Dances with Fleas!

'What's happening with the fleas?' asked a friend, in an email earlier today, after she'd admitted to crying with laughter at my sorry dating history!

'Hopefully they're dead,' I replied optimistically, having left them in the capable latex gloves of Stan and Tone of Pest Control, when I went to court this morning.

The whole business reminds me of a case I had several years ago at the Crown Court where a client, with an extreme aversion to soap, entered the dock at my local Crown Court charged with assaulting his step daughter...joined by the entire cast of Dancing with Fleas for moral support (mmm...nice)! 

Resplendent in a grubby anorak (style-circa. 1970), his star turn and lack of personal hygiene were not improved by the fact that a team of Premier league footballers, charged with match fixing, had just left the dock in a cloud of Armani aftershave and designer suits!

The court room had to be fumigated the following day ... I only hope the same isn't necessary after my appearance at court today!

Anyway, I digress....again...! Enough of the wildlife, and back to the dates (even though the two are often essentially interchangeable)! It really is time I told you about Mr. Dyson....this may take some time...

Mr. Socks!

Sitting writing this, I can see outside the French doors several fat orange blobs...

You'll be pleased to hear they aren't the remains of a recent perma-tanned, wannabe Romeo that I had the misfortune to date, although had I owned a shotgun on that occasion I may well have used it....but the remains of the slug colony that Mr. Dyson murdered on my instructions yesterday.

Due to their rather disconcerting colour, they also remind me of the episode concerning Mr. Socks.Have I told you about him....?

Mr. Socks is someone I've known for some time; he dated an acquaintance of mine many years ago (she married someone else, when he wouldn't commit! Red flags should have been waving madly at this juncture!).However, I bumped into him again only recently, having always thought him to be horribly handsome. After a few glasses of wine, he seemed irresistible...perfect even.

Yes, for a few dates, I considered Mr. Socks perfect...in a matching socks and pants kind of way. From the way his neatly manicured hands removed, folded and carefully placed his socks (that matched his jumpers) on the table, before getting into bed, I suspected he was not the sort of man whose washing machine ever produced odd socks or, for that matter, the sort of man who spontaneity came easily too. Wild uninhibited sex would clearly be out of the question!

Mmmm......lucky for him, life as he knew it, was about to get a whole lot more exciting. I was convinced I might even have him wearing odd socks after a few more dates, or at least socks that didn't match his jumpers! Sadly, it was not to be; whilst we did meet a few more times, I decided that despite his gleaming white veneers, seemingly year-round tan, and orange sock collection that, as it generally took him 2 days to return my calls, he was hardly that in to me, so called time. I am not in the business of chasing men, who are more interested in their golf clubs than me, these days...

Another date like that and the rest of the slugs will get it! Mr. Dyson still has his uses....

Love bites!

Lonely! Well that's something I'm definitely not at the moment! Despite the lack of success in my ongoing quest for a significant other, I have an unexpected army of guests staying with me at the moment...

Unexpected and uninvited...!

Whilst I'm very sociable, and have always adopted an open house policy, I am a little choosy about the company I keep. I am therefore somewhat disturbed, after the recent visit of my time-share Labrador, that Chez Daisy appears to have become infested by a circus of dancing fleas, alongside the slug colony already inhabiting the back garden! I'll be advertising as a wildlife park, and charging an entry fee, if this carries on!

Apparently fleas prefer dogs but, as my canine compatriot has left, they've settled for a human host instead! Don't worry guys, I don't have fleas....but my house, temporarily, does! Bet Blind Date is breathing a sigh of relief at this point, that he didn't get an invite to Chez Daisy...!

Apparently, fleas are very common this year as the weather is perfect for them! Marvellous! Not only do we get rained on all Summer, but we get to share our homes with teams of blood sucking acrobats...a very different take on love bites!

Pest Control Officers are coming to rescue me soon. Maybe I could contract them separately to deal with certain men of my acquaintance...now there's a thought!

A friend who manages an environmental health team elsewhere in the country has suggested I try and catch one (a flea, not a man-she knows that's a lost cause!), so they can be sure what they're dealing with. There's about as much chance of that as there is of me catching a great bloke on recent form...!

It could only happen to me....

Diet Coke Man!

I was chastised yesterday, by a friend, for regaling my dating experiences in such a chaotic fashion that I had yet to come back to many of the dates I'd mentioned in passing and tell you the full story.

So, in an attempt to redress my errant ramblings, I've made a list - Diet Coke Man, Mr. Dyson, Mr. Socks, Paris Match/The Beached Whale (now he's a good one, as he forms the basis for Hugh - the character in my first, yet to be published, novel - are there any literary agents reading this who fancy meeting for a coffee, or a Diet Coke for that matter?!), the other date involving flowers, Loves of my Life Marks III and IV and I promise to come back to them soon!

Diet Coke Man is a quick one, as was our one and only meeting - I was actually quite excited about him, not least because, from his photos, he could have done a passable audition for the role of the real Diet Coke Man as we all know him - tall, dark, devilishly handsome and beloved of women the world over...

My own Diet Coke Man didn't actually look like his photos (why, oh way do people do that), so we did not get off to a great start as I did not recognise him. When I finally identified my quarry, as he rose from his seat in the corner of the pub,and waved manically at me, my heart sank. The dashing man on water skis on his profile had metamorphosed into a caricature of the ultimate IT geek with, as it transpired, a personality to match...

