to go for a coffee with you or maybe even dinner, but anything else at the moment is out of the question. Really. I’m sorry if I made you think otherwise.

Him: Stella, do you know who you are talking to?

Her: Yes, of course I do. Paul.

Him: Yes, Paul. Paul Barrington? The lettings agent? I’ve got some new tenants I need to show round…

Paul Barrington. The lettings agent. Last time she’d seen him at the agency he’d had a cold and was busy snotting it up into a tissue. 65 if he’s a day, 17 stone if he’s a pound. Probably never been on an internet dating website in his life.

PMSL!

Just how many Pauls does she have in that smart phone of hers? 

Where's Roy Orbison When You Need Him?

Here! Go on, open it on another page - you know you want to! 

Have you missed me? Time to face facts! This is sooooo never going to happen - a shag or owt else by the look of it. But the thing is – I’ve promised myself I’m going to keep writing this blog until it does happen, so I simply have to persevere. We could be here some time. folks! 

I can’t wait to tell you what the deal-breaker with Mike was. Are you ready for it?

Holding your breath?

Well, I’ll tell you. It was the fact that I use long words sometimes. Can you believe it? I mean – big deal! I also use very short words (mainly of the s**t, c**p, poo, f**k variety – apologies to anyone who hasn’t heard those words before: I only ever use them if I drop something on my foot – honest!) I think Mike also misunderstood some of the, ahem, ‘poetry’ in my soul. I guess it might be frightening; and by poetry I mean anything that is not spelt out word by word, syllable by syllable, letter by letter. It is probably a ‘man’ thing: they are such simple creatures at heart. All of them. Every single last one.

Now I know I said this might turn out to be a very philosophical post; I thought I was going to drone on about examine La Condition Humaine, loneliness and what prevents us from taking risks. But happily for you, my dear friends, family and followers - I’ve rallied as usual.

I am back on the website and busy sorting. So far, four potentials, of which one is a super brainy giant, and hundreds of thousands of many total idiots. 

PS I have had another date in between, but I can’t possibly tell you a thing about him because - you’ll never guess what – he sussed my nom de plume about two weeks ago. I tell you what – I nearly passed out when he sent me a one line email with just my name and a question mark. I was like this    

for about fifteen minutes. I’m fairly sure he hasn’t read any of these blogs, otherwise why would he still have come on that date? And he didn’t mention the blogs on the date itself. So anyway… erm, he’s a very nice guy. That’s just in case, like. And I like him. We’ll keep it to that, shall we? ;) 

You Never Do Stop Learning

So.

Let me clarify the Mike situation. At first it seemed as if we were going to have another date. Then it didn’t. Then it did. Then it didn’t. Then – hang on – which day of the week are we now? There may very well be some more did and didn’ts in there. We appear to have some kind of weird hiccup going on in the emails/texts between us and frankly I haven’t got a clue what is going on. Therefore, let us just put that to the side at the moment. One way or another it will be resolved, and you shall be the first to know. Honest! And possibly in a gigantic philosophical post, so get the coffee, biscuits and tissues ready…

Suffice to say – the bridge fiasco in itself did not contribute to the hiccup.  

But in the meantime, I have had an epiphany and I don’t know why it has taken me so long to work this out: I must be (almost) irredeemably thick. I’ve always thought that the cougar chasers’ line of ‘Age is just a number’ was a six foot high heap of horse manure, whether as a chat up line or a long term proposition. After all, who wants to be forced into giving her partner history lessons on who David Cassidy was?  

But take away some of what makes us human - reason, intelligence, society – and reduce two people to two animals, seeking one another's warmth, or huddled together against the barren, piercing cold of winter, and age does indeed become just a number.

This has nothing to do with Mike, by the way; he’s older than I am. And yet it does.

That’s all I have to say on the subject. For now. I think. 

When You're Deaf, Keep It Buttoned Part 2

It started so very well. Mike and I met at our designated place. He looked exactly as I'd remembered him all four days ago - not lip-licking scrummy, but something kind of appealing around the eyes.

