Tangle & Time Delay (Part 2)!

Time Delay was handsome, successful and interested...ok, he wasn't that interesting, but isn't every relationship a compromise?

Whilst he didn't mess with my electrics, in the manner of certain boyfriends past, he was worth a second date...even though on the first one I bumped into Craig - the aforementioned handsome neighbour and his lovely wife - who didn't look convinced...

I think it was something to do with the delay between questions and response....just like those phone calls we used to have with friends in far flung places before digital technology.

Anyway, having convinced myself it was what I thought that matters, not what my friends thought, I agreed to a third date. Trouble was, I didn't think that much...a nice guy but he/we didn't have that je ne sais quoi. In fact he/we didn't have a great deal in common or connection at all, aside from being the proud owners of dogs - mine recently acquired; his a more established relationship.

So it was that we decided a dog walking third date would be a great idea (with Tangle on lead, obviously). Privately, I hoped the meeting of testy terrier and well-behaved water spaniel might provide a useful talking point to make conversation easier. And might have the added benefit of teaching Tangle a few manners...

Alas, it wasn't to be. After a stressful walk with Tangle barking loudly for the duration, we got back to my place and Time Delay suggested I took off  his lead (Tangle's, not Time Delay's!)and let the dogs 'sort it out themselves'. Sadly, they did just that... Tangle leapt on his new canine acquaintance and bit his ear ... his victim scuttled under his master's chair whining pitifully with blood puring from his wound.Time Delay, quite reasonably, made his excuses and left.

Can't say I blamed him and it didn't exactly break my heart...but, being a realist, I had to acknowledge that maybe Tangle wasn't to be the aid to my lovelife I had initially hoped...that was until Paris Match saw a photo of him on my dating profile....

Comedy of Terriers - Introducing Tangle (Part 1)!

I haven't told you yet about Tangle - a much loved, but behaviourally challenged rescue dog that I gave a home, after the sad demise of my relationship with Mr. Dyson. At the time, I was feeling decidedly unloved and, having toyed with the idea of getting a hound for sometime, decided this was the right time. And, as an added bonus, I'd just read that Davina McCall met her husband dog walking - win win, or so I thought....

Tangle was 18 months old when I offered him my spare dog basket and came with a reasonable reference! What I hadn't factored in was the schizophrenic tendencies of a young terrier with 3 homes since birth and no training. I also hadn't factored in falling in love with the chocolate eyed shaggy bundle of frenetic energy, soon to be dubbed by my friends  the Terrorist Terrier, who turned my life upside down.

His arrival in my life was not dissimilar to the arrival of a bad date and I should not have ignored the signs when, on our first walk, he leaped on a startled passing Newfoundland in a flurry of growls before being flipped onto his back and pinned down by a giant black paw. As I soon discovered, the bigger the canine opponent, the more Tangle loved the challenge. Unsurprisingly, I enjoyed it somewhat less.

Not that I'm suggesting any of my dates have jumped on a Newfoundland and started growling (not even I've been that unlucky...yet), but their behaviour has often been on a par as you will have noted from earlier posts...

After our third walk, I decided that to preserve my sanity and the lives of other dogs quietly minding their own business, it would be prudent to keep him attached to me when out walking. Instead of a canine missile, I then had to contend with a barking banshee whirling on his lead, meaning that every other person walking within biting distance, gave me an extremely wide berth....so much for meeting a man out dog walking!

Of course, even though I realised very soon into my tenure as the responsible owner of a canine of mass destruction, that he wasn't going to make my life easy, I was not unused to taking on needy males...in fact, in those days I positively gravitated towards them so it was, that I convinced myself I could fix him and set about the task. The first casualty of the battle for supremacy between myself and Tangle was Time Delay..... I'll tell you why in my next post...

Room with a View!

Lying on my bed in a huge suite in a Brighton seafront hotel a few days ago I was thrilled that, for once, the promised 'sea view' did not involve standing on one leg with my head poked out of the bathroom window at a precarious angle...

This particular bay windowed, channel-facing vista offered full frontal delights of Brighton at its best - a man with a paper bag over his head (with holes cut out for his eyes), two boys with trousers hanging so dangerously low that if they hadn't had their pants on we would indeed have been confronted with full frontals, a man with oversized white plastic headphones and braces pulling his trousers so high he could have passed for Simon Cowell, were it not for his massive paunch, full face of make up and the slightly odd jig he was doing back and forth along the sea front.

He reminded me of a concept that a young friend had been telling me about recently - silent discos. Apparently, these involve each participant being given a set of headphones on entry playing different music - so whilst Bill is dancing to Staying Alive, Ben might  be strutting his stuff to the Vienna Waltz. Hilarious to watch ... apparently! Of course, after a few glasses of wine, I think I'm Olivia Newton John regardless of the musical accompaniment, so always ready and willing to provide the entertainment!

I love Brighton although acknowledge it may not be the best place for me to search for a soulmate because, as our cabbie pointed out, after reassuring us that he operated a no crash policy, if you see a good looking bloke here, there's a 95% chance he's gay (and, in my view, probably a lot more fun than recent dates)!

NOTE: I have been quiet for the last few days because, aside from a houseful and a trip to the seaside,  I have apparently managed to 'corrupt' my laptop screen with a wayward glass of spilt wine. I have corrupted myself and various boyfriends with copious glasses of wine over many years; I just hadn't realised the same was possible with a computer!

