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 

Big enough to have it's own postcode !

This post is about a friend of mine.... (they all say that)...but seriously - it is. She's just met a chap - and so far (after much discussion and debate with me and her other female friends about his behaviour in the three short weeks that she's known him) he's doing well.

So well in fact that tomorrow night may be THE NIGHT. I don't need to explain. He's coming to hers for dinner. This will probably involve wine - more than 2 glasses as she's no Delia - and therefore precipitate a sleep over. She lives in a one bedroom house. Enough said (nudge nudge wink wink).

She has booked a waxing session for tomorrow morning. I did advise that she should have done it a couple of days ago - we don't like that 'just plucked chicken' look - do we girls? But - she's always on the last push and just didn't get round to it. I've advised Aloe Vera (hello vera) gel and sitting still for a few hours - and hopefully it will be all right.

I've just been chatting with her on the phone - and we have discussed the menu, the undies, the outfit, the lighting, the music, the shoes (demure low pumps - or killer FM heels?), the wine and all of that stuff. Girls you know what I mean...Guys - you will be going..'huh?'

Anyway - right at the end of the chat...she confessed. To having a spot. On her Ninny.

OH MY GAWD.

It's not THAT big - but it's new - so at the time of chat - it's angry and red and aggressive looking. And it's right where it can't be missed. I mean RIGHT WHERE IT CANT BE MISSED.

'Maybe he's shortsighted - and won't be able to see it without his specs' I coo'ed in an  effort to clam her ensuing panic. She then informed me that it was so big that it may as well have its own postcode...the only way he could miss it was if he was blind - and then he would be able to read it because it spells the word 'HELP' in braille.

Quickly I (good friend sat on sofa with laptop and wireless connection) googled 'Spot on Ninny" and got some vague stuff about all kinds of rubbish - including a post about 'Winnie The Pooh'..(good old Google thinking it knows what you want) but alas..no remedy. I nearly posted an "attention all readers"  query on Facebook but common sense prevailed - and I don't want to get my FB account shut down.

Spot on Ninny is a very serious affliction. We wouldn't want a Gentleman Caller thinking that she doesn't care for her ladies garden. 

Anyway - after much wailing and gnashing of teeth - we decided that the best course of action would be to apply copious amounts of Sudocreme to the afflicted area - and re-assess in the morning. She's going to call me first thing and if necessary send photos by I-phone..so that I (with all my medical training) can best advise her.

So fingers crossed as I retire. For her - and her spot, and her ladies garden, and her date, and her reducing possibilities for dancing the horizontal mumba tomorrow night. Girls everywhere - please keep your fingers crossed for her.... Guys - sigh and go back to watching football. 

As always - I will let you know of the outcome. 

DGC is live on Facebook and Twitter

Welcome friends. Dear Gentleman Caller is live now on Facebook and Twitter. You can find the her on Facebook as 'Deargentleman Caller' and on Twitter as 'deargentcaller'.

Please feel free to add me....and if you like this blog - encourage your friends to do the same. Thank you .

The Author X

What snogging?

Well - I've been asked for an update on the Saturday snogfest. And I did promise. The fact that it's now Monday afternoon and I've yet to update you should tell you that things may not have turned out as well as could be expected.

I had done some research - because I am little out of practice. I looked it up on the 'net and this is what I discovered. There is a snog rating as follows:

1. Dry little peck to cheek

2. Dry peck to lips

3. Longer peck to lips with 'puckering'

4. As above but with tongue darting (!)

5. Open mouth kissing with mutual tongue exploration

6. Neck Nuzzling

7. No 5 but with above waist body fondling

8 No 5 But with below waist body fondling

9. Any of the above with coinciding clothes removal

10. The full Monty

Now - we ladies like to work our way through the list in order. Well - I think we do - well anyway I do (I can't really speak for my sisters) and we know that if we're to be respected we should leave an appropriate amount of time from starting on number 1 and ending up at number 10. What's appropriate? Well - it could be anything from a couple of hours to a couple of months (I have been known to wait a few months......sharp intake of breath....You?...Never) but that was when I was younger and had more time.  In essence - the timing has to be right and appropriate. I do know ladies who have gone from 0-10 in less than an hour - but they will readily admit that it was just for fun and they never expected him to call the next day. 