What I haven’t told you is that what I'd referred to minimalistically as a temporary crown was, in fact, a temporary bridge, an appliance made necessary by my darling children donkeys' years ago when I was still suffering from a three year bout of chronic Lovely Mushy Mummy Syndrome. I’d had two of the annoying little buggers dear sweet things on my knees, one in front of the other, and was jigging them up and down on my lap whilst singing them some dorky song. A word of caution - never stimulate a male of any age in any way – it will all end in tears. As it did in my case. The child in the front got a bit giddy, slammed his head into the kid at the back who slammed his head into my teeth – the front one of which went flying to the back of my throat. The only thing that could be done was to file down the teeth on either side, vampire style, to accommodate a bridge.

Now it just so happened that a few days before the date with Mike, I'd severely chipped said bridge whilst opening a beer bottle at a Hell's Angels rally in Brighton. Oops, sorry!  Unreliable narrator moment there! Where was I? …whilst trying to disengage the vacuum packaging from a halogen light bulb. (Spit, grumble, mumble, moronic designers...) The bridge had to be replaced before it crumbled. The dentist said it would be TWO WEEKS before the cruddy temporary plac contraption could be exchanged for my brand new set of gleaming porcelain gnashers. Such is the state of dentistry in the UK: you give them hundreds of thousands of pounds for their craptastic service, they inform you 'two weeks minimum' without so much as apologising that you’re going to resemble Abraham Lincoln for the next fourteen days.

When Mike had pushed for an early date and I’d said I’d rather not because of the crown, I thought the white lie would be irrelevant because he wouldn’t see me anyway. But the Abe look might be harder to disguise...

We caught up on the week over starters. He didn’t seem to be peering at my mouth as I fluttered my eyelashes in a feeble attempt to look alluring. He had, after all, said he needed  a correction to his laser eye treatment. For the main course I’d chosen some fancy chicken salad. What I hadn’t banked on was that the chef also needed some laser eye correction. Don’t ask me how it happened – I have no idea. I’d already eaten about three quarters of the salad, chewing with my molars mainly, when I chomped into what was supposed to be chicken breast; but it was a bone. It dislodged the bridge. I put my hand over my mouth in a sort of ‘I'm listening intently to everything you're saying’ kind of way, made captivated (sic) eyes at him as he spoke, all the while surreptitiously trying to put the bridge back in place with my tongue. But the more I fiddled with it, the looser it became until finally the bloody, sodding, shitty piece of British-made rubbish slid off altogether. 

In the meantime, Mike, who’d been telling me about his time in the Falklands, asked me whether I remembered where I was when I heard the Belgrano had sunk  – the usual stuff of second dates, I should imagine. Well, I couldn’t answer, could I? Not without revealing my predicament. He asked me again. I just grinned, closed-mouth, going “Mm. Hmm”. (I'm killing myself laughing here - there's just something gloriously absurd about the juxtaposition of discussing the Belgrano and my teeth falling out - go figure!) 

“Belgrano?” he said. “You do remember the Belgrano, don’t you?

Me still grinning like the village idiot after a three week bender. 

“Are you all right?" he asked finally.    

Aw, bugger and thod it! I thtood up, thaid “Ekthcuthe me for a thecond” and throde off to the Ladieth to thee whether thomething could be thalvaged from thith horrendouth thituation.

Once in the loo, I managed to stick the bridge back on the stumps. Of course - you won’t be surprised - not before another of the female diners walked in and caught me, toothless, rinsing it under the tap.

So, all in all, yeah. A brill evening. Thanks for asking. 

When You're Deaf, Keep It Buttoned

I knew it. I knew it! I shouldn’t have accepted the second date with Mike.

For fff’s sake. It’s awful, even nightmarish, I tell you. But, you know, I just can’t stop laughing about it – really I can't - eternal gratitude to Le bon Dieu and Monsieur Ionesco for a sense of the absurd. My latest episode may very well haunt me until my dying day - on a par with one of the other colossal faux pas in the Life and Times of a Utter Twerp. Lisez et pleurez. 

The previous one went a little like this. I was straight out of l’universite and attending an all day interview for the job of my dreams. It was one of those graduate milk-round situations where they invited the 25 short-listed candidates for the third stage. The idea was that each person would be grilled by members of various departments – a bit like a conveyor belt. I was the fifth from the end to go through the process. By the time I’d arrived back at the conference room, twenty of the others were already sitting at a table eating sandwiches and drinking coffee. I came in rather smug chuffed with how things had gone, sat down ready to stuff ma bouche, and caught the tail end of the conversation.