The Top Ten!

Whilst I will try, I may not blog for a day or two as it's like the United Nations around here at the moment with friends visiting from both Australia and the USA so, to keep those of you amused who haven't been reading this blog since it started, and have too many demands on your time to read all previous posts, I thought you might like to know the 10 most hit upon entries so far, in case you've missed any of the most popular ones.

1. The Italian Job!
2. Mr. Dyson - Happy Never After (Part 6)!
3. Vest man!
4. Calm down, dears!
5. Wanted: Partner in romantic crime!
6. I love men!
7. Date Debrief!
8. Mr Dyson - The Advertisement (Part 1 of many)!
9. Mr. Fish!
10. The Surgeon!

Hope you enjoy them, more than I enjoyed some of these experiences!

It's a dog's life!

This has to be one of the best singles ads ever printed.

It is reported to have been listed in the Cornish Guardian and, whilst I don't for one minute believe it's real as it has urban myth written all over it, it is very funny, or at least those of you who share my sense of humour will find it so! I laughed out loud - hope you do too:

SINGLE FEMALE seeks male companionship, ethnicity unimportant. I'm a very good girl who LOVES to play. I love long walks in the woods, riding in your pickup truck, hunting, camping and fishing trips, cosy winter nights lying by the fire. Candlelight dinners will have me eating out of your hand. I'll be at the front door when you get home from work, wearing only what nature gave me...Call xxxx and ask for Annie, I'll be waiting.....

THE RESULT: Over 150 men found themselves talking to the Truro RSPCA!

I guess it could explain why I don't always receive responses from emails I send to potential dates on dating sites....and also reminds, I must tell you about the canine of mass destruction very soon...

Chemistry Test!

One of the mysteries of the modern dating world is why, so often, where boy likes girl, girl doesn't have a spark with boy and vice versa.

Chemistry is more elusive than the Scarlet Pimpernel as we get older. As a hormone ridden teenager it all seemed much easier - probably, in my case, because, at that stage, life hadn't burdened me with debilitating cynicism and men didn't come with more baggage than Heathrow.

We met, we fancied each other, we became boyfriend and girlfriend and never doubted that love would conquer all. Even though, in my case, it repeatedly didn't.

These days even when we pass the chemistry test which, for me, generally consists of the 3 'Ls' - laugh (can we make each other?), life (he has a pulse) and longevity (he has no secret wife to scupper the process and is under 80 - sorry, Reginald), the sheer volume of baggage we come with rarely makes for smooth relationship sailing as its rarely safely secure in perfect Louis Vuitton; more likely it's a rag tail of torn carrier bags ready to trip us up.

Recently, I was chatting to a man who, as it turned out, was too recently separated for comfort but did seem very nice. Lets call him Left Luggage. He lived a couple of hours away and had young children whom he saw 3 weekends out of 4 which, in his words, was 'non-negotiable'. I would expect it to be, but how did he realistically think a relationship might develop when his time, quite properly, was taken up by his childcare arrangements, negotiating the trauma of his divorce and the mundanity of life? Almost certainly too soon....even if we passed the chemistry test....but I haven't completed ruled him out...as he did sound rather lovely despite my reservations....clearly need to have stern word with self later!

Maybe I should just thank my lucky stars that I've never been good at science and any pretence at being so fell away when I failed my biology 'O'level. On that basis the chances of passing a chemistry test anytime soon are remote.

I'll worry about baggage and how to pack up my cynicism as and when I and a date get full marks in a chemistry test! I'm just glad that at least I've come to terms with the fact that my ovaries are way beyond going pop!

Later...

Hedge Fun!

Whilst it pains me to do so, in the interest of balance I must confess that Internet dating is not all bad as it provides a platform to enhance a skill not normally found in the male of the species - multi-tasking!

In most areas of life, women are proficient multi-taskers...whilst men do not score as highly. However, when it comes to Internet dating men excel at multi-tasking, or at least multi-dating and, if they can get away with it, multi-bonking!

Such individuals hedge their bets with potential dates more successfully than the best hedge fund manager. I guess I'm a little old fashioned, as I have always operated on the principle that, if I meet someone where the attraction is mutually sufficient to want to meet again, I like to get to know them without other distractions.

However, I have decided that I need to embrace the Internet principle of hedging bets, favoured by some seasoned Internet daters (including some women), if I am to ensure my survival in the dating jungle. As such, I have a few other irons in the dating fire aside from His Hotness, who has cooled off over the last couple of days which generally means one of three things - he has remembered a wife he'd previously forgotten to mention from whom he is not as separated as he'd previously made out OR his interest in Internet friends does not extend beyond massaging his ego by chatting to women on line OR he's expert at the multi-dating approach, met someone else and not bothered to tell me.....so rude!

So the other potential dates are an IT manager (there's a glut of those on all sites - I wonder why?!) , an entrepreneurial type who, on the face of it, does appear to have all the credentials of a grown up....rare indeed....but is dangerously recently separated, a trainer (interesting - this one), a gardener (no, not the 29 year old) and a man who likes motorbikes....

So we shall just have to see what the next couple of weeks bring....as a friend said, a few years ago, when she was off skiing for a couple of weeks - whatever will have happened by the time I get back - 2 weeks in Daisy's life is like 2 years in most peoples. She wasn't wrong!

Anything could happen....so I'm off to have some hedge fun...

Boden and above!

