Friday 17 May 2013

A little dispirited

A little dispirited by my long weekend with the dyspeptic oaf, it is clear that I’m going to have to cast my net back into the dating pool and see if I can land a less flatulent beau. I have decided to go down the online route in my search for love and companionship.

The first obstacle to overcome is actually creating a dating profile and it’s surprisingly difficult.  I have up to 2000 words to talk about me and state the qualities I’m looking for in a partner - that’s a huge amount of writing in which to incriminate myself.  Like applying for a job, I need to describe the aspirational me, not the permanently knackered, Weetabix encrusted working mother who will cut your steak up during a romantic meal and check you’ve been to the toilet before we leave the restaurant. I take a look at what other women in my age bracket are writing.

Some are terrifyingly honest and prescriptive in their approach and go as far as listing all the traits in a man which they would find undesirable such as "I’m sick of liars, cheats and men who mess me around". "I’m told I can be quite abrasive when you first meet me" and "I’m a very guarded person who doesn’t suffer fools gladly". The other end of the scale seems to be a whole genre of free-spirited, feathery sounding women with a penchant for dancing in the rain and careering through the countryside in Cath Kidston campervans.  I’m not sure where I feature on this scale – I’m fairly uncompromising with idiots but I’m also quite partial to a spot of bunting should the occasion require it.  And whether in a back garden in Salford or a tropical downpour on a beach in Phuket, dancing in the rain is a sure-fire recipe for hypothermia.  Travelling seems to be another big theme – so many people out there have an unquenchable thirst for discovery and describe, in detail worthy of The Lonely Planet, the far flung parts of the world they’ve journeyed to. I consider myself fairly well travelled but the reality is that I have two small children, limited funds and a full time job – trekking through the Pays Dogon in Mali is not really an option at the moment.
 
I opt for summing myself up in about 300 words and posting a smiley snap taken on a summer’s day.  I appear to have no eyebrows and my face is a bit scrunched up from the sun but I figure that it is better to under promise. Imagine how pleased my date will be when I turn up with finely arched eyebrows and an unpuckered face. Posting a heavily photo-shopped picture in a sex kitten pose seems to be inviting disappointment.  On the characteristics I’m looking for in a partner, I’m not too demanding. I mention something about someone needing to enjoy family life – the truth of the situation is that my children are the priority in my life now and they will continue to be so.  Joyfully, within hours of posting my profile I start to receive some "likes". I have to double check the site to make sure I haven’t signed up to some sort of serial killer ‘tips swapping’ forum.  To a T, my suitors look like murderers.  Some have severe mug shots, others have artfully posed pictures, but whether stony faced or smiling maniacally, I don’t like what I’m looking at. The descriptions are baffling and I wonder whether many of the features they’ve listed are just code for something else.

HemisphereDancer says he has an irreverent sense of humour and a gleam in his eye.  Does that indicate a keenness for the Vicar of Dibley, or is ‘irreverent’ more your Roy Chubby Brown end of comedy?  Norman Bates had a gleam in his eye and look where flirting with him ended up. CaringKing states that he is uninhibited, open and open-minded.  I take it that means we’d be cruising round Southend of a weekend, looking for dogging sites.  DeeDog is 12 years younger than I am and describes himself as a professional philosopher and comedian.  I’ve been acquainted with several comedians in the past and they were mostly self-absorbed and oddly bitter, particularly about other comedians.  Dating a comic isn’t the laugh a minute fun-fest you might imagine.  There are more suitors who, whilst not indicating signs of psychopathy, poor taste or dubious sexual practice, just seem dull.

One such chap who I’ve cast aside as lacklustre, is flagged up by my colleague Paul as a potential hot date.  Apparently I’ve been looking at this all wrong. This is partially because when confronted by staid and sedate men, I can come over as a bit Rizzo from Grease.  It’s desperately immature of me but I’ve never accepted that it’s hip to be square and still require a man to have a modicum of cool.  Geeky is fine. In fact, geeky is hugely sexy.  But a boffin in slacks with a fondness for botany probably wouldn’t tempt me.  I’d be seeking out kicks like a disaffected teenager, belting out ‘There are worse things I could do’ in a heartbeat.

Paul persuades me that I should give Dave65 a second look.  He is a scientist and lecturer but I concede that I could help him pick out a more modish trouser.  Through a gentle correspondence, it turns out we have a place in common as he used to be a coastguard where my grandmother lives. A coast guard! I thought they were all 80 with faces like walnuts, monitoring the seas through binoculars.  It seems I am mistaken.  He enquires of my passions, hopes and dreams and it takes a lot of self-control not to give silly or glib answers.  I do however, detect some humour and warmth in his writing and the idea of a relationship with a cerebral but earthy lover becomes rather thrilling.

This blog first appeared as a column in a selection of North London magazines, including Crouch End Connection with illustrations by renowned cartoonist Neil Kerber.