Oh the folly and the (moronic) confidence of youth! It must have been those giant shoulder pads that did it; Alexis Carrington has a lot to answer for. Was there anything I didn’t know about in those days? No. Was there anything I wasn’t prepared to share my opinion about? No. I’m clenching my buttocks at the recollection. Is my face bright purple? Oy vay iz mir. Mega vay. 

Come on, CB, tell ‘em. Be authentic. Share and reveal your mind-boggling pratitude.

For some inexplicable reason, the crowd seemed to be having a go at the works of Picasso. I thought they were all Philistines and launched in to defend him, saying the man was an unparalleled genius  - oh family, friends and followers, I can barely go on –  my throat’s constricting; that he was perhaps misunderstood, that… oh well, never mind. I’m feeling a tad nauseous again. I went on. And on. In all this time, I only used pronouns i.e. he, him, his. What I hadn’t noticed was that everyone, candidates and interviewers alike, were gawping at me as if I’d been released from Bedlam way before the medication had kicked in. Blithely I spewed forth, convinced they’d all be staggered by my knowledge and reasoning. And of course, I’d be the one to get the job.  Of course!

Well, I’ll tell you that I didn’t get the job. And I’ll tell you pourquoi, but before I do so, this is the lesson that I learnt. KEEP YOUR TRAP SHUT WHEN YOU HAVEN’T GOT THE VAGUEST IDEA OF WHAT’S GOING ON! AND LISTEN! Oh - and always make sure you’ve made good use of the Q tips before you leave the house. (Actually, let’s face it – I never did learn any of those lessons. Not in their entirety, like.)  

It was only beaucoup plus tard, when my brain caught up with my gallivanting gob, that it finally dawned on me they hadn’t been discussing Picasso at all. No, it was someone completely different. I had, in fact, spent ten minutes championing and extolling the virtues of Jean-Bedel Bokassa, head of the Central African Republic from about 1966 to 1979, a dictator who massacred men, women and children. Yes, a mass murderer and apparently, ooh -  doncha just lerve him -  my hero.

Ground. Take my feet first and suck the rest in quick.

You can read about my sweetheart here.

Anyway, when Mike asked whether I wanted that second date for dinner a deux, I said that I’d love to... anytime next week. “Next week?” he said, as if I’d just cancelled the next ten year's worth of Grand Prix. “Can’t you make it any sooner?” Well I could, in theory, but I didn’t want to. Do you remember the teensie weensie microscopic white lie I told here? Well, it was another of those situations.

This time, however, I thought I’d come clean. After all, look where the last one got me, bloody nowhere. I told him I’d rather not because I was having a temporary crown fitted and wouldn't be at my usual spectacularly pulchritudinous best. The man’s a grown-up (have I already mentioned that?); he said “Not to worry. You can order semolina and drink it through a straw. Come anyway. Please.”

I noticed his profile didn’t use the oft quoted knicker-wettingly hilarious line ‘I have all my own teeth’, so I guess he understood. 

Anyway, put like that, dear followers, how could I refuse?  

Meanwhile Back at the Ranch...

I've made a date with one of the other three. We spoke on the phone for about an hour. He's really entertaining and a good conversationalist. And let me tell you why I shall be going on a date with him.  


Never in a million years would I ever entertain a relationship with him: he is just not my type. Hence, I am not being remotely 'unfaithful'. I'm so glad. So very, very glad. I shan't be visiting the convent for a quick confession after all.  


But wait, er, um, oh no! There's something wrong with this too! Is it morally right to go on a date anyway, thereby giving someone else a moment of hope and also wasting their time, even if you know absolutely nothing is going to come of it? 


Mon Dieu, c'est vraiment trop difficile! 

Au secours! TK Maxx Syndrome Revisited

Oh, bugger! Oh, sod it! It's a calamity, I tell you.


Now what the hell am I going to do?


You know when I told you about my lovely evening gown... I wasn't exactly telling you the whole truth; I was being a bit of an, ahem, unreliable narrator... Qui? Moi? Yes, me. You may have noticed that I sometimes embellish just a weansie bit; well, this time I pared. 


It would appear that decent, pleasant men are like buses - you stand there for ages getting wet, cold, windblown, with your mascara dribbling down your face as you stare hopelessly into the distance, and then, lo and behold, several all at the same time.