The weekend so far has been uneventful - no wine, no snakes (of any variety), a couple of canine visitors, a walk with a friend, a run with another and now sat under a grey sky outside my favourite cafe - people watching - a favourite  pastime.

As well as an eclectic mix of arty types, students and professionals this particular spot is  also a favourite of the Boden Mummy Brigade (BMB) who feature heavily in the local landscape. For the uninitiated, Boden is a successful British fashion label popular with professionals and middle class mummies...

The BMB are easily identified by their uniform of skinny jeans, boots in the winter/ballet pumps in the summer, perfectly highlighted blonde swishy blow drys (although  a few brunettes have joined the ranks since Kate Middleton's elevation to the royal stage) and they generally own equally well groomed black Labradors - no podgy chocolate Labs for these women - with names like Otis and Milo, and children with shaggy hair that look  like they've stepped out of the Mini Boden catalogue and not seen a pair of scissors for some considerable time.

They eat little and drink sparkling mineral water or (pretend to drink) very skinny flat whites (too many calories to finish the cup); their emaciated frames having snapped back to pipe cleaner proportions within days of giving birth to Octavia or Aloysius.

Whilst feigning interest in each others children, the subtleties of their overheard conversations make it clear that no other child surpasses their own offspring's seemingly limitless talents; competitive parenting at its best.

I often wonder how I would have fared as a parent, if I'd been fortunate enough to have had children, because let us not forget that children are a choice and a privilege, not a given.

I've concluded, possibly to make myself feel better about being childless, that I'm better suited to the role of mad auntie. I'd probably have been an awful mother, if the BMB is the yardstick by which to judge, as I don't look like a pipe cleaner, the dog I did briefly own could better be described as a canine of mass destruction and my niece loves me 'cos I let her eat chocolate cake for breakfast!

Anyway, parenting it seems is a lot harder than merely fitting into skinny jeans and buying the right hound. Just last week, I sat in this same spot observing three members of the BMB. I was with a lovely friend who has two gorgeous children, but has yet to join this exclusive club as she is secure enough not to need too.

We could hardly contain our mirth when one of the three stated that, even though it wasn't fee paying, the school her daughter went to was acceptable because all the mothers wore 'Boden and above'. Is that really how parents select the best educational facilities these days?

Somehow, I think I'd fail miserably so I have reluctantly accepted that my role in the lives of the children I love is the best one as, whilst I may not have given birth, it permits me to spoil them rotten, eat chocolate cake for breakfast, wear Boden and below jeans and generally behave in the manner of an irresponsible adult....oh, and most of the time, what fun that is.

And, talking of being an irresponsible adult, have I told you about my tenure as the owner of the canine of mass destruction? Comedy of Terriers, also the title of my second novel, coming soon... my search for love looks successful in comparison to my attempts at pack leadership...

Calm down, dears!

My ongoing musings appear to be leading to some debate which is all good. However, in the interests of public health, coupled with the fact that I don't want any fatal coronaries on my conscience, I would reiterate the words of the Prime Minister recently, 'Calm down, dears!'

I'm pleased to report that various of those I have written about are more than happy about how they've been portrayed and laughed a lot, as they understand that my whole purpose in writing is to hone my craft as a wordsmith (with the added bonus that the process is cathartic). I had lunch with Mr. Socks today, who is considering using some of my material in his latest script which sounds very funny indeed.

Also Mr. Dyson called to commend an accurate and moving portrayal of us (and was delighted that I was not too descriptive about the sight of his legs in shorts)! He also said he'd buy me supper when we meet up next week, to make up for the cost of phone calls it took to make it to our first date. I'd never told him before....!

Talking of public health, you'll be pleased to hear that Stan and Tone did a superb job of flea annihilation and I am now flea-free, so His Hotness will have nothing to worry about, should we get to the stage that he is invited back to my place. You're going to have to wait a while to find out about that one though ....

By now, those of you who don't know me may have formed the view that I am a danger to the male public health of the nation. I am very aware that I am the common denominator amidst the chaos I have described thus far and as I have demonstrated again and again in what I have written, I am ready and willing to laugh at myself as much as I laugh at the situations I find myself in.

However, I know I am not alone in such experiences and there are rafts of others out there - both women and men, I'm sure - similarly wondering why dating at a certain age and stage is so difficult?  

For my part it's the weekend and I plan to have fun as, for once, I shall not be camping at the local police station...so who knows what I'll have to report in my next post...

Mr. Dyson - Happy Never After (Part 6)!

Mr. Dyson has taken something of a back seat, after recent events involving snakes, being stood up and His Hotness, so it’s now time to put Suzi (and Mr. Dyson) out of their misery and share my recollections of where my relationship with the vacuum lover went so horribly wrong, yet we have managed to retain such a strong friendship since.

Well I did help him fix his heart but, as we all know, we don't need the emergency services around, once their job is done, reminding us of bad times so being the fourth emergency service is not exactly an accolade that has been helpful to me. It certainly hasn't helped my love life over the years (more of which later)...

Whilst Mr. Dyson and I loved each other, we couldn’t live together or, perhaps more succinctly, Mr. Dyson couldn’t live with me (although we tried for a couple of years). Whereas I would drink wine, he would dust; I loved old houses, he loved new; I called him Gorgeous Bloke, he called me Gorgeous Bird (GB x2); my life was madly chaotic, his was clinically calm; he loved skiing, I loved socialising; he loved tennis, I loved talking to friends; he loved me and I loved him but, ultimately, love didn't conquer all and we went our separate ways after a liaison with someone he met at work.

