Misguidedly accepted invitation from former landlady (about 20 years my senior), with whom I am still friendly, to come round and meet 'wonderful interior designer man' at a Saturday afternoon get-together. Upon driving up to the gate, I observed through the trees a motley crew of unpromising middle-aged men huddled around a fire on the patio (this was the coldest day of the year so far). Was tempted to drive off.
Dismissed this cowardly impulse, made my entrance and was instantly surrounded. It wasn't immediately clear which of the specimens was my prospective husband, but one in particular took an instant shine to me, turning a polite handshake into an opportunity for a sloppy mock-chivalrous hand-kissing incident. He thought I had a lovely name and beautiful green eyes. I thought he had an ill-advised moustache and the hungry gaze of a serial killer. The matchmaking hostess proudly advised me that this catch was in the final stages of a divorce and would shortly be back on the market.
The rest of the wretched afternoon was spent trying to maneuver into a weak patch of wintery sunlight near the fire and shake off moustache man who was reluctant to let me out of his sight, intent on captivating me with his breathtakingly dull anecdotes and inappropriate compliments. The interior designer, it transpired, was another individual no more attractive but slightly less repellant in demeanour than my first suitor. Upon departure (a subjective 15 weeks later) I was subjected to ANOTHER horrible crushing of my hand against the frightful 'tache.
I fully expect that my phone number has been handed out to any and all of the men above.
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