It is fair to say that his sobriquet was only coined post-date, as the 62 minutes I spent with him, before I could politely effect my escape, were the longest two diet cokes of my life....NEXT!

Twittering...!

...follow me on Twitter @loveandlaw to be notified of latest posts, and anything else amusing that happens along the way! If you're enjoying what you read, please tell your friends too....

Love Daisy x

The 'C' word!

No, not that one! But the small cute ones who change your life, challenge your bank balance and, at times, chase your patience to its limits! Children! Dating when you get to 40 is a game of skill, when it comes to the 'C' word - whether you have kids, or whether you don't! Possibly harder, if you don't....

For the record, you should know that I don't.

I would have loved children and could never have envisaged hitting 40 and not being a mother, but life had other plans. I admire the courage of women who go it alone, but that wasn't for me. So having recently, and reluctantly, accepted that children were unlikely to be part of my future, where does that leave me in the dating game?

Experience has shown me...it goes something like this...:men of my age and older who have children rarely want more. They spell out, in no uncertain terms on their profiles that their children are the most important things in their lives - well of course they are, and should be, and any half-intelligent woman, with or without kids, acknowledges and accepts that. After all, children don't choose to be born...

However, in my and many of my friends' experience, stating it so vehmently is generally shorthand for me, my kids,my job, my ex-wife's demands as to childcare arrangements, reasonable or otherwise (as to bend to them makes my life easier)...come first. If you date me, and I have any time left, you might occasionally get to see me for a quick servicing of my carnal desires.... you have been warned...

The men of my age and older, on dating sites, who have spent their 20's and 30's concentrating on their careers or sowing their wild oats, or in fact made a career of sowing said wild oats, and suddenly decide they want children, are generally seeking someone significantly younger and more fertile than 40. There are, of course, a few who allegedly want kids and set their ideal match's age parameters 30 to 50. I can only assume they weren't very good at biology, if they are really looking for a 50 year old with child bearing ability!

So in negotiating the completion of the critical question on one's Internet profile - 'Do you want children -yes, no or maybe?' - what am I to say?

Yes, generally sends the few men of my age and older with children, who haven't had the snip, or the rare creatures who do not want children, running for the hills.

No, is generally interpreted, wrongly, as meaning I don't like children, so wouldn't be great with theirs...so they run in the same direction.

Or the box I've recently taken to ticking - maybe. So when I do meet that intelligent, funny, man, who may or may not want children, but, first and foremost, wants me for me and not for my ability to breed, then I've covered all bases...anyway, all that's breeding round here right now is the slug colony in my garden...Mr. Dyson came round last week to exterminate the latest onslaught...mmm...think it's time I told you more about Mr. Dyson.....Love of my Life Mark II.....

Monosyllabic Man!

Monosyllabic Man was the ultimate humiliation! He was an accountant living just 30 miles away which, in Internet dating terms, made him pretty local. We had a brief chat on the phone and, whilst he wasn't exactly bubbling over with witty repartee, he sounded normal and, bearing in mind past experience, my standards were dropping all the time ... so I agreed to meet him for a drink at 8 the following night.

At the time, I was in the midst of a major house renovation project so spent most of my waking hours, away from work, covered in soggy, steamed off wood chip, plaster dust or paint. Saturday evening arrived and I knew I wasn't excited about the evening ahead when I found myself still splattered in Dulux, 50 minutes before our date and the venue was a 20 minute drive away. I considered cancelling but, knowing how often myself and friends had been stood up by guys at the last minute (usually, when they'd had a better offer), I felt that the decent thing to do was to go despite my lack of enthusiasm.

So after some swift paint stripping in the shower and make-up in double quick time, I drove to our agreed rendezvous - a busy country pub where we couldn't initially find a table. For those of you who have played the dating game, you'll know just how excruciating dates can be at times and, as soon as I arrived at this one, I knew it was going to be one of them.

For a start, he looked nothing like his photo, for another he had absolutely nothing to say...or at least nothing that had more than one syllable. I'm generally not a great lover of small talk but, on this occasion, I would have welcomed comments on anything, and I mean anything, from the state of his garden fence to the state of his sock drawer....I have never found it so hard to make conversation in my life and it was the longest hour I have ever spent, standing amidst a sea of happy couples and groups of friends having a great Saturday night out...

Happily I was saved from a further hour, by the bar maid asking if we'd like to take part in the 'Rock 'n' Roll' bingo....err no...time to take my leave.... the evening was so appalling that I didn't believe for one moment that I'd hear from him again, as I kissed him politely on the cheek and we went our separate ways, nor did I want too...

So to receive a text from him 48 hours later saying, he'd considered matters very carefully and had decided due to the distance that we lived from each other he wouldn't be pursuing it further...

Pursuing it further! What did he think I was - a job application?! One thing was for certain I wouldn't be pursuing him any further....but it wasn't the most flattering of endorsements - being rejected by, possibly, the most boring man in the world (or perhaps the second most......have I told you about Diet Coke Man?)...NEXT!

Blind Date and the Parrot!

Well,  I know you've all been dying for an update on my meeting with Blind Date .... the wait is now over!