I do actually know one lady who would get there as quickly as possible - her record?  3 Minutes - but she worked an hourly rate...her meter was ticking and she had other clients.

Anyway - back to the plot. I arrived at his house and he made me coffee..(No sugar...health nut...doesn't have it in his house!). We talked about his job and other stuff including my plans for the evening. We laughed about some stuff and even discussed sentence construction. I don't know much about it - but it beats talking about footy. Time flew by and then it was time for me to leave.  I had to get to Tesco for some fresh cream (which they didn't have...but that and the ensuing supermarket hissy fit is a whole other story).

He grabbed me by the door....in a very tight clinch (oh Barbara Cartland) and stuck his mouth straight on mine and ...well....I can only assume he was trying to suffocate me - or try and work out what I'd had for breakfast...or steal my gold fillings or something...but I couldn't breathe.

It wasn't passionate - or nice - or sexy - or in any way pleasant. At all. Not one little bit. Then his hands started and suddenly we were at a number 7 and very quickly he attempted a number 8.

Well..needless to say I panicked.

I disengaged myself - opened the front door and almost ran off up the garden path. Acting just like the sophisticated worldy wise experienced woman that I am (not).

Less than an hour later I got a text cancelling our lunch date for the following day. Then the penny dropped. He had just wanted a **ag! Probably no interest in me or my funky little ways or my clever bright and enquiring mind or my wacky sense of humour...or any of it. He must have thought that if he could get me round there on Saturday and have his wicked way - he wouldn't have to fork out for lunch on Sunday! Sleazy!

I didn't bother texting back. 

I mean...let's face it....I'm not going to go from zero to ten within an hour for a man who doesn't even keep sugar in his house...now am I?

Snogging anyone?

This afternoon I'm going out snogging. I met a chap earlier in the week for a few glasses of champagne (actually it was G&T but Champagne sounds posher - we live in hope). He's a bright guy. I can't say exactly what he does - because somebody may recognise his description - and it's unfair to identify chaps on here (apart from Pizza Penis Alan of course). But he's bright - very bright. I like that in a man. After the passion fades - you have to able to converse.... (maybe that's where I've been going wrong).

On our date he was lovely - made me laugh - put his arm round me as we walked to the next venue - told me I was lovely...all that nice stuff. 

He's been texting me - and last night he called. We have a date tomorrow afternoon for lunch...but this morning he has called and asked me round to his this afternoon for coffee. Apparently he can't wait until tomorrow to see me again. Sensible chap.

On his text - he was quite clear. He said 'pop round for coffee and snogging'. So I'm going. It's been a long while since I had a snog - or a furtle - or anything at all resembling activities other than listening to a bemoaning diatribe about the ex-wife. Seriously - there's a lot of that out there in dating land. This chap doesn't even have an ex wife. (Hmmm.... does that mean there's something wrong with him?)

Now - I'm a bit unsure about the 'rules' of engagement. If you accept an invitation for snogging - does that mean that you have to do more? I am willingly going round to his home. Is that a bit reckless? Does snogging involve standing up - or laying down - or being bent over the kitchen worktop? In the past - first snog has usually happened by the car at the end of an evening (or in the case of one particularly passionate encounter - right in the middle of Arrivals at Terminal Four at Heathrow - where if it hadn't been for a security guard we would have probably ended up on doing the jiggy dance on the marble floor)......I digress:)

Maybe it will lead to more - and that matters. I need to know. Because if it will I need to do some maintenance. My lady's garden could do with strimming. Maybe I shouldn't wear my boosting bra. If he fondles my boozooms he may discover that there more than half made up from a silicon insert (it's in the bra - not in my body).

Should I wear some stunning underwear from my extensive matching bra and panties selection?...something red and racy...or black and vampish? or pink and pretty? Will it get that far that the state of my undies will matter? Oh it's all so difficult. 

