Baying at the Moon

From yesterday’s Times (at last!):-

A divorcing friend has just met someone.  Not bitter!

 

She paid about a million pounds for the privilege to an agency called something like Baying at the Moon.  Get me on the subject!  I have heard rumours about these agencies, that they are so desperate for men on their books, they canvas for them on the streets.  And they don’t charge men a fee, and still they have a ratio of about a hundred women to every in-clover male singleton they can lay their hands on.

 

Perhaps I exaggerate, for my friend has found someone very promising within weeks of separating from her husband. If I had a million quid, I suppose I might have to join.  Anything not to have to do the “filtering” myself.  Every day one online site sends me profiles of possible “matches” and without exception these men list outdoor activities as if a man who fancies a spot of hiking, sailing and mountain biking is the bag of gold at the end of every woman’s rainbow.  I don’t get it.  I hate outdoor activities.  I like being indoors, preferably sitting still with a book or  jolly conversation.  These men all refer to “ladies” not women, which gives me the shivers, and live miles away in places like Cheshire.

 

My friend is having a second date.  They’ve been texting each other like billio and have acknowledged that they are both too grown-up to play games.  They have had startlingly honest conversations already about sex and marriage and what they both want.  No time, at our age, to beat about the bush.  We just must lay our cards on the table and push on.  I am feeling optimistic for her.  For myself, not so much.

 

Talk about January being the month for hibernation.  Nothing been happening except battening down the hatches.  Last night, first time in weeks, I went really wild and ventured into the night to see Lincoln with two girlfriends.  The next “jolly” in my diary, (Lincoln is many things but jolly ain’t one of them), is a drinks party – in March!  Otherwise blank.

 

Because I can’t afford the Moon, perhaps I should take solace in the fact that wise Dave is so convinced that SYT is going to be back for more, he’s even bet me a tenner.

 

“It’s so bleeding obvious,” he said after he met him.  “If you can’t read the signs, how he looks at you and what he says, then I’m not going to spell it out.”

 

I wish he would because I am illiterate in these matters.  But when SYT never returns for more and I win Dave’s bet, I’m thinking of putting the money towards the Moon.  Bleargh!