We met yesterday in a pub called The Parrot on the Surrey Hills - his choice, and a good one, particularly apt as I often talk far too much...especially when nervous on dates!

He was a lovely man and I would happily recommend him to anyone who's looking for love in his part of the country. Sad to report, he wasn't the right man for me as our lives, coupled with 3 young children on his part, two careers on mine and a 100 mile geographical divide, are just too divergent...

However, I hope I've made a new friend, so I think Blind Date will be known as Fine Mate going forward....

And another thing, whilst on the subject of twittering birds (including the human variety), I've just set up a Twitter account. Being entirely techo-illiterate, I have not the first idea how it works or how you can follow me or I can follow you but, if you know how better than me, then I think I can be found @loveandlaw. I have yet to tweet as to busy with life, law and blogging but, as I'm told its hard to make comments directly on my blog, why not tweet me instead....if I've managed to give you sufficient information to find me....I'll tweet new posts as I write them (if I can work out how)!

 

Blind Date - The Date!

P.S. Meeting Blind Date for lunch today! I've already had to postpone once, as the needs of the local criminal fraternity demanded my attentions!

He was very understanding, considering, as, let's face it, it wasn't the most flattering reason for postponing a date - being passed over for a a groupl of convicted felons - but for now at least, criminal activities pay my bills... in a manner of speaking!

Tonto (the Criminal, not Johnny!) was a Scouser too!  Hope that isn't a bad sign! Later....

Tonto and the Toy Gun!

Apologies for my silence yesterday. I spent most of it at various police stations, across the South of England, advising on everything from possession of indecent images to the dizzying excitement of theft of a packet of crisps! Why?! Surely, if you're going to get yourself arrested, you should at least make it worth your while... and do something worth getting arrested for...

A few years ago, I recall a client doing just that and, unsurprisingly his piste de arrest  arose out of his relationship. For these purposes, I'll call him Tonto!

It all started with the discovery of sex toys under his wife's pillow which, in his warped logic,  meant that she was having a lesbian affair with the next door neighbour! Again, we have to ask why?! In his not so youthful wisdom (he was 70), he decided to drink his weight in whiskey and confront her whilst waving a replica firearm and hand grenade!

Even though she knew they were replicas she decided not to advise the police of this somewhat pertinent fact, resulting in the arrival of most of the local constabulary,  complete with trained negotiators and armed response units!

Many hours later Tonto, having barricaded himself into his suburban semi resulting in the evacuation of his street, sobered up! Peering out of a window, whilst negotiators on loud speakers boomed around his pounding head, he observed what looked like a police sniper by his neighbour's hanging baskets!

'Oh,' he said, 'I think I'm in a bit of trouble' and stalked from the house with hands in the air, his sinewy frame encased in khaki shorts and knee high wool socks!

Much later when he was interviewed, he had quite a lot to say about his wife - The Bull Dyke, as he called her! The police's attitude,  and the seriousness with which they viewed this farcical situation, can perhaps be gleaned from the fact that the interviewing officer called him Tonto throughout!

Tonto got his charges much reduced at the Crown Court, when Counsel threatened to playing the tape at trial!

Clearly the CPS would struggle to persuade the court of the gravity of the case when the defendant was likened by the police to the Lone Ranger's sidekick throughout; not helped by the fact that, in Italian, 'tonto' means stupid, dumb, a fool...well that at least was right!

Sometimes, my job feels like Carry On Criminal!

But at least it gives me a reason to out a picture of my beloved Johnny Depp on my blog...

Size matters!

It really does, and no I'm not being rude! I could be, about a certain individual, but have no wish to mock the afflicted....
No the question of size is something beloved of many men who subscribe to one of the world's biggest dating sites -Match.com which, in it's wisdom, has a section were individuals can prescribe an acceptable weight range for their ideal partner, which surely, will fall foul of the Sizist police in due course?!

I totally accept that we all find different shapes and sizes of people attractive but, from the sort of ideals men prescribe, all 
it tells us is that men pay much less attention to the scales than women, and have very little idea of what their preferences would mean in reality. 

If they did, then I think they would know that a 5'10' woman who weighed 6 stone would be about as attractive as a skeletal pipe cleaner in real life.

It's a bit like the guys who go into M&S attempting to buy their wife some exciting lingerie, for under the Christmas tree, cup their hands and say to the sales assistant - 'She's about this size.' Clueless! I laughed out loud when a collegaue, who I do actually rate very highly, was considering buying his wife some boots for Christmas and asked me what size she would be.

'But I've never even met your wife, let alone discussed her shoe size, so how would I know?'

His response. 'Well, you've seen photos of her.'

I rest my case....!

But the internet dating prize for size has to go to a man from London who, after a few promising emails, asked me what size jeans I wore.....and continued, 'because if you're above a size 10, you're no good to me!' Good for what exactly?

I didn't hang around to find out.....NEXT! 

Private Benjamin and the Sexy Soldier!

Following on the lack of athleticism theme, back in my University days, in a moment of madness, I was persuaded to join the University Officer Training Corps (OTC). The persuasion came in the form of a new friend, Chrissy, who resided in the same Halls of Residence and also happened to be a fully paid up member of CND. Some might argue that these were contradictory pastimes, but Chrissy saw the OTC as a means of keeping her overdraft in check. Cadets were to be paid fifty quid a weekend to dress up as trees, paint their faces with mud and crawl around fields playing soldiers. How bad could it be?