As we age - snogging - which is a lovely activity - is fraught with challenges. I wonder if - right now - up at his house - he's going through the same dilemmas? Is he wondering if his Calvin Klein boxers would be better than his Tesco Y fronts? Is he racing round thinking about what top to wear - obviously wanting to show his pecs off to best effect (and yes Ladies - he has lovely pecs!) Is he racing about chucking his lad's mags under the sofa - and getting rid of three week old salad from the fridge? 

Anyway - check back later and I'll let you know how I got on. X

Any good at sticking stamps on envelopes?

I've had a message. Through the dreaded dating website. When you sign up for the website you give yourself a name. Mine is just my name and a couple of numbers. I have not called myself 'titty girl' or 'tight thighs' or 'cute buns' or anything remotely descriptive.

Some people do however. And some of them are quite amusing. Some of them are dreadful. In the past I have been contacted by 'Poleman'...'sitonthis'...'goallnight' and many many more.

Today I have had a message from a chap calling himself 'Fellatioman'.

Now - let's think about this. I'm impressed that said chap actually knows the correct term for this particular activity. But I am suspicious. The name tends to lead us to the believe that he is a master. Were badges available he would probably have them sewn all down the sleeves of his pyjamas. Bronze, silver and gold...advanced...further advanced and so on. Maybe certificates in bronze frames above his bed. He would probably be excellent at holding his breath for long periods, and diverting his respiratory activity via his aural orifices. (!)

The trouble with us women is we tell fibs. Usually when we're moaning. I have never ever told a man that he is rubbish at this particular activity. I've told men when they're good at it - but if they're rubbish - I've just kept quiet and distracted them by doing something else instead. And I suspect I'm not alone. I have been known to exaggerate their prowess in an attempt to hurry them along so I can get back to watching the soaps on TV. Men have fragile wee egos and they're very easily damaged. If you criticise their performance they're likely to run away with Janice from the Chip shop - you know - the one with lanky long hair and a wonderbra. Because we want to keep them - I mean - they make be rubbish at that - be he might be well handy with a cordless drill and you need curtain poles putting up next saturday. They're hard enough to find (good ones) so you don't want to be all careless and lose them by telling them that their tongue is like an annoying little insect and the pressure, direction and placement is all WRONG.

So - my thinking is this...if a lady finds a good bloke who is also good at that..she's going to hang onto him. She'll go and buy her own drill (I have two) and put up her own curtain poles.

So here's my message to my latest gentleman caller.

Pop round here love - I've got a mouth organ that I want you to play some Beethoven on... I've got two hundred stamps that need sticking on envelopes.... I have a huge solid Thorntons chocolate lolly that I've saved from Easter that I want to watch you eat. If you pass all those tests we'll discuss your prediliction for scampi fries and seafood - and only then - shall we discuss the possibility of letting you prove to me that you deserve the name you've given yourself.

Look forward to it x

Angry Alan and his penis - UPDATE!

I've had another telephone call from our Al. He's still a bit cross. I think he needs to calm down. Did I mention he was a bit chubby? Prone to cardiac issues these fat guys. Probably need keep things on an even keel. Not a great idea to get upset.

I won't bore you with the details of his latest voice mail message - apart from to precis it for you. He's still very cross. He has my vehicle registration number and tells me that he knows where I live. He's threatening to send Pizza.... (he's really got a thing about Pizza...maybe from now on we should refer to him as 'Pizza Penis Man') Which is good. I love Pizza. I may text him and ask for extra pepperoni. Please send a lot of pizzas as I have a big freezer and lots of hungry pals.

Thanks x

Angry Alan and his Penis

I have a picture of a penis. On my mobile phone. It was sent to me. By a man. He was annoyed. I should explain.

Today I went to meet a man for a coffee / chat at a hotel just outside of a Barnsley. That's about a 40 minute drive for me. No problem. I had chatted to him on the dog (and bone) and he had text me a few times. Seemed okay. Company director (so - bit smart - fair assumption?) drives racing cars in his spare time (better than fishing or football?)...seemed like an okay kind of guy. I don't ever discount people on the basis of their picture or their size - or any other physical attribute (maybe I should).

Today it was chilly. Not really sitting outside weather. Brrrrr.....

