In between my workaday slog of trying insidiously to sneak back in all the bits my editor is cutting out of The Daily Male (will it never end...!) I've entertained myself socially with a few blind dates, totally blind, in fact, as I never actually got to see any of the guys I’d arranged to meet!
The first was the darling 20-something, effusive in his admiration, showering me with compliments, begging for an hour of my time, a minute, a second even - just for the pleasure and privilege of merely setting eyes on me.
He assured me of his utmost devotion, enthusing about how he would go to the ends of the earth simply to sniff the air I’d just exhaled! Whooaah! It’s not every day you get bombarded like that, so, overwhelmed with the force of his affection, we made a date.
The great day dawned and I texted to confirm. No reply. I never leave home without re-confirming a confirmation. You know how vacant toyboys can be... Most times I don’t leave home until they’ve called to say they’re actually waiting at the designated venue, but did he reply to my text? Did he answer my email? Did he have any intention of actually turning up? Answers on a pinhead, please.
Adding ten years to the equation, the second ‘applicant’ was a 30-something Oxbridge graduate, a professional man working away but keen to meet up the minute he got back. We emailed for a few weeks, our friendship growing with every message. He was polite, articulate, charming and well-mannered - everything I like in a man. The scent of promise was in the air.
On the morning of our first date, a Jekyll and Hyde transformation took place. He began texting vulgarity – detailing everything he was going to do to me the minute he walked in my door. I hadn’t invited him through my door. Why would I? We hadn’t yet met and I needed to check him out in person first.
And so he blew it. If only he could have remained a gentleman a little longer...maybe the porn would have taken place, but on my agenda not his!
As the premise of The Daily Male is my attempt to find a more suitable suitor, I decided to creep up the age ladder by another ten years. The 40-something was not exactly a toyboy, but seemed interesting nevertheless. And probably, or so I thought, somewhat less of a brain fuck.
He generously invited me to the theatre in a complicated building which I knew but he didn’t. I explained exactly where I would be waiting and arrived at the appointed time. No sign of him. I went up and down and round and round until the first and second bells had been rung.
At 7.29 p.m., with the audience in their seats and my date nowhere to be found, I reviewed my options: I could either slink off home and sulk for the rest of the night or I could buy a ticket and go in. I chose the latter. Very brave and grown-up, I thought - especially after the disappointment of having been stood up.
On returning to my flat, there was a message from him: ‘ You missed a great play’.
'No I didn’t! You missed some great company!' I shot back. And then he phoned.
‘I waited by the book shop,’ he explained. ‘You had to come that way from the station.’
‘I waited at the first floor box office’ I answered, ‘exactly where I said I would be because I drove straight into the underground car park and went up in the lift. Who ever mentioned anything about the book shop anyway, and why didn’t you call me to tell me where you were?’
And then he uttered the immortal line: ‘I was out of credit.’
I’m sorry but if you’re over forty and don’t have a mobile contract, then you’re not the man for me!
He has since texted to ask if I'll give him another chance, assuring me that he now has a mobile contract. I'll have to give him another task to do like climbing Everest - see if he'll oblige with that as well.
And as for the 20-something, he came over all apologetic the next day and wants to make another date too.
Frankly, I can't be arsed. Well would you?