Especially, as it also provided a cheap bar and a supply of fit young men in uniform!

As it transpired, very bad indeed! Never having been sporty, at school, I'd always been the last one picked for teams, brought up the rear in cross country and never once managed to clear the high jump pole. Therefore, even the thought of running 5 miles with full pack and rifle, before completing an assault course incorporating at least two 6-foot walls, was not exactly my idea of heaven. I made Goldie Hawn, in her role as Private Benjamin, look worthy of a Military Cross.

My inadequacies were highlighted when I was caught talking on parade by the Regimental Sergeant Major. He ordered me to the floor and demanded ten press-ups. The trouble was I was incapable of doing even one, and to the hysterical sniggers of fellow Cadets, as I collapsed in a heap on the floor, the Sergeant Major said in a very loud voice:

            'You're supposed to be doing press-ups - NOT making love!'

Crikey, it occurred to me at the time that, if this was how you were meant to do it, it was no wonder it had not been a spectacular success when I tried it out with Mohair Man.

The mad moment, when I was persuaded to sign up to spend Wednesday evenings and weekends playing trees were to have a considerable impact on my future romantic future...

I had been an Officer Cadet for five months. True to form, I brought up the rear on route march, fell off walls on several assault courses, screamed very loudly when ordered to cam up in a field full of slugs (for the uninitiated this means plastering your face and any other visible flesh with mud and sticking any available branches around your person – this was where the dressing up as a tree bit came in). I'm phobic about slugs. Yes. I know it's irrational - they can hardly chase me - but, I just am....

However, there was one silver lining. I was finally getting picked for 'teams'. At Christmas camp I was the only female Cadet picked for overnight guard duty. Great! Instead of limitless cheap Christmas spirit and a warm comfy bed, I spent the night in thermal long johns and combat gear patrolling the perimeter fence.

There was, however, one advantage of my new role - dashing guys in uniforms and the 'End of Basic Training Dinner' was fast approaching. It wasn't really the done thing to attend these events unaccompanied.

Clearly, inviting Mohair Man was not an option and I was in something of a dilemma as to who to take. My red Filofax wasn't exactly bursting at the seams with eligible attractive men, and even the few names it did hold could not necessarily be relied upon to behave appropriately at a formal dinner. Most of them belonged to the Rugby Club, so the only things they could truly be relied upon was to throw bread rolls and burst into a rendition of "Swing Low Sweet Chariot" during the Colonel's speech.

Then it happened.The Sexy Soldier, who my 19 year-old self came to regard as the Love of My Life (Mark I), came into my life. He was charismatic, charming and one of the most popular Cadets in my year and he asked me to the event of the year!  I could not believe my luck. Apparently, he noticed me at Christmas camp, after I'd been dragged round a 3 mile run by my super fit platoon commander, negligently discharged my rifle of the range and fallen off a 5 foot wall. With my puce-coloured face and dirty combat gear, I bore more than a passing resemblance to an upside down beetroot by the end of this ordeal.

The first time he clocked this particularly attractive specimen of vegetable-hood, I was laughing hysterically at myself, with tears streaming down my cheeks. In truth, what were the alternatives? Shooting myself ? After all, that would not have been difficult considering my aptitude with a rifle and I did have one handy, - or laughing at myself which seemed like the adult way in which to deal with my complete humiliation in the military arena. At least knowing he found me attractive, looking like a purple salad vegetable, I hasd little to live up too.

We arranged to meet up before the Dinner and agreed he'd meet me at 8.30 at my Uni accommodation and we'd then meet some OTC mates at the pub; not the most romantic  first date but, for all I cared, he could have suggested a date at the local bus stop!

After an afternoon spent plucking and preening, admittedly, I was ready far earlier than the agreed time. Two hours earlier in fact but, after what seemed like an eternity, the clock finally hit 8.30pm. I waited ...and waited ... and ninety-three minutes after the appointed time gave up hope, removed my make-up and climbed into my pyjamas. Ninety-nine minutes after the appointed time he appeared! He apologised, he'd been rock climbing. I stupidly forgave him. How could I not when he smiled at me in that utterly disarming way? Instead of telling him to go and jump of the very cliffs he'd been climbing, I hastily got dressed and we just made it to the pub for last orders, only to be greeted by a group of drunken fellow Cadets, cheering raucously as we entered.

However, he did try and redeem himself later, by suggesting moonlit stroll in the Peak District. Well that was how he sold it anyway. We obviously had different ideas about what constituted a romantic stroll as when we arrived, he deftly retrieved his climbing tackle from the boot of his battered, yellow, VW Golf and announced that night climbs were the most challenging! My part-time University career as a climbing widow had begun…

Despite the inauspicious start, we did date for eight whole months and had a lot of fun. It was, however, getting increasingly difficult to explain to my parents why, when they called at some unearthly hour on a weekend morning that I was nowhere to be found in my halls of residence. Usually, because I was snuggled up in Sexy Soldier's bed.

So it was that I decided the time had come to put the cricketing fox incident, and my parents' views on sex before marriage, behind me and tell my parents in a grown-up fashion that I was having a grown-up relationship with a man I loved. After all, we had discussed it and he had assured me that he was very serious about me.