I shall never know whether it became physical or was purely a flirtation; what I do know is that our love affair died after he sent me a text intended for her...

After a lot of tears and a year without contact we developed a tentative friendship, as connections like ours don't just disappear and life is far too short to be bitter. It has become stronger over the years and now Mr. Dyson is always on call to put up my pictures, provide hugs when life gets tough, fix my plugs and  kill my slugs, but the truth is that we should never have had a relationship.

He's been happily settled in another relationship for many years now and chose, in his words, pleasant over passion as that suits him better, and I'm truly glad at least one of us got it right in the end. He is content and, as a friend, I am very pleased for him...

But Mr. Dyson will always be GB - hell, he is still the beneficiary of my will (something I know I need to rectify) - and very special to me but, sadly, Suzi, he and I will never be the reason you need to buy a hat....! Our involvement with rings, going forward, is likely to involve putting up curtain rings rather than putting a ring of the sparkly variety on my finger!

His Hotness on the other hand....well, you just never know.....in my life, anything could happen...

The Italian Job!

For those of my friends who have requested clarification of the age of the latest potential date - for these purposes, lets call him His Hotness (HH) - he is only a small amount younger than me; an amount I could live with, without feeling like Mrs. Robinson!

Talking of which, the 29 year old gardener has contacted me again and, despite asserting that he 'never chases women', has sent me several emails over the last week. After I sent him an equal number of gentle rejections, I received a further missive on Friday saying 'Won't be in touch again. I've met someone.' He may as well have added 'So there. Ya boo sucks!'' afterwards. As if I care!

This flurry of correspondence was followed by an email from 22 year old Jordan who said 'You're out of my league, but thought I'd try anyway'. Not sure about out of league; barely out of nappies would have been more appropriate. What is it with these young guys...

Talking of young men, I had a funny experience earlier this year when a lodger left at short notice. To balance the budget, I arranged to act as a host for the local language school - looking after three teenage Italian boys for a week. What I didn't know about teenage boys I certainly learnt that week. 

The comedy started when I received a letter, in advance of their visit, which, you could say, was somewhat lost in translation.

       'Dear Daisy,

    Thank you for letting us stay in your home. We are told you  like to cook and we look forward to enjoying your delicacies!!!!!

 

Best wishes ........'

 

The disconcerting use of English (and exclamation marks) set the scene for their visit....

 

After considering purchasing a gas mask to counter the clouds of cheap aftershave wafting from my bathroom each morning I was perturbed, to say the least, on arriving home from work one day, to find two16 year old boys - who had just discovered the joys of Primarni - prancing around my house in their new purchases - red, white and blue underpants emblazoned with union jacks and the bold statements such as '100% British Beef' and 'Your Country Needs You'!

The irony being that if I'd been a bloke and they were teenage girls, I'd probably have been arrested for indecency and needed a duty solicitor myself! You will be pleased to hear that they did not get to 'enjoy my delicacies', aside from the pasta and pesto type ones.....!
 

Carry On Dating!

Never one to be defeated by anything as silly as the minor humiliation of being stood up by a moron with the manners of David Brent, I immediately got back on my dating horse-grateful that I had wasted no more time on the man with the motorbike.

They say things happen for a reason and Sunday's debacle clearly happened so that I would carry on dating, hopefully, more worthy individuals. Or should that be Carry On Dating ....now there's an idea for  script!

Anyway things are certainly looking up. As I do not want to jinx this, the detail provided will be sparse so, for now, I will tell you only this - he wears a uniform, is slightly younger than me, a lot taller than me and, if his photos are genuine, possibly the hottest guy I have seen since Johnny Depp in Chocolat!

We spent most of yesterday evening chatting and yes, yes I know I'm breaking my own rules again and this has the makings of disaster written all over it, but...... I just have a very good feeling about this one....!

And if it ends in disaster....isn't Johnny single at the moment....now there's a thought!

Date Debrief!

For those of you who have been waiting tentatively for my next post, hoping that for once the news is good, I am afraid I cannot report that I and theYoung Rick Stein talked for hours and are going to meet again. So much for being positive...

If anyone deserves the poison pen, it is him, or should that be the poison bullet, and I say that with some meaning. Our text exchange, which is entirely unadulterated, says it all:

Me: Hi. Just checking you're still ok to meet up?

YRS: Yes. I am on my way.

Me: Great. I'll see you shortly. Wearing jeans, white shirt and pink/blue scarf! Hopefully I'll recognise the dog!

YRS: Ok. Ilk be watching for you.

Me: Makes you sound like a stalker ;-)!

YRS: Just wait and see ;-)

Me: No worries. I represent stalkers all the time in my day job so I have every confidence I'll manage! P.s. My humour may take some getting used too, though ;-)!

YRS: Mmmm we'll see

Me: Indeed we will! I'll be there in 2 mins. Are you in garden?

YRS:No sorry just left ;-(



Just left where - the pub or home?! I shall never know, as he was not at the pub where we'd agreed to meet and when I  called him his phone was switched off.

Fortuitously, at that moment as I stared at my phone in disbelief, Mr. Socks called and invited me to join him and his friend, Fishy, for coffee, which I gratefully did, so sadly I shall never know whether, in answer to Suzi's question, Young Rick Stein's bike was a 50cc with a Pizza Hut sign on the back but, as his behaviour would have been more becoming of a teenage boy than a 47 year old father and business man, I rather suspect it was. I think I'll stick to snakes next time. At least they're predictable! NEXT!

