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)...