I arrived - went inside the lobby area of the hotel - had a quick butchers - couldn't see anybody even slightly resembling my date. (You have to look carefully sometimes because - believe it or not - dear reader - that Camera can and does lie!). No sign of our Alan.

I phoned him - he told me he was sitting outside. With his Dog. Therefore if I wanted to join him for a drink I would have to go and sit outside too. And that is exactly what he said and how he said it.

I thought that was a bit rude. At no point during our communication regarding arrangements did he say that he was bringing his dog. I like dogs. Perhaps we could have gone for a walk with his dog. Would have been great. I feel that he should have told me he wanted to sit outside with his dog - and then maybe I could have brought a jacket to keep out the autumn chill. As far as I was concerned we were meeting at the hotel for coffee and chat. Now - maybe I'm a bit dumb - but that would suggest (up here in the frozen North - halfway through October) being inside???

Just to clarify - I do log fires and cozy. I do soft sofas and cushions. I do fluffy carpets. I do ambient soft lighting (wrinkles?) I do waiters wearing waistcoats bearing trays filled with hot rich coffee. I do delicacies flown in from around the world for my enjoyment.

I don't do damp benches. I don't do drizzle. I don't do walking ankle deep in wet grass in my high heels (I have walking boots for that) I don't do chubby men with a pint of lager in a crappy beer garden at 3pm on a Thursday at the side of the M1 Motorway - breathing diesel fumes and listening to the sirens of the traffic cops desperately trying to get their moment of fame on next week's episode of 'Police..Stop...Action'. I don't do men who are more concerned about their friggin dog than my levels of comfort. Period. (I do do those - but that's a whole other story)

So I said.....'Oh lovely. Perhaps you could pop the dog in the car and we could go inside for a drink...where it's warm - because I didn't bring a coat'.

His reply is really unrepeatable....but it contained the words....'silly'...'bitch'...'my'...'dog'...'is'...'worth'....'over'...'five'...'hundred'....'quid'...'and'...'I'm'....'not'....

.....'leaving'...'it'......'in'....'the'....'car'.

At this point I figured it was best to just leave. Our first date wasn't going well, and being a smartish kind of girl I couldn't really see it getting any better. So I got in my car - started the engine and drove off. 

Then he sent me a text.

'Totally silly cow...I hope you like Pizza' (Couldn't really see any relevance to anything in that comment - but hey ho!)

Then he sent me a voicemail.

'Call me back immediately'

Then another...

'Look you stupid woman...we were only meeting for a drink...are you some kind of mad bitch?....I was sitting outside with my dog because my dog is worth a fortune...and quite frankly I'm not going to leave it in the car in a shit-hole like Sheffield...and you strut past me with your fat arse ...dressed in black as if you're going to a funeral...and get in your car and leave....How dare you...nobody ever walks away from me...'

Then another....

' I have driven over twenty miles to come and meet you today and I want you to refund my petrol money'

Then another....

'Call me back now you stupid bitch... I demand an apology...'

What a lovely guy. By now I was about halfway home and how I got there without crashing I will never know. I was laughing so much there were tears running down my face.

My phone went ding to let me know I had another text. It was a picture text. Of a penis. (Size - small)

Then it went again - it was another picture - this time of a Lady's parts!

Editor's note...No matter how old or experienced I get I cannot fathom why or how anybody would ever send pictures of sexual organs via a mobile phone. Footballers do it. Enough said.

So - Dear Gentleman Caller (aka Alan) - I won't be returning your call - I won't be returning your texts - and I'm glad that I didn't stay to meet you and your valuable dog - because you are without doubt the most arrogant pigheaded man I have ever had the misfortune to encounter. I was however highly amused by your communications and I have to say that looking at the the picture.. your willy is tiny ...no wonder you're such an angry sausage:)

And by the way - I don't 'strut' , my arse is a fine shape and size...and I look great in black.

Lots of Love XX

Note to readers : If you want to see Angry Alan's tenny weeny Penis I am happy to forward the picture on to you for a fee of £5. It's not worth more than that :)....and I am happy to let anybody who wants to - listen to his charming and cleverly worded voicemail messages :)