Young Rick Stein!

As I've received a few texts offline from nosey friends, who've read my latest post online, and want details of theYoung Rick Stein, I just have time for a very quick post to satisfy their curiosity before heading out to meet him.

So, here are the salient points:

• Grainy distant photo (err...what did I say about those in an earlier post) but he does look attractive in a grainy, distant sort of way
• Currently separated (stern word with self - Daisy, what are you thinking?
• His profile was brief and, when pressed for further information, he told me the sort of car and motor bike he drives! Not really the sort of information I was hoping for..
• We have exchanged emails and texts, but not spoken on the phone...am I mad? He could have the intonation of Larry the Lamb! 
• He's very sporty - oh dear, but Mr. Socks did suggest that I get more interested in sport so I'm sure I can pretend...for one date at least.

On the positive side:

• he likes dogs
• he is right age, right location and writes in sentences....

I refuse to believe he doesn't have potential...I just hope he doesn't share the older Mr. Stein's taste in hats (see above)! Later...

Trouser Snakes!

Bo, the boa constrictor, has caused much hilarity and, as Suzi points out in her comment, many of us have dated snakes and, in dating terms, the word 'snakes' can have many connotations.

Without wishing to be crude, my dear friend Dylan, who is as camp as a tent peg and much more fun than camping, tells me that, when looking for love in the gay world, it is not uncommon to receive informative, chatty emails followed, without warning, by pictures of snakes of the trouser variety! His response, in his own inimitable way, is usually ' Yes, I assumed you'd got one; I don't need proof!'

Today, I am free - no work, no snakes (hopefully) and actually an impromptu date..... in a sunny pub garden in about 4 hours time.

Having spent yesterday evening with  Dylan and other great friends, Kay and Jez, who have been happily unmarried for over 20 years and find our dating exploits incredible to say the least, I shared a photo of today's paramour. After announcing he looked like a 'young Rick Stein' - I think it was the wetsuit and Cornish beach in the background that swung it - Kay said 'well, he doesn't look too bad!' I'm not quite sure at what point, positive assessments such as 'he looks great' or even the anodyne 'he looks nice', were reduced to this level. 

Personally, I have no expectations.....other than meeting his dog which he is bringing along; said dog is allegedly large, black and will most likely be very wet! I do hope that isn't an inappropriate euphemism for something else....

Anyway, off to mow the lawn before heading out - where is Lawn Mower Man when I need him?

No Comment!

Having spent much of last night at the police station, advising clients on whether to comment on allegations or invoke their right to remain silent, I have given similar thought to whether I should remain silent or make comment on the comments on my blog.

To those of you who have commented and enjoyed my general ramblings on life, I am glad I am brightening up your day sufficiently that you keep coming back.

To the sole dissenting voice who does not find my posts 'hilarious', I must agree with him or her that being repeatedly let down by those who have been entrusted with my heart, or being sent semi-pornographic emails by strangers, or being pursued by indiviuals who lie, cheat and generally behave in a manner far removed from the moral code of most decent people is far from hilarious but, as with many of the less savoury aspects of life including many of those I see daily at the police station, sometimes using such black humour is the only way to deal with  such events.

And when reading such differering views, I am thankful once again on being reminded just how priviledged I and most readers of my blog are that we live in democracies, are free to choose our own reading material, form a view on it and express that view. Many of my friends living in a former African dictatorship, where I spent a great deal of time last year, did not grow up with such an advantage.

So in summary, I would say this - if you're enjoying, keep reading (because we can) and, if you don't find what I write amusing - why put yourself through it - stop reading (because you can) and remember, this is supposed to be fun; not a form of self-enforced literary torture!

Right, serious moment over....I have to go to court now to deal with a man charged with assault whose 'victim' is in the habit of taking his pet boa constrictor (yes, a real one) for 'a walk' in his local park (yes, really)! Well, what would you do, if confronted with that, when all you'd tried to do was take your kids out to buy an icecream?! I couldn't make it up...

Mr. Dyson and the 4th Emergency Service (Part 5)!

After arranging the date I was not filled with enthusiasm by my friend, Kara, who, being a divorce lawyer the same age as Mr. Dyson, warned me not to get too excited as many men of her age and recent acquaintance had not aged well ... so I should be prepared to feign interest if he looked 20 years older than he claimed (making him 35 years older than me - yikes!) and spent the evening discussing his ex-wife. 
Mmm ... maybe he wouldn't be the one to make my ovaries pop.

Or maybe he would .... hard to believe, now you know about my more recent lack of success in these matters, but, in my view, my first date with Mr. Dyson was fantastic, albeit his ex-wife was mentioned a few times. We even chose the same thing to eat - fishcakes, minus the hollandaise - a sign we were right for each other....or that's how I viewed it. When he sent me a text, even before I'd arrived home, saying that he had a feeling us meeting was to be 'a life changing moment', I wanted to tell the world. As it was, it was midnight so I settled for telling myself that, at the grand old age of 30, perhaps my time had come ... and spent the 48 hours, until our second meeting, grinning inanely at everyone I met....I was in lurve.......

