Plankton Goes into Business. Not.
December 23, 2011 § 52 Comments
Last night I stood near the most beautiful Christmas tree I ever saw – six metres high, apparently – and I met someone.
I would so like to mean Someone but, no. I met another plankton, ten years or so younger than myself who looked ten years younger than that, and she was struggling. The headache was finally lifting and I was at another party; same dress as at all the others, same crippling heels, same cheer but, at this point in the festive proceedings, perhaps not quite the same optimism. (There are a couple more parties tonight and then that’s properly it; the hibernation begins). It was in a house of incredible beauty and there was a proper Christmassy warmth emanating from the fire and the hosts. There weren’t that many people and they were all married except for me and my new plankton friend. The couples were very friendly, so as I ate things on sticks or in little bowls that were being passed round, whilst I had merry enough conversations.
When the plankton and I introduced ourselves towards the end, we didn’t waste any time getting down to the business of comparing our circumstances. She is divorced with no children and has, since being single, had a few desultory relationships. She wants babies and I stood there counting my fucking blessings, I can tell you, for all that I feel about that particular fad. Her most recent boyfriend just dumped her a few days ago. She feels very alone. She has been online but says the sleazy sleaze-balls she has come across defy belief. She has made a friend or two, admittedly, from it, but a lot of the men are used to shopping for women as they might for golf balls. One not good enough? Chuck her out, just get a new one. Consumers down to the bottom of their emotional resevoirs, they are, she said, bless them, always on the look-out for something better. Her father recently signed her up to the so-called upmarket Screaming into the Ether dating agency or whatever it’s called (followers of this blog know what I think about that!). It cost him as much as a small oil rig and she has had one date so far with a man who had been on so many dates that he looked more bored than a died-peacefully-in-his-sleep corpse enduring the solemnity of his own vigil. I suggested she and I should go into business and set up a decent dating agency, something which does not currently exist. We became very animated by the idea. Gap in the market! Our USP would be decent available men! We talked about it for several minutes and thought the best bit could be that she and I would have first refusal on all the new sign-ups! We would be very fussy about who we took on and we thought about who they might be! They could be wonderful! What fun!
Alas, our enthusiasm was short-lived, bit like my enthusiasm for my Bring-A-Man party. It disintegrated like so much space dust on the tongue of a seventies street urchin. We became profoundly despondent because we realised there was a glaring handicap we faced, we realised that our business plan had one fabulous, fatal flaw: there would not be one decent available man who would want to sign up because not one decent available man needs to sign up to Jack Shit.
He can just sit like King Canute himself, and rule the waves of willing women who crash onto his all-encompasing shore.