The inevitable huffs and puffs from the parental camp would soon subside and, if sleeping with a boyfriend without magical gold wedding band in situ was the worst thing I ever did then surely my parents could still be proud of their first born. After all it was my first act of rebellion - I'd passed all my exams, been a perfect daughter and never even smoked a fag behind the bike sheds at school. Thinking about it, I'd had even run the Grange Hill 'Just say No to Drugs' campaign! What more could they ask?

So I did it. I told them. I  was an adult. I was in a serious relationship. I loved him.We were sleeping together.  Phew....and relax....

It was unfortunate that later that evening, he had an announcement of his own to make. He was leaving me, he was too young for anything serious, but there was very definitely no-one else...

Two weeks later, I discovered he was sleeping with my platoon sergeant from Summer camp who'd I thought so cool when she produced Mars bars, hidden in her knickers, so we would not starve on the survival exercise!

Sadly, I did not know at the time that she was also interested in having something else entirely in her knickers and it was not made of chocolate coated caramel… NEXT!

Lovely in lycra....!

Mmm....blog  views have fallen today, for the first time in its fledgling history! So please keep passing the  link on to your friends, if you're enjoying what you're reading, and if you have any special requests that you'd like me to write about in future posts, then I'm open to suggestions.....

I'm sure viewing figures will edge up as work ends, as everyone wants to discover what Daisy's been doing today...

Wasn't there a dubious film once called 'Daisy does Dallas' or something like that. Well, my day has been nowhere near as exciting as my namesake...maybe it wasn't even Daisy... God knows!

Anyway, it started early with a personal training session which hurt, a lot.

Blind Date tells me he's a part-time tennis coach. Not sure whether he's telling the truth or pretending, in order to impress me. In the interests of honesty, and not wishing him to meet me thinking I might join him in such athletic pursuits, I felt it prudent to point out that I was the most unsporty person he was ever likely to meet.

In fact, I confessed that my exercise regime consists of little more than weightlifting a wine glass and swearing at my personal trainer (the latter being a recent acquisition, to counter the effects of the former)!

One thing I would like to know is how anyone ever meets a significant other in the gym?! Unless you're Jessica Ennis, who looks stunning  in sportswear and makes running a zillion miles and winning Olympic gold look effortless, is it really going to happen?

God, when I'm swathed in Lycra, having run even one mile I look like a demented beetroot! I'm convinced that the only way to pull in the gym is to work the room rather than work the machines...which sort of defeats the object...

There was one memorable occasion when I did manage to pull after partaking in a feat of athleticism ...which...it's fair to say...went a little wrong....have I told you about the Sexy Solider yet?

Mmm...that my post for later this evening sorted...keep reading...and , thanks Toffee, for keeping commenting...would be great to hear from more of you about your experiences, or your comments on mine...

Flower Power!

I know I've mentioned it a few times, but I am not obsessed with the fact that Blind Date comes from North of the Watford Gap, but maybe I should be!

My dear friend, Paul, a Londoner by birth, but someone who has lived and worked in Yorkshire for many years, after getting together with a lovely lawyer friend of mine, has been telling me for years that all the real men live up North and I should move back up to where I spent six very happy years in my early twenties. It's a possibility I have often considered myself, as I love it and, as an added bonus, invariably the guys I like the look of on dating sites do live along way North of where I currently reside, having probably run for the Pennines in sheer terror, after reading this...!

That said, have I told you about Flower Power, the Mancunian that I dated many years ago...it all started so well....

Said man worked with said lovely lawyer friend when we were trainee lawyers, and I had noticed him from afar across crowded bars on our regular Friday night drinks after work. I don't think he'd noticed me as he was far too qualified and important to fraternise with a mere trainee and, anyway, I had no idea whether he was single.

Nevertheless, in those days, blind faith and optimism propelled me to do things that these days I might, just might, things twice about! So it was, that another lawyer friend and I, started plotting. How was I going to get him to notice me at the upcoming Young Solicitor's Ball?

Our idea was simple, if a little crazy - I'd send him some flowers! His name was Mark (or something along those lines - you know the 'name' change rules!). This is relevant as on the card accompanying the flowers, we penned the following, not to be missed offer:

'I've read Dark is the Night; now I fancy a night with Mark! How about it?'

Just for the record, I was referring an evening at the Ball, nothing naughtier! My friend placed the order and paid in cash. Our thinking was that he was bound to come to the Ball and was bound to attend with significant other in tow, if he had one. Therefore if he did attend a deux then the flowers could not be traced back to me and that was the end of the matter; if he attended alone, I might just introduce myself as the woman single handedly keeping Interflora in business (what with sending flowers to strange men and friends sending them to me when sad after the latest break-up)!

However, you probably won't be surprised to hear that, whilst the bouquet that landed on his desk certainly had an impact, it wasn't quite the one I had planned...

For a start, and entirely coincidentally, as I genuinely had no idea, it arrived on his birthday! As a result, he thought it was sent by his mates having a laugh at his expense....and didn't go to the Ball anyway, as was away on a boy's weekend to celebrate his birthday! The best I got  was a grainy photo and a mention in his company's internal newsletter - 'Mark gets flowers from a secret admirer!

So, Cinders went to the Ball, but left without Prince Charming which, actually, he didn't turn out to be anyway....

