Well, dear reader, it's been a while. Truth to tell, I'm getting very bored and disillusioned with the whole dating game after just 6 weeks or so. I've had a couple of first dates, and two second ones, but nothing has materialised out of any of them. Following a couple of job interviews I've had for minimum wage retail posts, the dating thing is starting to feel much the same : same questions, same answers, constantly wondering if either I, or he, is suitable for the post of Partner!
I haven't heard a whisper from John the Druid after we went to the theatre in Bolton. Biker Mike from Mars came over to my house for dinner last week, and it was a pleasant enough evening, but I really don't feel like he's the chap for me. Too much banter, too unreconstructed, and a bit too fond of the sound of his own voice. We haven't spoken since last Thursday. Bye bye Porsche...
That being said, I still haven't been on a date with Scooter Tony, who I am going to rename Lord Tony of Chaos, because he seems to be one of the those people that Shit Happens To!
After our series of failed dates back in January, and his sudden reappearance a couple of weeks ago, we tried again. We made arrangements to go out for a drink one Wednesday evening to a pub on the edge of Chester. An hour before I needed to leave he phoned me up to cancel, as he had to pick up his son from work and they'd asked him to work on for an extra 45 minutes, seriously cutting into any potential date time. The lad's mother couldn't pick him up, as she'd broken her wrist and was unable to drive. We talked about going for a walk the following Sunday, but when I checked my diary, I found that I was scheduled to do a dance workshop that afternoon. As it happened, the workshop was cancelled, but by then it was too late to rearrange to meet Tony. We booked to go out for dinner the following weekend, but he came down with a streaming cold and wasn't feeling up to meeting a new lady for the first time with a red raw nose. And looking again at his picture it is a sizeable nose! This suited me, as I'd just had my septum pierced, and getting a cold with a new nose piercing would be a seriously bad idea! Another attempt, number 7 by now, to meet for tea and cake last Sunday, was scuppered by him going out on the lash with some mates in Liverpool on Saturday night, losing the keys to the apartment they'd rented, having to get a cab back to Runcorn (where he lives), driving back to Liverpool on Sunday and waiting for a locksmith to let them back into the apartment! I swear, if he was actively trying to come up with excuses not to go out with me, he couldn't come up with anything more elaborate. He's also had the ceiling fall in in his bathroom and been punched in the face by his youngest daughter! It has now become a matter of principle that we are going to go on at least one date, even if we decide we are not compatible, just to defy the Gods! We message every other day or so, and talk on the phone occasionally. He's got a nice voice, seems to be a good conversationalist, and obviously loves his children and is very involved in their lives, which is always a good sign. I'm not going anywhere and nobody else is sweeping me off my feet, so I'm going to hang on in there for a while.
Meanwhile, I am also getting good vibes from German Shepherd Paul on Anglesey. After exchanging many messages on WhatsApp, we decided to chat on the phone. We talked for nearly an hour and half, about books, and dogs, and music, and cooking! He has a lovely soft voice, very gentle and articulate. I tried to arrange a meeting for yesterday, but it was his dog Lennon's birthday and he'd already arranged to go out walking with his ex so she could spend time with Lennon. We've semi-joked about me teaching him to cook in exchange for him teaching me to play the guitar! I just need to try to entice him off his island to come and meet me, but my weekends are suddenly going to become very busy. Still, neither of us works full-time and there are plenty of days in the week for us to go dog-walking. Anglesey isn't that far, and at least doesn't involve the M56!
Oh, before I quit any of these stupid dating sites, I matched on Tinder with a guy called Tim in Nantwich yesterday morning, who I talked to on the phone for a while, and nearly met for a drink last night, but made my excuses as I really wasn't feeling up to it. Again, he seems easy to talk to, has a Kawasaki Ninja and no lurking ex-partner. I might go out on a date with him, coz you never can tell.
The next several weekends are booked up with dancing, family events and rock gigs with chums, so dating is going to have to take a back seat for a while anyway: it's too exhausting! Peace.
Monday, 19 February 2018
Monday, 5 February 2018
Three dates and a lot of art.
Bless me, dear reader, it has been 8 days since my last update, but things have not been static here at Tinder Towers.
Those of you who follow me on Facebook know that I had a date with a gentleman known as Dave the Scaffold. When Dave popped up on POF last Tuesday he seemed pleasant, and was certainly very attentive. I was feeling a bit down as John the Druid hadn't got back to me to confirm the second date we had arranged immediately after the first one. I know he'd been away at a camp over the weekend, but I was pretty sure he was due to be back on Tuesday. Anyway, Dave asked to go out with me, so I went.
