The Butcher's Boy

Yesterday I had a Gentleman Caller come round to my house for tea and biscuits - mid morning. How very civilised. I had cleaned and polished in the drawing room and cushions were plumped ready for his arrival. He was prompt. I like that in a man. He brought a gift. I like that too. Chocolates. I like that even more.

I made a pot of tea and we sat to converse. During the ensuing ninety minute conversation I discovered all kinds of things about him. We had grown up in the same area. We knew a lot of the same people. In fact our worlds had collided before - some thirty two years ago we had actually sat at the same table in a pub and shared an evening (or part of the evening) of convivial conversation and bonhomie. (I hasten to point out that thirty two years ago I was far too young to be visiting a hostelry - however I was whizz with make up and could easily pass for five years older than I was). Small world? Absolutely.

I liked him. Quite a lot.

It transpired that he used to have a saturday job in our local butcher's shop. Each and every saturday for about two years he would serve the local ladies with their sunday joint requirements - together with any extras that they may require (and by that I mean potted meat, sausages, scrag end of neck etc...not the kind of extra that you may be thinking.)

It turns out that he knew my Mother. My dearly beloved mother was - at that time - a very fetching woman. Stylish, attractive, altogether a bit swish. She was in her early forties - but kept herself very nicely. He confessed to me - over our second cup of Earl Grey - that all the lads who worked in the shop quite liked her. In the way that teenage boys can like a woman of a certain age. Goodness me - Kleenex shares must have been worth a small fortune.

All in all a very pleasant morning. 

Will I be seeing him again? Probably not. Call me old fashioned but I can't quite seriously date a chap who has in the past fantasized about my dear Mama while handling his pork fillet.