So the sun resumes. No more nasty texts; just lovely correspondence from lovely people.
Sunlight filtering through beech trees. The buzz of single-prop planes dragging gliders into their thermals, and lazy vapour trails being languidly drawn across an opaline sky.
Hair tied for a change, in red indian fashion, and a modest pile of empty blue beer cans tinkling in the breeze at my feet. Life is good. Would be better with some company, but I do have you, reader. And you’ll do fine.
I have today been thinking of panache. Elan. Esprit. Dash. And how much I respect it. Heroes I have known; windmill-tilters, and chasers of lost causes.
Take this school acquaintance, for example.
The house is empty. Our swashbuckler steps into the shower. During his ablutions his mother returns home, and installs herself silently downstairs.
He gets out of his shower, and with his towel wrapped round his waist he strolls into his bedroom.
Five minutes later, mother bursts into his bedroom to find our venturer upside down on his bed, towel abandoned, all red-faced and trying to fellate himself.
Our hero calmly rolls off the bed, stretches, and tells his mum he’s doing his ‘exercises’.
Bravo. Now that’s the sort of vim I’m talking about. You can’t learn it, or fake it.
Or take this chap. Another school acquaintance (yes, the school I attended was run-down, boys-only and very posh. And it oozes ridiculous material).
His sister stumbles across this little soldier trying to penetrate (with some urgency) a melon that he’s just warmed up in the microwave. He brushes this off by sticking his nose in the air and declaring it his ‘homework’. [round of applause]
I love this stuff. Bravado in the face of absurd ignominy. Throwing your gauntlet into the face of shame and ridicule. I mean look at this blog. Quixotic. And not very sensible.
And then I came across some of it on Guardian Soulmates. She describes herself as a “Gloomy misery guts. No friends. Little joy. Hates cosy nights in.”
She’s looking for a “Miserable old devil. Disillusioned with life, but prepared for further disappointment. Preferably without a huge circle of friends who think you’re great”.
Someone “Fond of uncomfortable nights out, competitive hoovering and wheelie bin admiring. Hands like loaves of bread… No sense of humour, does not enjoy laughing and prefers misery to any abstract notion of “fun” … “
Obviously you’re wondering if I got in touch.
Sadly, no. Despite your suspicions, I am not a miserable old devil, nor am I disillusioned with life. And I have LOVELY hands.
But wait. I haven’t even mentioned her photos.
She attaches three.
#1 her bin
#2 her hoover
#3 a brick
Regarding her style and verve levels, my boat is being floated to somewhere near Mars.
This woman needs to join the circle. Should we contact her? What do you think? At least register our respect. Or nominate her for an award.
I’m off down the greengrocer’s.
ps – Online Dating is Shite is now accepting contributions. All you need is a nom-de-theatre, lyricism, profanity and a liberal use of the word ‘fuck’. Perhaps there’s something you can say here anonymously that you can’t say anywhere else. Contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org