As a writer of no repute, whose investigative techniques were found wanting during a recent experiment outside the local railway station, it may not surprise you to know that my courting history has enjoyed a certain level of difficulty and now requires an element of tweaking: let me elucidate.
In my youth I saw a girl in a bar, nicely figured if that can convey a sense of her beauty without being unnecessarily invasive, and I walked up to her and said, “Alright, given that we don’t know each other, I only speak one language and have a career which is poorly paid and offers no prospect of promotion, are you willing to cast aside all common sense and agree to marry me, accept life in the slow lane, and learn to peel vegetables without the aid of modern appliances.”
There may have been a pause for reflection before the girl said “No” but it was not discernible. No problem with that. At the “Biro and Stationary Sales Technique Conference” I was taught that every “No” takes you nearer to a “Yes,” so, unbowed, I moved on in my search for a bride.
In a coffee shop I saw a girl who had clearly been assembled with some care, and seemed to have a similar sense of values to mine acquired, in my case, by staring out of the window for long hours without agenda or urgency. She had the vacancy about her which suggested she used the same self-development programme.
Pausing briefly to straighten my non-existent tie, I walk up to her and say, “Alright, given that we don’t know each other, I only speak one language and have a career which is poorly paid and offers no prospect of promotion, I wondered if you were willing to cast aside all common sense and agree to marry me, accept life in the slow lane, and learn to peel vegetables without the aid of modern appliances.”
This time there was an even less discernible pause between my hope for her blind and total devotion and the irritated rejection of my offer. That is just life, or purgatory, depending on your point of view. Things moved on and I accepted a sentence of bachelorhood, sausage rolls, and a diet of less than challenging romantic comedies, all crammed in between sleep and a job which didn’t begin to disclose to me, or anyone else for that matter, what my “Core” abilities might have been, apart from being able to say “Sorry” a lot, which is a skill I have polished over time.
A number of decades pass; although there is some disagreement between my doctor and the internet dating site I have now joined over how many that is exactly, in the hope of sharing an old age full of arguments, remote control wars and the eternal battle between laziness and the need to clean the fridge. Once more I have reached out to the opposite sex. Here is the blurb in my profile.
“Accepting that we don’t know each other and the above photograph is not a recent likeness or any likeness at all if truth be told, I speak only one language and have a career which is poorly paid, unblemished by promotion and light on achievements, I wondered if any lady on this, or any other planet capable of supporting the human species where English is the spoken language and sport may be either played or watched from armchairs, would be willing to cast aside all common sense and marry me, accept life in the slow lane, and learn to peel vegetables without the aid of modern appliances.”
To date I have had no replies, which just goes to show the internet can mirror real life. Tomorrow I am going to update my profile and enlist the help of one, Ernest Shackleton, in the photograph department, which I’m told is a key appointment in the internet dating industry. He knew a thing or two about getting out of tricky situations and looked quite dashing in an “Afternoon-tea” kind of way. Apparently, he was also resourceful in all circumstances, especially if experienced in sub-zero temperatures, which I’ve “enjoyed” a lot of myself, socially speaking. Let’s see if “Shackers” can help me get out of Bachelor Alley and into a nice apartment on Marriage Avenue. I’ll keep you posted.