I so should have listened to my gut. But, Buckley Steve had turned out to be an interesting geezer (more on him later!), so I wanted to give Dave the benefit of the doubt. He was certainly no Buckley Steve. Insulting a woman's parking upon first meeting her is not a good opening gambit. I don't think I've ever talked so much for an hour. If I hadn't, I think we would have just sat there in silence staring at other people eating their Wednesday evening supper. I have no idea what I was talking about by the end, I was just opening my mouth and words were coming out. We finished our drinks, and decided it was time to go home. By the time I got back to the house and had made myself comfortable in front of the TV with a cup of tea, which is probably where I should have stayed in the first place, there were three messages from him asking if I'd like to see him again. Obviously I was flattered, but no thank you.
Meanwhile, the conversation with Biker Dog Mike, henceforward to be known as Biker Mike from Mars, coz he so is, has moved on the 'shall we go on a date' stage. He's been calling me every day and seems to be very pleasant and jokey, and is certainly not short of anything to talk about. We arrange to meet on Sunday at Talacre. I'll take Vanessa, coz she always needs a good run out, and we can sit and drink tea and eat cake in the van afterwards. Boy, do I know how to show a gentleman a good time!
While all of this was going on, Ricardo and I absolutely had to go and see an exhibition at the Walker Art Gallery of a collection of Grayson Perry's costumes that we'd suddenly realised was finishing at the end of the week. Thursday was the only day we could do it, as I still wanted to keep Friday free for my date with Druid John. Well, a marvellous time was had. The frocks were incredible, as you may imagine, having been designed by students from Central Saint Martin's. Druid John had miraculously reappeared on Wednesday evening and confirmed for Friday, so I spent a lot of time sitting in corners of galleries trying to arrange tickets to see the show in Bolton I'd been working on. I'm getting a vibe from him though, that he's only going along with this as we arranged it the other week. He's busy in the morning, but we decide that I should drive up to Preston early afternoon and text him when I get there.
Long story short, I got to Preston, John arrived mere minutes later, we met, we went and looked around the Harris museum, where he told me enthusiastically all about Horace the Elk and the timber henge that has been found near Preston. We had tea in a delightful independent tea house, then drove down to Bolton to see 'Jane Eyre', which was very good. I dropped him back a the station, and he dashed off with a hug and a peck on the lips to catch his train. Still getting the vibe that he isn't quite as enthusiastic as he appeared to be before we actually met. Got back in the car and on the road, with three bad omens: the first being 'My Champion', my favourite Alter Bridge song, coming up first on shuffle :
'Sometimes you fall before you rise
Sometimes you lose it all to find
You've gotta keep fighting
And get back up again'
Yep, I know Myles is singing just for me.
Then there was a very dead black and white puss cat on the A666 pulling out of Bolton, and then they decided to close the anti-clockwise M60 so I had to follow diversions all the way through Salford to get back to the M62/M6/M56 and home, with my normally very calm satnav getting increasingly shirty as I kept ignoring all his directions to turn around where possible. A long day for not very much, but I saw some good art and a good play, and it all makes for good blog material so whatever.
All that being said, during the interval I check my phone, and who should have sent me a message but Scooterboy Tony from Runcorn! Very apologetic and quite understanding if I tell him to 'do one', but of course I don't, coz I know he's got a life, and I'm quite thrilled that he thought I was worth chasing up.
Another face that has seemingly re-emerged is an interesting chap with the most gorgeous dog that I spotted on Tinder last weekend. I 'liked' him, and we matched, so on Ricardo's suggestion I sent him the following message:
I think my dog fancies your dog!
A couple of hours later I get the following:
Haha! Tinder for dogs! Genius! I've shown him a picture. I think it's mutual. We may have a problem!
We chat about dogs for a few hours, (his dog, Lennon, is a long-haired German Shepherd, and really is incredibly handsome), then he disappears, until suddenly on Saturday he messages me again apologising that he had replied to me but the message never got sent. We chat for the rest of the night. He's called Paul, is 60, he's a guitarist, knew straight away who Malon was named after, loves fantasy literature including my favourite Joe Abercrombie, the Black Crowes, and lives right on my favourite camping spot on Anglesey, Lligwy Beach! The downside is he's come out of a very long term relationship and is not sure what he's looking for right now, so I'm going to proceed very carefully here, so as to not scare him off.
But enough about this, you want to hear about Sunday with Biker Mike from Mars. Reader, it was lovely. Talacre was a bit fucked up, as they'd closed the beach car park due to muddy going, or high tide, one or the other, so I had to park on a side street and hope to not get a ticket, coz all the car parks have height restriction barriers. You never notice these until you start driving a vehicle that's 2.8 metres tall! The tide was in, which I have never seen at Talacre before, so there wasn't much beach to walk on, but we still managed to stay out there for over an hour, chatting away, laughing, throwing things for the dogs, who had sorted out who was Top Dog by the end of the walk. I'm not sure if it was my Malon, or his Mae, but they seemed happy enough. We brewed up in the van and ate cake and chatted loads more. He's nice, in a gruff Northern, slightly unreconstructed way. Very fond of the old banter, which he admits has got him into trouble in the past. This could get tiresome. He's not bad looking: got a sort of Paul Hollywood vibe going on, if you like that sort of thing. We part with a hug and a kiss on the cheek and a promise to talk later when we both get back home. I could stand to spend time with him again and maybe see how things develop. No fluttering hearts and choirs of angels though. I think I could get bored with the constant banter, and he might be a bit too unreconstructed for my taste, but he does have a cheeky sparkle in his eye that may yet win me over. Lots of nice ink too. Plus I need to add a ride on his Yammy XJR 1300 (it's bigger than my car!!) and in his Porsche 911 Carrera to my list of motorised experiences, although it will have to be pretty damn special to beat a Triumph Sprint 1100 and a Tesla!