Or, indeed, men are not only like buses - also very much like TK Maxx garments. The evening dress was part of a collection. For the first time ever in my entire life, what I dropped in the trolley actually fitted and looked good. Some of it was a tad too young for me, but it appears I can get away with it, still, even at my advanced age in my decrepitude. Tight white jeans? Sure! Why not? From the back they look fantastic. Summer floral frock - a bit too girlie for me - but I can manage it if I fake-tan my legs. 


So. What am I now expected to do with this?


The nice date I mentioned last week turned out to be a very nice date. Let's call him Mike. Lovely. I laid my cards on the table - told him about the Warts, the Rasta pubes, the Chicken pubes, the Whiskers, the Lower Abdominal Disaster, the Saggy Boobs (which perhaps he had clocked anyway - the man's not picky. Thank you, God!), and how often the fire alarm goes off in my house because I AM NOT INTERESTED IN COOKING (have I perhaps mentioned that before? Let me reiterate - I DO NOT WANT TO BE A HOSTESS!)


Erm, what else -  oh yes, the fact that I'm like a self-inflating dinghy - one minute everything around me looks neat and tidy, the next minute me and all my rubbish appear to have filled the room to the cornices. If you're wondering why I feel the need to divulge this minor peccadillo of mine, it's because as far as ex forces people are concerned, their reaction to this news is an extremely accurate measure of the calibre of their interest and devotion. When they've spent 20 odd years cramming their life into a kitbag, the thought of a 5'6'' exploding puffball is enough to give most of them a nervous breakdown and a debilitating outbreak of hives.


I gave him a gazillion chances to wiggle out of that second date, but no - he was having none of it. He's already pulled his profile. Gulp! He thinks I am the bee's knees and the cat's pyjamas. Which, of course, I am. But only to those people who have loved me since childhood and have learned to live with my 'little disgusting endearing ways'. I wish us both luck, but principally him. But you know, looking on the bright side, if he's coped with the horrors of war and chucking himself out of aeroplanes, he'll probably cope with me. Maybe. Perhaps. For a second date at least.


But ha! Meanwhile back at the ranch...What did I do last week thinking that probably (as usual) nothing would come of this? Yes, I booked in a few more, just in case. Because I'm not getting any younger and Stella was right about the bloody moustache - it grows back with a vengeance and spreads. Fortunately, Mike did say that he'd had his eyes lasered 15 years ago, and they now needed some correction. So, phew - a reprieve - safe there for a while, visually if not physically! Hmm... I'll have to remember what 'coy' looks like if, ahem, the need arises before the next threading.


Anyway, now I've got several moral dilemmas. I've always hated choice; it makes me giddy. There are three other gentlemen in my trolley. (Mike wasn't among them - he'd already been hanging in my wardrobe for over two weeks before I met him.) And so far, they are all extremely gorgealicious, in very different ways, and dates were lined up, and actually I'd really like to meet them all, if only because they sound like fab, groovy people. But Mike has pulled his profile - he's a strictly one at a time kind of person. And that is what I am too, really, fundamentally, deep down, at the core, beneath the several layers of wanting to meet the other people anyway...


And morally, it seems to me, I am obliged to go and meet them all - don't you think? To quote Mammy from Gone with the Wind  "It ain't fittin'. It just ain't fittin'" to make and agreement and renege on it.


And here is the bizarre thing that I am almost absolutely positively certain that I'm not sure that I'm wrong about: Mike is seriously solid, safe and capable, one day, of cherishing a misanthropic flake like me.


Oh, sod it. Bugger! Sod it! Poo poo!


PS Something is going horrendously askew here. I thought the purpose of writing this blog was to chronicle the journey of my getting a shag to improve my complexion. What's with all this 'cherishing' nonsense? Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! Somebody help me. I need advice or a slap or something. 


PPS And breathe... It's only a second date, you silly bint. Mike'll get instantly disillusioned and the other three won't turn up. Not long till I'm back in the comfort zone then. ;)

Whhooaahh! Hold your fondue set!

So, this person had been pursuing me for some time – I knew it was hopeless though - nothing in his profile had given me any cause to salivate - and I hadn’t given him any encouragement whatsoever. He was five years older, so within my age range, and sounded as if he wasn’t strapped for cash, possibly even a little plummy. Polite refusals hadn't worked - he’d got a bee in his bonnet (me) and wasn't going to give in. Finally, essentially to convince him, I agreed to a phone call.