Some weeks later, I bumped into him on one of our Friday nights out and Dutch courage encouraged a full and frank confession of my flower buying habits! Said confession led to a few months of dating, leading to a 'romantic' weekend away in the Peak District - only trouble, and what I didn't know then, was that his many phone calls that weekend, allegedly to his mother as it was apparently her birthday, were actually to a new girlfriend (without having first dispatched the old one - me)! Not nice...

I only felt better when he took her to the following year's Ball and she was wearing a gold lurex dress...classy! Many things you can buy, taste is not one of them...NEXT (another tale involving a floral tribute to follow later)!

Blind Date: Cilla(3)?!

Not sure I'm impressing Blind Date! Yesterday, he told me he supported Everton and was thrilled, because they'd beaten Man United, in Monday's match...

So what did I do - ask why he supported a London rather than a Liverpool club, as he came from that part of the world! OK, OK, what I know about football could be written on the back of an FA Cup ticket (and most of that evolves around Alan Shearer's physique, because my best friend has an unhealthy obsession with him), but I genuinely thought Everton FC was in London!

Bizarrely, he still wants to meet up. Must be something to do with being a Scouser - maybe he sees himself as the next Cilla! Anyway, this is a real truly blind date! I suggested sending him a photo so he'd recognise me; he told me off for not entering into the spirit of it! Either means he's a two-headed dwarf with bad teeth and someone else's hair or maybe....and I coming round to believe the alternative...he's just a lot of fun and up for a laugh!

When pressed, our mutual friend, who is giddy with excitement that we're meeting up said he was 'fun, single, both women and men loved him and she thought he was attractive, but obviously that was for me to decide.' Good answer, and she's very choosy so wouldn't find him attractive if he was any of the above....although it's fair to say that we've both done our share of charity work, in the form of boyfriends, over the years....no, Daisy, stay positive - this whole Bind Date business IS going to be fun...

Tom the Predatory Pensioner!

Back to the holiday season, and before I head to the day job, I'll just tell you quickly about Tom, who I mentioned briefly in my Turkish Delight post.

Some years ago, the mutual friend of Blind Date and I were on holiday in Cyprus - a bargain all inclusive deal in the days of Teletext! The down side of 'all inclusive' was that it seemed to us pointless venturing outside the hotel confines and paying for lunch and meals so we stayed put.

On the first evening, we saw an elderly gentlemen dining alone across the room and in the interests of The Big Society which I subscribed too, long before Mr. Cameron came up with the sobriquet, I suggested to said friend that we should ask him to join us the following evening as I hated to see him sitting alone. She readily agreed.

The next day, before we had the chance to extend our kind information we were basking, like a couple of  sand snakes round the pool, and the man, who we later discovered was called Tom, appeared. He had clearly had some sort of injury or illness at some time, as had limited use of his left arm and leg and shuffled when he walked. He shuffled over - great, we thought, we could invite him to join us for supper, maybe even lunch....that was before he parked his slacks on the end of my sun lounger and started making extremely inappropriate comments about the way we looked in our swim suits and the size of my chest, whilst smoothing down the few strands of hair covering his sweaty pate. I know we were the only three single people in the hotel, but......

By telepathy, friend and I knew that we would not be dining with him that night or any night...this was not the sweet old gentleman we had suspected...so the invitation thankfully remained unextended! For the remainder of the holiday, every time he shuffled in our direction we were saved by either Roy or Noel - two happily married holiday makers away with their lovely wives - who delighted in humming the Jaws tune as he shuffled closer and then sat on the end of our sun loungers before Tom had the opportunity too!

Our only other dealing with the Predatory Pensioner was one evening in the bar when he sidled up, before Noel had a chance to save us, and leered that he'd been coming to the same hotel for 15 years yet the woman in the painting behind the bar (a tasteful nude with her legs carefully draped in front of her to preserve her modesty) had never opened her legs to give him a better view! Yuk! And, no, I really haven't made it up.....NEXT!

Bus Pass Toy Boy!

Acceding to popular request I have decided to park (excuse the pun) the tale of Paris Match, for now, and regale you with the story of Bus Pass Toy Boy.

In the meantime, Toffee has astutely commented that the weekend's Muppet ensemble did at least get younger as the weekend progressed - 80, 69, 54, 40's and maybe I should try a Toy Boy? Funny he should say that....as, a few years ago, when I'd just come out of a relationship with Mr. Dyson (more of whom later), who was very special to me at the time, and is still a good and dear friend, I tried just that!

I promise to come back to all those I've mentioned in passing, in due course.

It started like this, and I accept in advance that this was not my finest moment ever, so please forgive me...many of us have done things we regret, after a glass of Chablis too many (I more than most)...

After splitting with Mr. Dyson, who I had loved very much, I spent a great deal of time feeling extremely sorry for myself and did a few mad things, as one does on the rebound (again), including rescuing a mad Border Terrier (more of him later too).

In an effort to cheer me up, my friends insisted on a night out - getting plastered and going out dancing seemed to them the ideal solution to my broken heart.

And it seemed pretty ideal to me too, when I was chatted up by a very attractive young man who clearly spent much of his time lifting weights; a lot more time than he spent practising having something interesting to say. After a couple of bottles of wine, I was more than happy to gloss over his conversational shortcomings and meet this Adonis-like 21 year old the following weekend.

