Holding a candle.

Last night I went out. To a Party. It being the festive season and all. The hostess has been a dear friend for more than 18 years. I love her. She's my best friend. There was a boy there (man). I used to have a thing with him. Mind you...it was a very, very long time ago. We dated for a while..and then it kind of fizzled out. But - because we have a big group of mutual friends - and because there was no animosity - we have remained friends. As far as I know he hasn't ever dated anyone since. I have that effect on men. It was nice to see him again. Nice like daffodils are nice. Nice like bread and butter is nice. So..it's nice - but I wouldn't bat an eye if I never ate bread and butter again - or ever saw another daffodil. That's my drift - you've got it...right?

It would seem that this chap is still holding a candle. Pour moi. He was a bit under the influence. Alcohol had been consumed in medium sized quantities. I enquired after his general health (as you do). He grabbed my hand. And didn't let go. That made things awkward. There were drinks and sandwiches. It became particularly awkward when I decided to eat a pickled onion. As you may know..that's usually a two handed task.

During the conversation he told me that I was a bit too headstrong. A bit too opinionated. Sometimes a bit difficult. He also mentioned that he usually prefers girls with a bit more chest. And a bit more height. And dark hair. And girls that can cook. And, obviously someone who lived closer. Did he pay me any compliments? Did he extol my many virtues? Did he say what is what about me that he found so attractive? Did he mention my wit, my clever brain, my lovely face, my sexy ass? Funnily enough...No. He never did. But he did ask what I thought about us 'giving it another go'. Apparently we can start again on New Year's Eve - because there's a party he's been invited to and he'd like to take me along. As his date.

Now...I know I'm getting older. I know my choices are becoming more diminished with the passing of each sunset. I know that beggars can't be choosers. I know that I've been on my own for 2 years now. I know that things may be beginning to shrivel. I know that if you don't use it you might lose it. I know all of this. No..really I do.

Am I tempted? Even a little bit?

I don't even need to type the answer. Do I?

Garden Birds

Oh my God. I have just had the most embarrassing experience EVER. I went to Boots. The Chemist. For a simple remedy. One tablet. For a lady's condition which shares the same name a a common garden bird. And that's as much detail as you're going to get. If you can't work it out from that perhaps you shouldn't be reading this blog.

I'm not afflicted by this condition often - perhaps half a dozen times in my entire lifetime. For that I am thankful. However - the ladies amongst us who have ever suffered from this affliction will know how urgent a remedy is when one is suffering.

It was busy in Boots - and there were a few people in the queue at the dispensary. The other customers were gentlemen. Patiently I waited for my turn, and whilst doing so a further three gentleman joined the queue behind me.

At last my turn arrived and I approached the counter. Lady assistant. Phew. I quietly told her what I wanted...to which her reply at some decibel level which was clearly designed for the whole of Sheffield to hear was....'Do you usually use the cream or the pessary for your Thrush'?

The bitch was about nineteen. I hate her. Right now I am mixing a potion in my kitchen cauldron which when I dance naked round my garden at midnight...sprinking it upon the earth and chanting well chosen words.....will render her hairless on every part of her body for years to come.

Handle

In another life - a long time ago.. I wrote something one day about the names that people use on dating websites. I also waxed lyrical about the profile photographs that they use to attract members of the opposite sex. (Note : on some websites they are also trying to attract members of the same sex).

A few years ago in the world of CB radio - what you called yourself over the radio was a 'handle'. I think that's quite apt really. Not sure why - it just seems to fit.

Handles I have encountered (and immediately discounted) have included 'white van man', 'digital jedi', 'poleman', 'well hung' (clearly worked in marketing), 'tryingtogetitrightthistime' (smells of desperation), 'fishing freddy', and many, many more.

You can see what it is that these gentleman callers are trying to achieve. They are attempting to entice us ladies with a clue or hint about what their 'thing' is. It does work - but in my case it usually has the opposite effect to what I suspect they intended. It certainly didn't work when I happened across 'tiemeuptonight' and 'whipmetilIbleed'. Harrumph :)

There are also some which are pretty obvious and standard. I have encountered 'Fireman Sam' (and, sadly, he never mentioned sliding down his pole), 'Butcher Boy', 'The Good Copper', 'Jonny the bike' (huge 1000cc Kawasaki...I like a big engine) and 'The Engineer'.