So much so that I didn't even notice his bald patch and use of dodgy hair thickening products until our second date, by which point I couldn't have cared less anyway because, with Mr. Dyson it was, and still is, all about his eyes and the volumes they speak.

As I've already averred too, Kara wasn't all wrong. He did seem to talk about his ex-wife quite a lot and probably a lot more than was strictly healthy ... but  I figured that she'd left him and didn't show any signs of coming back, other than to collect her spoils from the divorce and to argue about custody of the cats, so I brushed it aside and for the next 8 weeks went about the business of falling madly, badly and dangerously in love.

Together, we could fix the previous damage done to his heart.. After all, I  wasn't known by my friends as the Fourth Emergency Service...for nothing.....

Headhunter!

Is it just me, or am I being reasonable in being a little put out at the latest shenanigans from the cast of the world's largest dating site? As anyone who has ever partaken in the soul destroying pastime of Internet dating will know, you have to be online regularly in order to garner interest. So, whilst editing my novel, and in the interests of positivity, I am often logged in and occasionally get some interesting messages. 

One such interlude occurred yesterday. I have to confess to still getting excited when interest is shown by a man who, on paper at least, looks attractive and writes in proper sentences. The  calibre of suitors has dropped so far, that it doesn't take much to impress me these days! Despite the cynic that dating has made me a part of me, perhaps naively, still refuses to believe that there aren't a few decent guys out there....

This appeared to be one such man - 45, no kids, attractive, a job, didn't live a million miles away and didn't live with his parents. Result! A couple of emails about location and interests followed by the killer message.

After giving me his name (and he was easy to find on Linked In - a headhunter with a large recruiter, apparently - so clearly thought his approach to dating was entirely acceptable) I received this:

'Am only looking for fun, casual and great sex and see what happensm. Interestred? Xx'

Spelling mistakes, all his own.

Interested? Err...no! Clearly the sort of 'head' he was hunting could most likely be found under his desk, rather than over it! I almost directed him to the business card section of his local phone box, as those who advertised there seemed more what he was looking for...

I suppose at least he was up front about his intentions, but really... NEXT! 

Apple Pie Order!

Apple Pie Man, was an all American guy (what else, with a nom de plume like that!) who had moved to the UK a couple of years before I met him - blonde, blue eyed and with teeth so white he could have given Mr. Socks a run for his money on the gleaming veneers front!

We agreed to meet in my local pub/restaurant and I should have known that maybe I was dated out and cynicism had begun to set in when I booked the table and the landlord, who I'd known for about 6 years asked 'Do I know this one, Daisy ... or do you want me to pretend you don't come here often?'

So cruel...but, to be fair, I had bought about ten different dates there over the preceding 6 months on the basis it was safe (if date turned out to be mad) and five minutes walk from my house so I could be home in front of the TV with a glass of wine (if date turned out to be dull)...

Apple Pie Man was everything his photos and profile promised - just not a lot more - as two dimensional as his online profile and clearly not a believer in self-deprecating humour!

After I paid for supper, without even the pretence of him whipping out his own credit card, I foolishly let him walk me the 100 metres to my front door and, even more foolishly, when confronted with that awkward moment, when we should have parted company never to see each other again, I invited him in for coffee...which, on this occasion, was certainly not intended as a euphemism for something more exciting than a mug of Gold Blend. 

I merely didn't know what else to say. Bad idea as, because I had no de-caf, he would only drink water. Desperately scrabbling for conversation over a glass of Southern Water's finest, whilst blinded by his Colgate smile, my eyes locked on some apple pies I'd made earlier. With a meaningful glance at the front door, I swept one into a freezer bag and handed it to him - 'For when you get home.'

Well, at least I didn't offer him me for dessert ...NEXT!

My Dyson - Snap, Crackle and Pop (Part 4)!

A whole three days after I left my Kindred Spirits voice mails, I received a called. He was clearly working on man time, not girl time! 

I was in the pub with a friend when my mobile beeped. On retrieving my phone, from amidst the tangle of poo-bags, Tampax and legal aid forms populating my handbag, I realised it was my answer service:

'You have 1 new message and fifteen saved messages.

Crackle crackle … Hi – it’s…crackle…from the Daily Telegraph. Just returning your call. Off to rehearsal now; will try you again tomorrow, or you can call me if you like on....crackle.’

First problem - a phone line that crackled more than a bowl of rice crispies. I listened at least five times and still couldn’t make out the name of the caller. This was going to be tricky. Had I in fact left my number for the West Country Womble and this was him or was it the, ex-RAF, amateur dramatics loving flyer from Hampshire with a very similar name. Goodness only knew. As the contact details left were a mobile number, the only other clue I had was the fact that he was off to rehearsal.

It could be either. Maybe the Spielberg part had come off - although if Tim from Bristol really had made the big time and was working with Hollywood royalty would he really have time to call dippy Daisy, the UK- based owner of three cuddly wombles?

There was nothing for it, but to wait and hope he called back. I didn't have to wait long and after some initial awkward stumbling conversation, so as not to give away the fact that I had hedged my bets and left messages for two guys, I worked out that this was the ex-RAF flyer. Twenty minutes later, despite him complaining bitterly of suffering from a cold and sounding a little fierce (maybe he was nervous) we did also laugh, so agreed to meet for supper a few days later...my first experience ever of this sort of contrived date...carrying on the cereal theme - would this snappy date with the crackly phone be the man to make my ovaries pop...?

Mr. Socks Revisited!

