It’s been six months
now since I threw my divorcée’s bonnet into the dating ring and announced
myself as ready to move on and look for love. It’s fair to say that things
haven’t gone quite as I’d hoped. I’m sure the quest for romance was never this
difficult – in my youth there was barely a gap between one relationship ending
and me plunging headlong into another, entirely ridiculous dalliance with
someone reliably unsuitable. I’ve had my heart dashed to smithereens along the
way and dealt some cruel blows of my own to the most undeserving of fellows,
but whatever the status of my romantic life, it was at least moving.
Internet dating seems to promise so much but the endless
emails and phone calls that go nowhere are becoming tedious and my ability to
pick a wrong ‘un is impressive. I had plenty of reservations about getting back
out there, the sillier ones being that the pursuit of love in the 21st century
would entail Brazilians – painful waxes, not the inhabitants of the largest
country in Latin America – and, bumming. If you’re not familiar with the vernacular of
the latter, you can just infer what you like. I have a tale to tell with this disclosure, so
do bear with me.
For me, bumming is a bit like free form jazz; it sounds
discordant; I can’t feel the rhythm and the musicians seem to be playing
entirely for their own amusement. Given the choice, I’d rather not. So while
Kylie playfully informs us she likes “Spinning Around” and Grace Jones huskily
urges her baby to “Pull up to the Bumper”, I’m reassured by Meatloaf and his
promise - “I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that”. I’m pretty sure
that’s what his pledge is about anyway. So, thanks Meat, I’m glad to know you’ve
got my back.
With such thoughts pushed firmly to the back of my mind, I’d
been emailing earlier this month with a prospective date from my online site.
He seemed funny, friendly and down to earth and asked for my number. The call
started well - he was easy to talk to and we swapped views on the prospect of
starting over again in our forties. He was concerned with being older and not
as confident with his body – the whole having to show your bottom to someone
new scenario. I sympathised and floated my Brazilians and bumming fear. He took
a sharp intake of breath and then laughed loudly, proclaiming “God, I wish!”
Rather perplexed I asked if he was indeed approving of my two dealbreakers. “Yeah,
yeah, Brazilians and bumming – I’d love to get into that”. Maybe he
misunderstood and thought that’s what I was offering but I’ll make damned sure
I never discuss those particular qualms again.
The route to securing a date online seems to involve sharing
your entire history, intentions and catalogue of likes and dislikes. Perhaps
the people I’ve so far engaged with from behind the screen have been particularly
cautious but I feel sure the time spent getting to this point could have been circumvented
over a couple of glasses of pinot noir. Preferably in a bar located a few miles
from my home. I’ve come to the conclusion that dating ‘local’ people is a distinctly
bad idea. I don’t want to run into a disgruntled beau whilst stuck in a tailback
at Budgen’s. I once spent an entire year at work hiding in a cupboard from my
terrifying assistant Astrid. It would not be beyond me to hurl myself into a
carefully constructed display of teas to avoid confrontation– I’ve got form. I can of course understand the caution but
trying to deduce an attraction through a phone call is very difficult.
Having passed up the opportunity to ‘try new things’ with my
previous correspondent , I began trading emails with a promising Scottish
admirer, based in Hertfordshire. We got on brilliantly. He’d been a professional busker in
his younger days, touring Europe with a grand piano before falling madly in love
with his wife and becoming a strategy consultant. He had two boys, slightly
older than my daughters and a really fresh outlook on life. Abiding by my newly devised filtering system
he passed the popular culture test with flying colours and even admitted to
sounding like David Tennant. He’d already won me over at this point but that sealed the
deal and I gave him my mobile number. The
conversations we held on three consecutive nights were amongst the most
confusing I’ve ever had. As someone who once conducted a long distance love
affair with an Albanian goat-herd, that’s saying something. There are only so
many times you can say “sorry, I didn’t catch that” before you appear rude,
stupid or both so I just had to roll with it. I’m presuming at some point I
must have responded to a particularly tragic anecdote with inappropriate laughter
or an exclamation of “how amazing” because he didn’t call again and un-liked me
on the dating site. Perhaps I was hoist with my own petard and he’d been railing
against homophobia, racism and bigotry and I’d been giggling along, enthusing about
such attitudes. All I do know is this ‘getting to know you’ period is truly
joyless and I’m rubbish at it. I need to change my game plan and try a
different approach.
One option is relying on friends to open their little black
books of divorce-stricken, bereaved or terminally single men, requiring me to
be trotted out at social occasions like a slightly troublesome show pony. Another
route might be joining an actual dating agency. I’d assumed this activity took place
in the ‘Burbs and would entail meeting an awkward chap called Roy from Penge.
He would sport a mean side-parting, wear his trousers a couple of inches too
short and possibly carry a man bag. Maybe there is a Roy out there for me – I
will begin some agency research and see what’s on offer.
Next month: Getting
on a dating agency’s books
