For some peculiar reason, a fair number of English women seem to believe that if youve made it past 40 and collected a divorce or two along the way, you ought to toss in the towel on life itself. Well, thats rather the box Im in myself. Ive been married twicefirst time in my youth, which produced my lovely daughter, and then again at the grand old age of 30. Neither union stretched beyond two years. Something always seemed off with the gentlemen, to be honest.
Of course, after husband number two, I dabbled in a few romances, but nothing ever veered towards holy matrimony. Now Im 45, and despite the naysayers and grumpy relatives, I still rather fancy the idea that happiness isnt a myth and that my soulmate is loitering somewhere in this worldprobably trying to find his umbrella.
To cut a long story short, just last month I met a chap named Mark. We literally bumped into each other in the park. Id decided to treat myself to a coffee, decked out in my sophisticated lady about town gearfreshly done hair, scarf tied just so. Mark, aged 49, ambled over and struck up a chat. No, he didnt look like Colin Firth, but he was neatly dressed and didnt have biscuits in his beard, which is always a bonus these days. After our introductions, he even bought me another coffee.
Naturally, I wasted no time and asked the all-important Are you attached? question (cutting straight to the chase saves faffing about later), and his answer was so full of waffling I almost wondered if he was running for Parliament. It was clear he had some situation. Still, I thought, why not extend the olive branchor rather, a slice of homemade Victoria sponge and a cup of tea at mine?
Now, I know what youre thinking: inviting a near-stranger round for teasurely, Ive lost my marbles. But, bear in mind, half the neighbourhood sees everything, and Mark didnt seem remotely menacing.
So back to mine we went. Mark steps into my flat, glances around, and immediately lets out a chuckle.
You’ve got quite the spacious place, he remarks. Looks as though it hasnt seen a fresh coat of paint since Tony Blair.
I pretended not to catch his drift. Yes, it had been a decade since my last bout of DIY, but honestly, whats wrong with a little character? Id much rather splash out on a new dress or a cheeky city break than on some boring magnolia walls. Is that really so scandalous?
Brew handed over and cake sliced, Mark started in on the flat again. So, I fired back, If my flat bothers you so much, why not invite me to yours? Funny, he went quiet at that. Conversation fizzled. He sauntered off, promising a phone call in a week.
Naturally, not a peep. Not even a Hows the weather? text. Then, late on Saturday, a message pops up: hes coming round to see me. Well, I informed him that next time hed better bring his overalls, as wed be tackling the wallpapering together. Suddenly, he remembered some desperately urgent business, and promised to pop by next week.
Frankly, I suspect hes a married man on the prowl for a woman with bottomless pockets. Newsflash: that isnt me. Ah well, the only thing we truly shared was a bit of banter over a brew. Still, my Mr Darcy is out there somewhereIm certain of it. And ladies, allow me to offer this pearl of wisdom: if a man isnt lifting a finger for you, why bother lifting your teacup to him?
