Life, eh?

This will be interesting.

Well, vaguely.

He is tall and exceedingly unhealthy looking, a man who looks as though he was weaned for all the world on Cornish pasties and deep -fried Mars Bars; face like a bean bag.  I met him when were on a work trip together some years ago and his physical appearance was notable.  But he was so funny he made me laugh till tears tore down my cheeks.  Clever and warm and irreverent and witty and the best possible company.  I was married at the time (as was – still is – he), but I do remember thinking had timing and circumstances been different, I could very easily have fallen for him, spectacularly.  He was – is – astonishingly attractive.  But if you saw a photograph of him, you would think, Good God, not for a million quid!  You might be lucky enough to pick up on the twinkle in his eyes, but you wouldn’t begin to get it.  Yet, in truth, I could envisage spending the rest of my life with him (were he not married, obv), I adore this friend and find him very fanciable, but I am only being honest here when I say that if his photograph was on a dating site “gallery” of gargoyles, he would stand out amongst them as the gargoyle to end all gargoyles, and I would click him away in a millisecond.

I own the fault is in me, my superficial regard to looks, though it is not so superficial really, because of course I only have to meet someone for a few seconds to remember again that looks can mean Jack Shit in the overview of a person.  This friend’s character is such that his looks are irrelevant.  No, more than that, his character renders his looks actively appealing, sexy, and I don’t think I am the first woman to feel that about him, shall we say.

I am looking at online dating sites every day so no one can accuse me of giving up, but I am worried that I am missing out on winners because of picture prejudice before I have even looked at their profiles.  And yet I can’t help it.  Human nature and all that.   Natural selection.  Warthog in Walthamstow: Next!  There are thousands of profiles on these sites.  I cannot study them all.

I don’t know what I am saying, really.  I have learnt that online dating is a modern force for good and every person I know has a happily ever after story.  I hear them every day.  I know there is something in this lark and I am persisting, honest.  But it is of course a lottery that initially, at any rate, cannot do the chemistry.   I do love that thing of meeting or bumping into someone somewhere and feeling a surprise connection, as I did with the brilliant Deep-Fried Mars Bar Man who was an instant hit with me (and, I hope, me with him), and who became a friend practically on sight, and would surely have become a lover, had timing and circumstances been any different.

Online dating?  It’s not so good at that.  But I guess that’s not its thing.  Its thing is giving you a greater chance of putting yourself in the way of people with whom you might, one in a hundred, one in a thousand, find that kind of connection.

I press on.  And we shall just have to see.

My second thought is that film with Jack Nicolson – As Good As It Gets – where he asks a psychiatrist’s waiting room of depressed people “What if this is as good as it gets?”. What if it is? What if there is no man out there that fits your criteria? What if you are always going to be on your own? Till you die? I would say its very likely actually. Younger women, early death of men, their tendency to go out with younger women, the baggage that older plankton’s have….What then? When I watched this film this line struck me and I thought, Bloody hell I’d better get on and enjoy my life now and make the best of it then. So I’ve conciously made the effort to find things that enrich my life, I’ve learnt that it is relationships with people that matter, it’s lovely now its spring again and the days are getting longer so I can do more things in the evening. I spend less money on things, and what I do spend is on experiences like going to the cinema with my daughter, seeing a movie with a friend. I rarely say no to any opportunities to do whatever comes my way even when I don’t think I’ll like it. I still like to think I’ll meet someone who is right for me, and now I’m older I think I can offer more to them than I ever could when I was young and stupid, but I think it’s less likely unless I’m incredibly lucky and bump into them on taking up the new opportunities that come my way, or I decide to broaden my criteria to include people I am not currently considering. But knowing its my choice means I have a realistic view of the world and my place in it, and I’m ok with that. And if I don’t meet someone then my life is still ok.

Janey, one of my happily married friends, is on a mission to help those she knows and loves who are single and don’t want to be.  She is that rarest of creatures who really thinks about life beyond her own nose, and cares about how it might be for plankton but she’s not a busybody or smug or bossy and noisy about it.  Just quietly and generously gets on with it.  Janey plots and spins and match-makes like no one else I know.