Tonight - however - for the very first time I have encountered the ultimate handle. This one was designed to reap maximum reward for minimum effort. This is clearly a guy with an innate understanding of what turns women on - what lights their fire - and what floats their boat. Once you know this chap's handle ladies - you will be queueing up to date him. I imagine he's a bit like that lovely sexy young man on the 'Lynx' advert...you know the one - all those nubile wenches chasing him across a beach with bouncing boobs and long sexy legs .....

His name?.............. (scroll down)...







SKIDMARKPRINT


Can somebody please run me to the Chemist so I can fill my Prozac prescription? Thanks

Murder on my mind

Sorry if I startled you with the title. I have to say that I was a bit startled this morning too. I had tea with Ian. As soon as I set eyes upon him I kind of knew he wasn't for me - but that's no reason to do a runner - and as tea was all that was on offer - and it would take an hour max - I was prepared to stay.

Ian had pale skin and was slender. At a guess I would have said about eight stone wet through. The type of guy who should never venture out on a windy day in case he ended up impaled upon railings.

He was dressed in clothes similar to those that would be worn by Wallace - if indeed Wallace were a real person and not a Nick Park animation. His hands were soft with slim fingers and his skin - as he shook my hand - was cool and smooth. His eyes were blue - but a very pale shade of blue, and his unlined face was clean shaven and very paltry - with a hue of whiteness that reminded me of mother's milk. He was the kind of chap you would bump into at the library and he could be carrying one of those brown vinyl shopping bags with a long zip - that you absolutely know (should you peek inside) would contain a bottle of Milk of Magnesia and a tin of marrowfat processed peas.

We sat down and began to chat. He works for the civil service - but upon enquiring - I discovered that this was his second career - as previously he had been a mental health nurse. I was surprised that he had changed career and asked why. "I was struck off" he replied.

Curiosity can kill a cat - but it won't kill me (or so I thought) so I asked why.

"I spent time on remand charged with murder" I choked on my Earl Grey and spat out soggy biscuit crumbs. Obviously that would have been a good time to leave - but my interest was peaked - and so - keeping one eye on the door whilst simultaneously planning my escape route I asked what had happened.

His mother (oh it's all so Oedipus) had been ill. She required daily blood transfusions - this involved daily trips to the hospital some fifteen miles away - and it all became too wearing upon her frail body. She suffered from dementia so my date had been made her legal guardian. He opted for treatment to cease in order for his Mother to end her days with dignity.

Social services became involved - but before they had time to wrest the legal guardianship away from Ian - sadly his mother died. As a result he was charged with murder. Apparently there was a hefty inheritance in the mix as well.

Eventually he was proved to be without fault and released from incarceration. However - this caused a depression of some severity. Understandable. He began to drink. A lot.

One evening he was in the local pub enjoying a game of pool - when another chap - a reknowned local thug and bully - started to take the mickey out of the situation surrounding his mother's demise and his subsequent time spent at her Majesty's pleasure.

Ian lost his temper - grabbed a pool cue - and stoved the other guy's head in. Talk about a worm turning. He was arrested - charged with GBH - received a suspended sentence - and as a result - lost his licence to practise as a nurse.

Oh what an interesting morning. Will I be seeing him again? No - I don't think so. I am already suffering from the slow onset of dementia - and I'm a crack hand at a game of pool (especially where money is involved). I'm not overly keen on those jumpers without sleeves and I prefer my men with a bit more colour. (He reminded me a bit of someone from Twilight...only not as good looking). The intensity of his eyes was altogether a bit much for me.

Still - it was lovely to meet him and it kind of proved that old adage that the quiet ones are often the worst.

(Note - Dear God - please send me somebody decent soon...Thanks X)

Do you even know my name?

Precis to this story. You - my dear readers - do not know my name. But I do - and it is not Deborah, or Debbie - or Debs. 

The other evening I was taken out to dinner. To a very nice restaurant. The restaurant in question features in one or two guides. It has a handful of stars. All good. The food was excellent. I never doubted that it would be. Sadly, my gentleman caller was not so excellent...let me explain.....