Another short one, as an interlude from the saga that became Mr. Dyson!

Yesterday, I met Mr. Socks for coffee. No - romance has not been revisited. It's just that the man with the monster sock collection fancies himself as a bit of a scriptwriter and entrusted me with his first literary masterpiece for comment; to his credit it is actually very good, despite his dubious use of unnecessary apostrophes, which he blamed on 'Movie Magic' software, whatever that is!

He obviously feels that we have got over any awkwardness regarding our recent liaison as, after admitting to an obsession with Dallas (at which point I realised what a lucky escape I'd had!), he proceeded to ask my advice on how he should handle a woman he'd recently been dating and didn't see a future with! Great plan - asking moi for relationship advice! What was he thinking?

Anyway, talking of blaming computers, if one considers what I've recently been matched with on the Internet then perhaps his excuse is a valid one. What is it about certain dating websites that repeatedly match me with individuals that I wouldn't go within 5 miles of a bed shop with, let alone a bed?

The worse culprit is the site which requires hopeful candidates to complete a lengthy personality profile, akin to any psychometric test I have ever been required to do for senior legal jobs. The first time I tried to join the site, having spent 30 minutes laboriously ticking boxes, it had the audacity to reject me on the basis that it had insufficient suitable matches, adding that I shouldn't worry as it happened to 20% of applicants.

A different perspective on not getting past first base!

A couple of years later, having got over the initial humiliation, I decided it was worth another try....alleluia...they accepted me. I can only assume it ws because the 80% of applicants it had previously accepted had cancelled their membership in disgust. After relieving me of the £30 fee, it proceeded to match me with a series of moustachioed dwarfs (quite literally) who lived hundreds of miles away? To be fair, I was rather glad about the geographical divide because, as sure as night follows day, if they had lived closer they would undoubtedly have viewed me as their ideal woman and pursued me relentlessly.

So, back to Mr. Dyson (Part 4) ......

Mr. Dyson - First Impressions Count (Part 3)!

So after my hapless efforts at impressing the Womble, I wasn't too confident about approaching the ex-RAF flyer. However, never one to give up, even though it may have been better if I had, I decided I had to listen to his voice message first so I could compose a suitably impressive opening message of my own.

This meant, of course, that I would have to listen to his message at least twice. Once to establish what he had to say…tick, tick, tick…1.6p per second. Replace receiver. Prepare eloquent, funny flirtatious response. I would then have to call again to dispatch said witty riposte, hence doubling the cost, as the system would not allow me to skip his voicemail and fast forward to his answer service.

I figured that if he sounded terrible, I wouldn't bother calling back and if I did like the sound of him it would be worth the extra few quid, as decent dates were rarer than dodos. Time to polish off the remaining Rioja and call...

"Hi I'm Sim … I used to be an RAF navigator and loved it. I now work in London and hate it…’

Aah, a positive man - just what I was looking for. On and on…a full 4 minutes and 30 seconds later his diatribe finally ended ... but he did seem relatively normal. He had a nice voice, was pretty sporty, recently separated (oh why did the warning bells not ring out loud and clear at that stage?), no kids but hadn't ruled out the possibility if he met the right woman and only lived about 20 miles away. He could also string a sentence together and, despite an interest in amateur dramatics, did not appear to enjoy dressing up as anything furry.

He was only 5'10 and a half - clearly had a bit of an issue about his height as he mentioned the half inch at least twice - dark hair and was moderately good looking - whatever that meant. I would have preferred someone taller, as at 5'7" myself I would tower over him in heels, but it was all the same lying down. I made a few notes to assist in formulating my response. I didn't want it to sound staged but hoped, if I practised a few times in front of the stuffed wombles, I might improve on my last effort.

Right, how should I describe myself - don't know one end of a pair of skis from another, a lawyer, a bit mad,  interested in horticulture - just done a 'Ground Force' job on my garden, love people and dogs, horse racing and huge hats.

I thought I could pull off a nonchalantly casual message so I rang again. Four and a half minutes of him, then my turn... It was only when I ended the call that I realised I should have pressed a further key to confirm the message. I hadn't. So… 9 minutes and £9 down listening to his message twice, 2 minutes and £2 down leaving my message. £11 spent and I hadn't even managed to record my name and number on his voicemail yet!.

One last attempt…his message again…tick, tick…£15.50…go:

'Hi, I'm Daisy! I like gardening, dogs, people, cooking, horse racing and big hats. I am a bit mad, very voluptuous - not fat mind - just curvy, dark long hair and sparkly eyes…oh and I like gardening, or did I already say that? I love wine and food and I hate sport - watching and playing - and I've not held a tennis racquet since I was eleven, and I wouldn't know one end of a ski from another. Seems most unnatural to me having two planks of wood strapped to your feet and hurtling down a hill trying to avoid trees. However, I might be persuaded to go skiing to try out the gluwein. Will that do? There that’s me. Call me on….'

Remember, remember - press the button to save message - done! Would he call? Well, it all depended on whether he was interested in an alcoholic, dark haired version of Charlie Dimmock, with a habit of repeating herself. Time would tell…

The Womble - Prelude to Mr Dyson (Part 2)!

Each Kindred Spirit was allocated a unique code. I had to telephone a general number and type in the code to listen to any further information chosen man wished to divulge and then leave a voicemail in response. Relatively straightforward then...