So my 32 year old self did! Drinks, followed by a curry. Never one to be accused of looking for a meal ticket, I was more than happy to pay my way, so the meal over and duly sated, I happily whisked out my credit card expecting to go Dutch!

What I didn't expect was for him to say 'thank you very much' and let me pay for both of us (me having already paid for all the drinks in the pub first). I was beginning to feel like his mother!

However, and not to my credit, I was on a determined mission to put some distance between me and Mr. Dyson.  So it was, that I decided a night of passion was on the cards....he may not say much, but he was fit and a night with a nubile youth might just help restore my shattered self-esteem....or maybe not.

Waking up the following morning, I was rather pleased that a passionate kiss had led to nothing more than him falling asleep snoring, as soon as his, admittedly, enviable muscles hit the mattress. Wanting him to leave as soon a politely possible, but feeling obliged to make him tea and toast whilst he showered, I was interested (!!) to learn that he was about to sell his Ford Ka to save money and buy a bus pass instead. He rejected the toast as he was, apparently, off to meet his mates in McDonald's, before Sunday morning footie! So, sadly, I didn't put the anticipated distance between me and Mr. D, but I did put enough to realise that an enviable set of pecs were no substitute for an enviable brain and humour...

So when I was contacted over the last few days by a hunky gardener, 13 years my junior, I thanked him for his interest and moved very swiftly on....NEXT!

Blind Date: a stalker(2)?!

'Hello,' I tentatively replied.

Twenty minutes later, having laughed a lot, I'd agreed to meet up, on condition that I could blog about it...after all, he'd read it all so knew he'd be safe from my acerbic wit as long as he behaved!

A short while later, a text arrived....

Hiya Daisy! I thoroughly enjoyed our little chat earlier...so, thank you. I am looking forward to meeting you!!x

I replied, and thought he deserved a choice in how he was cast, as he'd created quite a decent first impression (and had the guts to call):

Me too! So if I blog about you later, what would you like to be called ?! The Blind Date; The Scouser; The Brave Man (you must be after reading blog and suggesting a date)! 1134 hits now!x

His reply was very funny, and he's apparently done some Internet dating ... maybe I should suggest a reciprocal blog:

Oh I will leave that up to you.....I have no preference.....just happy to be slightly famous....:-) but for your readers benefit, I definitely think you should do a pre and post blind date blog!!!

ps u do realise it is just me hitting on you 1134 times don't you?????

Excellent, carte blanche to write about him...and I always wanted a stalker...! Date arranged... this one is to be continued.....but in the meantime, as its the holiday season and following on from Turkish Delight, have I told you about Paris Match....

Blind Date: the approach(1)!

Just a very short post, to keep the world up to date with the crazy going's on in my world...

They say things happen for a reason, and maybe the reason I was contacted by the entire cast of the Muppet Show this weekend was to ensure I arranged nothing and had space in my diary for an unexpected date at the weekend!

Today, a very brave man contacted me - a friend/former colleague of a very old friend of mine (remember the 'Turkish Delight' post!) - whom I have never met, know very little about, but who had, I quote, 'read and liked my blog and was prepared to put his reputation at risk to suggest a blind date!'

Liking his courage I sent a reply agreeing to this bold request as, let's face it, if he had the balls to ask, had a personality and a pulse he stood a pretty good chance of topping my current dating league table!

I would have thought the last thing any sane man would want to do would be to suggest a date, if he really had read my blog in it's entirity!

Bugger...maybe that was the red flag that I'd missed...maybe 'sane' was the pertinent word. Was he? As I mused this point, about to text mutual friend to ask whether I'd made a huge mistake in agreeing to meet, my phone rang! EEK...it was him....bracing myself I clicked  to answer....

'Hello,'.........

Dating by Numbers!

Back to the present and, in between police station appearances, my first week back on the Internet has not been laden with possibility.
Amongst the general mass of profiles written in text language with no command of capital letters, let alone the English language, there were some outstanding approaches that deserve special mention.

First, Reginald (remember, names have been changed to protect the guilty) sent me an, admittedly eloquent, email inviting me out for dinner. He was apparently a talented script writer and great company. Interest piqued, I clicked onto his 'invitation only' photos that he had kindly invited me to view!

This couldn't be him...surely... back a click!

OMG - yes it could - I checked his age only to find I had been hit on by an octogenarian - he was 80....I'm not ageist but....double my age was pushing it even for my broad mind.

Things weren't improved when a (slightly) younger suitor contacted me asking if I'd like to correspond. Clearly an animal lover (a positive), he lived with his two dogs, six ducks and a cockatoo in...wait for it.... Southern Australia ... very convenient to meet for coffee! In any event I was looking for a lover, not a geriatric pen pal! He was 69.... but probably older...if you recall what an age ending in '9' means, from an earlier post.

Next up was a gushy email from a man who gave me his full name immediately; he claimed to be 51 and live in London. After some cursory research, it transpired that he was a failed MP from nowhere near London, newspaper reports in 2004 claimed he was 54; he had more active court cases than the Old Bailey and more children than Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt!

Moving swiftly on, I was delighted to receive an interesting and fun email from a man who looked normal - not just normal, but attractive, about my age and lived only 30 miles away! Divorced, kids and looking to build a great relationship with a like-minded soul. Yay! Hope restored, and a suitably chatty response sent...