I should have known really. He'd telephoned me a few times before our date over the previous week and I already knew quite a lot about him. I know that he runs a restaurant. I know what it's called. I know where it is. I know what hours he works. I know what his duties entail. I know who supplies the meat, fish and vegetables to his restaurant. I know what his daughter's name is. I know who his friends are. I know how long his marriage lasted and whose fault it was that it broke up. (!) I know all of these things because he told me. I also have a picture of his restaurant on my mobile phone because he sent it to me. (Better - but only slightly better than getting a picture of a p***s).

In the few days prior to our date my Gentleman Caller had text me every morning to say Hello- and also to let me know how many covers there had been in the restaurant the previous evening and what the takings were. So fascinating. No, really.

The evening arrived. I looked lovely (!). He called at the house and rang the doorbell. I stepped outside. He opened the car door for me (I could at this point tell you that it was a Porsche and wax lyrical for a while about men in their late forties who drive Porsches and what the    psychological ramifications of that are - but quite frankly - as that is an entire chapter all by itself - I don't have the time). 

NOTE - If you are in your late forties and drive a Porsche - just ignore that last paragraph.

We drove to the restaurant. The journey was short. The distance is long. Jeremy Clarkson would have had trouble keeping up with us. Enough said.

I had a large gin to steady my nerves. During our aperitifs my date explained in detail about his outfit. He'd bought it that very day. To impress me. How very sweet. He told me which shop - the cost of each item - the size of everything including the shoes. Then he asked my advice on how best to wear the scarf. Tempted though I was to reply with some witty retort about using the scarf to gag his gob... I refrained and just as I was about to say how I thought it best worn...he interrupted me and started talking again. I think I detected a slight look of sympathy on the barman's face just for a second - but I can't quite be sure.

We sat - he ordered - everything - the wine - the food - he even took the menu out of my hands and 'insisted' - yes 'insisted' on choosing my dinner for me - because - as he explained - that was his trade...so he was bound to get it right. Lovely !

We were seated at our table - and the dinner began. I ate - and he talked. Then he talked some more. And then again. And then some. 

It was then that I began to notice that every time he ended a sentence and paused for breath - he called me 'Debs'. It happened again...and again - and every single time that he used my name - he got it wrong and called me 'Debs'.

Once I noticed this I couldn't go back and un-notice it. And what's more - it made me giggle. So there I was - bored rigid - eating a dinner I didn't chose - with a man who didn't pause for breath - learning all the ins (inns !) and outs of how to run a restaurant all the while desperately trying to stifle the giggles that were forming in the back of my throat. Dear Reader - it was dire. Dire I tell you. At this point I decided that I probably wouldn't see my date again.

The final nail in the coffin was when he tried to explain to me that frozen chips were better than fresh. At that point I decided that I could never marry him.

I was home - in bed - alone - before the clock struck twelve. As I slept I dreamt of a circle of frozen chips dancing around chanting my name...."Debs....Debs...Debs"......   ZZZZZZZzzzzzzz 

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.

 

The Problem Page

Hello...hello...

Sorry I've been away - but I've been very busy with callers this week. It's been all go. I don't really have much time to post today - but I just wanted to tell you that I've started to get mail. Problem letters to be precise. From worried young ladies with dating dilemmas and issues of their own. For some reason they seem to think that I, as a mature and experienced dating lady will be able to advise them with their problems.

Here is such a letter....

Dear Author,

My new boyfriend is lovely. I've been seeing him for about a month now and already he is talking about us buying a place of our own and getting married. We have been setting aside a little money each week as savings towards a deposit. He is very kind and generous and likes to buy me small gifts to express his affection. 

Last night he said he wanted to give me a pearl necklace.

Obviously I am flattered and if we weren't saving every penny for our own house I'd say yes in an instant, but I feel guilt accepting it at the moment. What should I do?

Yours, Lucinda x

Dear Lucinda,

What a lovely sounding chap. You are a very lucky girl. Some of ladies search our entire lives to find a man like that - and you must be so excited about your future together.

A pearl necklace sounds like a lovely gift. I think you should accept. Immediately. Men have very fragile egos and are as much in the dark as we are when it comes to correct dating etiquette - especially when it comes to gifts. You wouldn't want to risk offending him by refusing. He may not offer such a lovely thing again. 

I would wear his pearl necklace with pride - and if I were you - the minute he gives it to you I would be get on the phone to my parents, straight away,  and tell them all about it. After all a young lady's parents want to know that their daughter is being taken well care of by her Gentleman Caller.

Good luck with everything XX

The Author