Him: You sound quite intelligent from your profile.

Me: Thank you.

Him: Do you like cooking?

Me: No, my profile quite clearly states I do not like cooking. I dreamt up healthy, nourishing meals -- always from scratch -- for 25 years on a daily basis, and it no longer gives me any thrills. On the other hand, I enjoy eating. And I enjoy feeding.

Him: What does that mean?

Me: It means I enjoy people coming to my house to eat. I look in the cupboards and fridge, see what’s available, throw things together, put whatever emerges down in front of them and tell them to tuck in. I don’t like following recipes.

Him: Hmm. Well, maybe that won’t be a problem because I can cook.  But, you do cook, don’t you?

Me: Yes, I do. But I would always rather be the sous chef these days. 

Him: And you seem to have many interests, so presumably you can hold your own in most situations.

Me: On the whole, I don’t have many problems.

Him: Hmm. Yes, I suspect you are more intelligent than me.

Me: I really don’t know and can’t say.

Him: Yes, I think you are. Pauses as if in thought. I think you’d probably make a very good hostess. You’d be able to maintain conversations. And talk to people on any topic, I should think.

Eh? Poor deluded man – how the hell did he work that out? The older I get, I’ve discovered, the less I know about anything whatsoever. Huge wads of stuff completely passed me by while I was being a mother of young children; I expect there was the odd war or something. Did anything happen in the early 90s that didn't involve poo or Lego? Must google! On the plus side, I can quote Cat in the Hat verbatim - not sure that would be of any use to anyone these days, particularly in a dinner party setting.  

But – hey there! Wait a minute!

Whhhhhooooooaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!

A very good hostess?

That nearly passed me by. A very good hostess?

So, the person he is looking for must be a very good hostess. For his dinner parties. For his friends, colleagues, acquaintances – whoever. Don your pinny and make sure everybody’s glass is full.

FFFs! This is not in my master plan! Do I want that to be on my Bucket List? And on my death bed, seconds away from the final croak, surrounded by my super family, friends and followers, do I want to look back and leave them with nothing but this to ponder for the rest of their lives, ‘Oh yes, my dears, je ne regrette rien. I was, after all, a very good hostess.’

I think not!

Is it an age thing I wonder? I later asked a very lovely friend who's forty and also single what his requirements were as far as a relationship was now concerned. It took him precisely two seconds to reply. "Fun," he said. From being a pleasant looking kind of guy he miraculously transformed himself into the most gorgeous male I'd ever laid eyes on.

Which makes me wonder... I am looking at the wrong age group altogether?

Is this really me? And where’s the flippin' gravy?!?

Next!

*wanders off mumbling and grumbling ‘A hostess... Meh! Ridiculous… Granny Clampett, maybe… Jessica Rabbit, maybe…* 

Shopping at TK Maxx

One of the drawbacks of internet dating websites is that it’s a bit like schlepping round TK Maxx; you have to have an eagle eye, plenty of time and oodles, bundles, bucketsful of stamina and massive renewable dollops of crazy optimism.  

In TK Maxx you're only allowed six items in the changing room. Unfortunately, because the garments are sourced from all over the world, the sizes are also all over the place. What can be a 12 in Marks and Spencer can just as easily be a size 20 or an 8 in TK Maxx. The shop also stocks some pretty outrageous styles (read – prototypes that never got as far as the production line because they were fundamentally flawed in the design), and you never know what may or may not work. Hence, you simply have to try on all those sodding bits of horrendous schmatta to find the jewel in the crown... Erm, OK, that doesn't quite work, but it is the middle of night, guys! Give me a break! 

So you take a trolley and meander through the aisles, dropping all manner of highly unlikely or dodgy stuff into it in the (deluded) hope that one measly thing might look tolerably OK, might fit and not have split hems or a broken zip, could co-ordinate with something you've already got; or that the ridiculous frill will, in fact, provide the unexpected WOW factor. (Does this sound familiar, dear fellow internet daters? Bear with me.)