Only one drawback - calls cost £1 per minute. A bit steep, but I was already getting carried away by the whole concept of meeting and falling hopelessly in love with a man thrust in my direction by virtue of my father's beloved 'Torygraph'. I knew he would practically burst with pride when making his 'father of the bride' speech, having been the instigator of such a union.

Stop! Slow down! My habit of imagining myself half way up the aisle in rock/reception/meringue scenario had reached endemic and unhealthy proportions. Despite reining in my imagination, I still decided to sod the expense. The costs of the exercise were inconsequential in the grand scheme of my search for romance. So what if British Telecom's next quarters profits doubled in the process.

Another large slurp of wine and I punched in the number … one more digit to go … I put the phone down. Could I really do this? Remember this was the days where people still met real people in real life and Internet dating did not exist.

Another gulp of wine and I picked up the receiver again. This was ridiculous. I was only planning to listen to a couple of voicemails - where was the harm in that? Glug, tap, glug, tap. The very small amount of Rioja remaining in my very large glass was diminishing fast as the automated instructions droned on - most certainly artificially and unnecessarily prolonged in order to maximise BT's profits. At last, I was asked to enter the code and Tim from Bristol’s broad West Country burr crackled down the line:

‘Hi. I'm Tim, I live in Clifton in Bristol and am an actor. I am resting at the moment, but have recently completed a two-week run as Orinocho in a production of 'Heros of Wimbledon Common'. In light of its success, my agent is currently in negotiations with Spielburg regarding a speaking part in 'Gremlins 3'. I’m on the way, ladies!’

In retrospect, I realise I should have taken decisive action and firmly replaced the receiver at that stage. Instead, I found myself stuttering through a message:

‘Err … hi. I saw your ad in the Telegraph … err … I'm Daisy … um … I absolutely love the wombles, in fact I have 3, including Orinocho, sitting on my spare bed as we speak! Call me.’

 As the phone clattered back into its cradle, I cringed. After that performance, I certainly wouldn’t be hearing from Tim. Maybe, that wasn't such a bad thing. Did I really want to meet a man with a penchant for dressing up as imaginary furry animals, currently unemployed and deluded enough to believe that he might be on his way to Hollywood?

At that moment the phone rang. OMG – what if it was the furry one calling, then it dawned on me…as far as I could recall, I’d forgotten to leave my number. Alleluia. Saved by my own ineptitude!

Phew! This lonely hearts stuff was not as straightforward as I had imagined. Clearly, I needed to plan my speech a little more carefully, if I was to convince a debonair ex-RAF flyer, later to be known as Mr. Dyson, that I was just the sort of interesting, intelligent, eloquent, attractive girl his dreams were made of, rather than the bumbling womble-loving moron, I had managed thus far.... did I manage it? Find out soon in Mr. Dyson - First Impressions Count (Part 3)...

Mr. Dyson - The Advertisement (Part 1 of many)!

I have been toying with Mr. Dyson, so called because of his obsession with vacuum cleaners, for sometime. Whilst everything in my blog is true, as Mr. Dyson and others who know him may be reading this, I have been selective about what I write as he is still a dear and much loved friend.

Mr. Dyson is my soul mate (one of two I've met in my life). He knows that and I know that; we have a connection that is both incredible and destructive in equal measure....to put it in context, Mr. Dyson to me, is what Mr. Big is to Carrie Bradshaw. 

Mr. Dyson came into my life when my dear late father decided he was going to give my love life a helping hand and started sending me the Daily Telegraph Kindred Spirits column - the precursor to the Internet version of Telegraph Dating - with 'suitable' candidates highlighted in neon marker pen. His choices were diverse, although all claimed to have good senses of humour (GSOH). Clearly! Particularly the 63 year old Welsh cross-dresser looking for 'a lovely lady to share his passion for killer heels, French knickers and red lipstick' (I hope Dad was joking about that one!)

After a lot of hilarity and several glasses of Rioja, I narrowed his selection down to two - an actor from Bristol called Tim and, Mr. Dyson whose real name rhymed with Tim!

Tim described himself as 6', dark haired with a quirky sense of humour; QSOH instead of GSOH - full marks for originality. He was looking for a 'voluptuous female aged between 28 and 35 for friendship'. One wonders why it mattered whether she was voluptuous or built like a skeletal pipecleaner, if all he was looking for was friendship? But, I digress...

Mr. Dyson described himself as an ex-RAF flyer, 45, who enjoyed tennis, skiing, amateur dramatics, good wine and eating out. He was looking for romance in the Home Counties with women with similar interests.

Mmm…an ex-RAF flyer. Images of Top Gun sprang to mind. Would he be as attractive as my handsome neighbour Craig, who used to fly naval helicopters and on whom I had a massive crush? This one sounded even more promising than Bristol Tim.

Ok, I know what you're thinking...I don't possess any of the attributes he was seeking in a woman. I had to admit I hadn't played tennis since the age of eleven when I was hit in the face by a stray racquet and had my front tooth knocked out; I had never set foot on a ski slope, not even a nursery one, but I did like good wine and restaurants.

I did live in the Home Counties and I was certainly looking for romance. I'd also been known to be a bit of a drama queen in my time, so maybe I could tick the am dram box. He was a bit older than I was looking for - 15 years my senior to be precise - but maybe the more mature man would manage to behave with a little more emotional maturity in his dealings with the fairer sex....

 

Targets selected; time to make contact which, as you can probably imagine, didn't go without a hitch....