Starting Over


I’m not going to lie to you; the prospect of dating again in my 40s is more than a bit terrifying.  It oc­curs to me that I haven’t actually been on a date in this century.

The last time I was ‘out there’ Jarvis Cocker was imploring me to meet up in the year 2000 and I didn’t have to rely on undergarments that resemble scaffolding.  The rules must have changed somewhat and I am no Carrie Bradshaw.  For a start my wardrobe doesn’t contain a Roberto Cavalli evening dress and I don’t remember a single epi­sode of Sex and the City where Mr Big had to share Carrie’s bed with Clive and Germaine Billabong and other orphaned members of the Sylvanian Families.

Though I am slightly cheered by Caitlin Moran’s observation; once you’ve made it to the bedroom and events are gathering apace, a man wouldn’t be put off if you leapt between the sheets wearing a snor­kel and flippers.  I’m sophisticated enough to know that I might need to put a little extra effort into my seduction routine but how much? 21st century grooming seems to entail a world of pain and having suffered two excruciating and quite frankly barbaric labours, under­going a Brazilian is a deal breaker.  Fact: enduring immense pain does not harden you to it. Your toler­ance is significantly lowered and my threshold is now tested by eyebrow plucking.  And pain isn’t just physical.  Has the demise of my marriage left me with enough emo­tional resilience to withstand the inevitable exposure to the thun­dering ass clowns I’m likely to meet when I embark on my search for love and companionship?  Clearly I’m going to have to approach the process with a slightly open mind and even be prepared to kiss a few frogs and/or ass clowns.

For another perspective, I down­load ‘a guide to dating over 40’ onto my Kindle.  It seems sensible enough, written by two UK psycho­therapists who’ve found love later in life.  The first phrase that jars is that I’m apparently now in “mid-life”.  This of course is just a kinder way of saying ‘middle aged’ and whilst I’m no longer on the guest lists of London’s hippest club nights, I’m not shuffling round Sainsbury’s eyeing up elasticated waists and slankets. But the book does reas­sure me that internet dating is a to­tally feasible way for a 41 year old woman to browse the market.

Before I sign up for this though, I have one other avenue to pursue.  In the distant past I really did make a pact with an ex-lover that if we found ourselves single in our 40s, we should seek each other out.  When I last met Adam he was off to live in Indonesia with his new bride.  A search through Facebook reveals that he’s single once more and resides, for at least part of the year, in Essex. It’s encouragingly easy to get back in touch with him, and before too long we are ex­changing daily emails and catching up on the last 17 years.

Rekindling a lost relationship proves hard going and despite a series of pleasant dinners, there don’t seem to be any obvious signs of romance.  It feels a bit damp somehow and not in a remotely exciting way.  Quite unintentionally I agree to go on a mini-break and before I can back pedal, I’m trundling my trolley suitcase through Stansted bound for a boutique hotel in the heart of Andalucia.

Flickers of doubt at the wisdom of this trip start to re-surface at the car rental desk. Adam pomp­ously quizzes the attendant on the torque and fuel capacity of our pre-booked car and the keys to our Fiat Punto are handed over. Within moments of leaving Malaga airport, we are lost.  We stay lost for hours, filling the missing years of our relationship with almost two decades worth of arguments, dead ends, frustration, road blocks, pot­holes and recrimination.  It’s like a speeded up film of a marriage with the precious moments of joy and togetherness edited out.  I don’t think we like each other very much.  Four hours of being imprisoned in an airless tin has also revealed my date has problems of a bilious na­ture.  It begins with a cheery “par­don me, better out than in” but as we travel blindly through the Anda­lucian countryside, my senses are assaulted by a volley of burps and guffs, ranging from mildly disgusting to the full on Barney Gumble belch. It appears I am stuck in Spain with a dyspeptic oaf.

The hotel however, is beautiful.  I resolve to forget the preceding un­pleasantness and try and enjoy the break.  The next day we visit the Alhambra, a journey undertaken in furious silence, punctuated by deep sighs from Adam.  The reason for this appears to be that I had the audacity to phone my children. “This trip was a mistake” he barks.  I can’t deny it. I attempt chit chat but the sighs become snorts and I find it easier to just ignore him.

I lose Adam at the Nasrid Palaces and enjoy it my own, soaking up the serenity.  I imagine the air thick with the scent of myrtle and the women of the Harem languishing by the ornamental pools.  What I actually breathe in is a waft of farm­yard and I realise Adam is beside me, crouching over an elaborate door knocker.  He attempts a weak joke based on his find but the at­mosphere is now poisoned, any glimmer of romance suffocated. I don’t even want to be his friend.  I consider that had our namesakes been miserably lost in the Garden of Eden with the original Adam guffing up the orchard, the human race might have turned out rather differently.

Next blog: internet dating – a dazzling array of unsuitable suitors.
 
 
This blog first appeared in 7 local magazines from MPC Publications, where "Starting Over - a saga of 21st century dating" is featured as a monthly column. http://www.mpcpublications.blogspot.co.uk/2013_04_01_archive.html