On this occasion, I get to the fitting room, take out the permitted number of garments and begin the laborious (not to mention often depressing) process of choosing. In thirty minutes that seem like three hours, of the six items I’ve hoiked on and off, one is very, very fabulous. Almost (mildly) uberfabulous - mustn't get excited... Maybe not gorgeous in itself, but seems comfortable, makes me feel great, sends a frisson about toutes les possibilites, gives me a spring in my step and a little wiggle in my ample hips. Ooh, I’m younger already! Only problem - when will I ever wear it? There may be an event coming up shortly, but maybe not. It’s not of my usual world, considering my loathing of the stuff that goes with it i.e. high heeled shoes and standing up straight, but I’ve bought it anyway… What do you think? 

So it’s going to hang in the wardrobe where I’ll look at it from time to time. Of course, I’d like to wear it as soon as I possibly can, but for the moment I’ll have to content myself with all the other tired old rubbish in my drawers.  

Tu parles francais?

On verra.

;)

And what did Stella say? I'll tell you what she said. She said that I need look no further than directly above my head. Mon dieu! Qu'est-ce que c'est? C'est rose, c'est grand, c'est quelque chose qui grogne. Meh! She can be such a killjoy! I bet you didn't know she can speak French too, did you?  


A little something for Jody.

Scum And Other Animals

I really don’t want to tell you this story because I’d prefer to keep this blog light and frothy, tell you stories about my warts, Rasta pubes or musings on the benefits of burkhas. Fun and drivel. Sadly, however, sometimes it just can’t be. Those of you who have never had to endure some of the horrors of meeting people via the internet, probably can’t imagine that this stuff happens to ‘normal’ people, probably can’t imagine how you’d react.  

Stella turned up yesterday, hot-cross-bun-less and not wearing make-up. Something was clearly up. She dropped herself onto the conservatory sofa and grunted. Better make a cup of tea, I thought. I tiptoed about the kitchen waiting for her to speak. Nothing. I made the cup of tea and placed it in front of her. Nothing. Eventually, since the softly, softly approach was getting me nowhere, I ventured "What’s up?"

"Men," she said. "Bloody men."

Oh that! Why didn’t you say so in the first place? 

"What about them?"

"You’ll never believe what happened to me yesterday."

I thought "I expect I will". Best just to let her get it out of her system. 

"I mean – what is it about me?" she said. "What the hell am I doing wrong? I’m straight-forward, fun, relatively intelligent, honest, hard-working. I scrub up well, know how to behave in all walks of life. And yet..."

"And yet what?" I said. 

"Last night, I let somebody IM me again," she said. "Actually, I just wanted a chat, and I didn’t want to call you coz you said you were going to have an early night. I was wide awake, I’d been working on the computer and I was feeling sort of lonely."

Ah, I could see where this was going.

She went on. "I’m not saying I was entirely blameless; it does serve me right… a bit. But only because I should have learned my lesson from last time. But, you know, you keep thinking, hoping against hope that people are going to be OK. Oh anyway, the long and the short of it, Bette, is that the guy asked me if I wanted to see him in the pop up, I said no, but he still put his web cam on and there’s he was in front of me - wanking." 

There was a sadness and disappointment about her; probably as a result of that last fiasco with the Market Research Guy. It wasn’t that she was shocked or outraged by what he did. Who cares? People do it. But here was a Stella I hadn’t seen before; her optimism had somehow been raped. 

And I just wanted to smack the douchebag, arsehole, fuckwit. Sorry about the language - I’m feeling extraordinarily angry on her behalf. Because for all that I sometimes portray her as pushy and gobby and out-there in this blog, she’s got a heart of gold, is one of the most considerate people I know, is a super mum whose kids (despite my silly digs at them) are a real credit to her, and has so much life, stamina and adventure in her that any man should think himself bloody grateful to have her. 

"Sod it," she said after a couple of minutes of staring out into my garden. "Where's your Ipod? Stick it on." She scrolled down, picked up my orange highlighter, put it to her lips and began to sing to this. Irrepressible - thank God!  

I can’t say that I would be quite so bothered if this scenario had happened to me, well, not after my recent KUTA and the guy on the mobile. I’m learning too. I think I'm almost at the point of being able to treat it like any another David Attenborough documentary - a brief glimpse at an animal in its own habitat. 

Meanwhile, I do believe I have a rather lovely date coming up shortly; I don't quite know why but I feel really good about it. (Kiss of death?) Also, Stella has recycled one of her ex dates onto the same friend I recycled my ex date on. The system is working well. ;)