Last week she put me in touch with a friend of hers who had been left homeless and penniless by her bully of a husband a few years ago and had hit rock bottom.  The woman, whom I do not know from Adam, has just rung me to give me the benefit of her wisdom about internet dating.

“I was thinking, what’s wrong with me that I can’t meet someone in the normal way?  Has it really come to this?  But everyone’s doing internet dating now.”

She has since had a good relationship with one online man, and is about to go to Italy with her current partner.  She had met another man she didn’t fancy but whose friendship she treasures.

“There’s a lot of fun to be had and knowing that is the difference between me now and then,” she told me.  “I haven’t found my knight in shining armour but I am with someone who I become fonder of by the day.  You have to go in with no preconceptions.  Think of it as an adventure.  Try to transport yourself to being a teenager.  Don’t feel it’s sad and lonely to be doing this.  Think, I am looking for fun with a man, hopefully a lovely one, possibly long-term.”

She came up with the obvious tips – honest profile; smiley photograph; only meet for a cup of coffee initially, and in a public place.  (She had once broken her own rule and gone to a man’s house and had to fight him off).  But perhaps her greatest tip was not to be too polite.

“When I began, I didn’t want to be hurtful so, after chatting, would always agree to meet if they asked, even if I knew it wasn’t right.  I’ve learnt since how to be polite but strong.  If they talked about sex immediately, I knew that’s all they were after.  You cannot be a pushover or too eager to please.  I don’t play games, but men do like a chase.  When I get back from Italy, I can come over because it’s such a lonely process, and we can go through the sites together.  I am an old pro and would love to help someone else because I really know how it feels.”

Ex-plankton to Plankton.  I await her visit.

I didn’t lead him on, I swear.

He said I had great legs (I don’t), and he said more besides.

He was nice enough, friendly and polite, but I passed up the offer a) because when he guessed my age he said mid-fucking-50s!!! (Though he back-tracked furiously, saying he only said that because I said I was old, it was too late).  And b) because I envisaged that he probably tells several lone women in need of aerials a day that they have nice legs/hair/eyes/tits (delete where applicable), and hopes to score – and probably does score – one in ten.

I remained one of the nine politely to decline.

But it certainly added an element of surprise to an otherwise gloomy Monday morning.

Meanwhile, with nothing remotely planky to report except repetitive gloom, today’s is a feeble post to end all feeble posts: I can only say I have never watched any of the best TV series about which everyone talks and raves and then gets the box sets, not The Wire, not West Wing, not Mad Men, not The Sopranos, not The Killing, none of them, but I watched Homeland on Channel 4 last night and was completely and utterly gripped.

That’s me, a goner on Sunday nights for the next eleven weeks.

Something to look forward to because, frankly – shoot me down – there’s fuck all else except my latte and a visit from a TV aerial man some time between now and kingdom come.  But even the modest former probably ain’t gonna happen today as it is rather precluded by imprisonment in my own home whilst awaiting the latter.

Grrr!

My Japanese friend rang me this morning to tell me more about her friend whom I mentioned a while back who goes to concerts alone and picks up men in the bar in the intervals.

“Let me tell you,” my friend said, “I don’t understand her.  Can you help me to?  This is someone who will only drink the best champagne and wear the most luxurious clothes, but she settles for Macdonalds men?!”  [I love my friend's turn of phrase.  Macdonalds Men!  Marvellous!  I can so picture them].

This friend of my friend sounds like a spoilt pain in the arse but I put my friend straight.   I said it is inordinately simple. Her friend may be into luxury and be an unspeakable snob re champagne and dizzyingly expensive designer frocks bollocks, but she is still a plankton and plankton, like beggars, cannot afford to be choosers.

My email to send a guest post to is the planktonlife@gmail.com

Many thanks to anyone who may have something they want to say and who might wish to help me out of an inspiration dead zone.