To say his second email could have done any porn script proud was an understatement. It was pure filth and not exactly appropriate when we'd previously exchanged nothing more than first names and a discussion about a mutual love of wine and walking the Dorset coast!

As I wasn't interested in getting into a Christian Grey situation on a second email, I did what any woman with any self respect would do - blocked him, but only after I'd emailed him saying that I was sure his kids would be really proud of him and reported him to the site for gross indecency! For the sake of the female population at large I only hope they have done the decent thing and removed him...

Note to self: think positive ....dating is a numbers game, isn't it...just be patient...and NEXT time....!

Turkish Delight!

As views of my blog have now exceeded a 1000, in less than 2 weeks, I figure I must be writing something that many people can identify with. I'm also developing something of an international following, so thanks to all of you across the world that keep coming back. Clearly the difficulties of dating, wherever we are, is not easy.


Anyway, in light of my diverse and cosmopolitan readership I thought I'd add an international angle to my latest musings... Turkey!

For many years a great friend and I visited a tiny family run hotel in Olu Deniz where the turquoise sea sparkles and tortoises patrol the hotel grounds...along with the omnipresent Uncle - the owner of the hotel and uncle to one of the two young men that unnamed friend and I had holiday trysts with some years ago. After several glasses of retsina, we thought the 19 year old nephew of Uncle and the 32 year old restaurant manager were just what our dreams were made off...
I think I came off better on this occasion as said friend had to play hotel room hide and seek, as Uncle prowled the grounds looking for nephew, and her young buck dragged her from room to room to avoid his fearsome relative! It was a moment of, never to be repeated, madness for both of us, despite a dozen-plus holidays in the same hotel since. It did, however, ensure hours of hilarity and, even years later, when I considered buying a holiday home in this amazing country, the developers offered to throw in a free husband along with the free air-con... and I don't think they were joking!!

For some reason, I decided against the holiday home and the husband...! In those days I still believed The Love of my Life would make an appearance at some point...

Other international adventures haven't improved our romantic standards....and at some point I shall tell you about the holiday said unnamed friend and I shared in Cyprus with Tom the Predatory Pensioner but, for now, it's time to bring you bang up to date with recent events and my first weekend back on the dating scene, in earnest (...not IN Earnest)!

The Fiancee!

I have just spent a very long night at the police station talking to several very drunk individuals; not dissimilar to a normal Friday night out really.

The only difference being that on Friday nights out, most of those I and my single friends encounter are married men. And, being single, of course, we are desperate, or so they believe, so grateful for their rapt attention whilst their wives are at home looking after the kids.

The best riposte, devised by a friend, after we were approached twice within 10 minutes of arriving at our favourite wine bar, was: 

'Sorry, but we don't date men who wear jewellery' .... whilst looking pointedly at the fourth finger of their left hands. 

And, whilst on the subject of marriage, it is something I believe in wholeheartedly, and would love nothing more than to meet a man who I'd like to marry, and he me. There is a particular woman of my acquaintance who has had more husbands than I can count, but they are always someone else's.Yes, I admit, I would like a husband ... but, preferably, one of my own.

The whole subject of marriage leads me on to my own very brief engagement about 4 years ago. The Fiancee worked in finance and was really rather dull. From the second I met him I knew he wasn't the one, but having recently split from a man who I'd loved very much (and who'd dumped me by text after 6 glorious months, without warning, never to contact me again), you could say I was rebounding faster than a kangaroo.

When the soon-to-be Fiancee presented himself, complete with two cute Labradors - a rare breed of man who actually had a job, owned a house and loathed rather than loved his ex - I was prepared to ignore his slightly controlling tendencies and the fact that he didn't exactly set my knickers on fire.... Conversationally, he was a little dull; in fact he rarely ever expressed an opinion of his own - generally preferring to recount his mother's views on any given topic when he actually opened his mouth.

However, I studiously ignored his shortcomings - after all, no-one was perfect, including me, and, maybe steady was the best one could expect if a relationship was going to endure. After all, look where all-consuming passion had got me (aside from being dumped by text)!

So when he proposed after about 2 months with a diamond that cost the same as a half decent sports car, I accepted ... telling myself that passion wasn't essential...and at least his dogs were cute and fun, even if he wasn't!

From the moment I accepted, life started to unravel faster than an Andrex puppy playing with a loo roll - in the space of a week he lost his job, admitted he was in more debt than Northern Rock, with more mortgages and loans than HSBC, oh, and still owed his ex-wife several thousands of pounds in maintenance. Things were not looking great but how could I extricate myself now...after all, lost causes were my relationship speciality. Surely I could help him out of the abyss... starting by selling the ridiculous diamond he had presented to me just a week earlier.

This would have been a tough enough call, if I'd been in love with him. I was not...and the whole sorry saga culminated in a break down (me), bankruptcy (him - probably) and an argument over a tent that he said belonged to him. Why he felt so strongly about that particular item I don't know, unless of course he needed it to live in!

I gave him back the tent and the ring; it would probably have been repossessed by Visa anyway if I'd kept it and, the saddest part of the whole sorry tale, is that I missed the dogs much more than I missed him.

Now I understood why the aforementioned acquaintance seemed to favour other people's husbands - she could give them back!