But anyway, as soon as I get home and my phone clicks back into 'not driving' mode, there is a text waiting for me from Buckley Steve! Interesting. We chat for a bit, then drift off. I'd like to get together with him again. He was good company.
So, there we are, almost up to date. Just one extra to add: CD John from Milton Keynes, who messaged me on POF back in the first week, works as a make-up artist for the BBC, is stunningly beautiful, cross-dresses as a political statement and wants me to collaborate on an outfit with him! Fun times, reader, fun times.
Those of you who follow me on Facebook know that I had a date with a gentleman known as Dave the Scaffold. When Dave popped up on POF last Tuesday he seemed pleasant, and was certainly very attentive. I was feeling a bit down as John the Druid hadn't got back to me to confirm the second date we had arranged immediately after the first one. I know he'd been away at a camp over the weekend, but I was pretty sure he was due to be back on Tuesday. Anyway, Dave asked to go out with me, so I went.
I so should have listened to my gut. But, Buckley Steve had turned out to be an interesting geezer (more on him later!), so I wanted to give Dave the benefit of the doubt. He was certainly no Buckley Steve. Insulting a woman's parking upon first meeting her is not a good opening gambit. I don't think I've ever talked so much for an hour. If I hadn't, I think we would have just sat there in silence staring at other people eating their Wednesday evening supper. I have no idea what I was talking about by the end, I was just opening my mouth and words were coming out. We finished our drinks, and decided it was time to go home. By the time I got back to the house and had made myself comfortable in front of the TV with a cup of tea, which is probably where I should have stayed in the first place, there were three messages from him asking if I'd like to see him again. Obviously I was flattered, but no thank you.
Meanwhile, the conversation with Biker Dog Mike, henceforward to be known as Biker Mike from Mars, coz he so is, has moved on the 'shall we go on a date' stage. He's been calling me every day and seems to be very pleasant and jokey, and is certainly not short of anything to talk about. We arrange to meet on Sunday at Talacre. I'll take Vanessa, coz she always needs a good run out, and we can sit and drink tea and eat cake in the van afterwards. Boy, do I know how to show a gentleman a good time!
While all of this was going on, Ricardo and I absolutely had to go and see an exhibition at the Walker Art Gallery of a collection of Grayson Perry's costumes that we'd suddenly realised was finishing at the end of the week. Thursday was the only day we could do it, as I still wanted to keep Friday free for my date with Druid John. Well, a marvellous time was had. The frocks were incredible, as you may imagine, having been designed by students from Central Saint Martin's. Druid John had miraculously reappeared on Wednesday evening and confirmed for Friday, so I spent a lot of time sitting in corners of galleries trying to arrange tickets to see the show in Bolton I'd been working on. I'm getting a vibe from him though, that he's only going along with this as we arranged it the other week. He's busy in the morning, but we decide that I should drive up to Preston early afternoon and text him when I get there.
Long story short, I got to Preston, John arrived mere minutes later, we met, we went and looked around the Harris museum, where he told me enthusiastically all about Horace the Elk and the timber henge that has been found near Preston. We had tea in a delightful independent tea house, then drove down to Bolton to see 'Jane Eyre', which was very good. I dropped him back a the station, and he dashed off with a hug and a peck on the lips to catch his train. Still getting the vibe that he isn't quite as enthusiastic as he appeared to be before we actually met. Got back in the car and on the road, with three bad omens: the first being 'My Champion', my favourite Alter Bridge song, coming up first on shuffle :
'Sometimes you fall before you rise
Sometimes you lose it all to find
You've gotta keep fighting
And get back up again'
Yep, I know Myles is singing just for me.
Then there was a very dead black and white puss cat on the A666 pulling out of Bolton, and then they decided to close the anti-clockwise M60 so I had to follow diversions all the way through Salford to get back to the M62/M6/M56 and home, with my normally very calm satnav getting increasingly shirty as I kept ignoring all his directions to turn around where possible. A long day for not very much, but I saw some good art and a good play, and it all makes for good blog material so whatever.
All that being said, during the interval I check my phone, and who should have sent me a message but Scooterboy Tony from Runcorn! Very apologetic and quite understanding if I tell him to 'do one', but of course I don't, coz I know he's got a life, and I'm quite thrilled that he thought I was worth chasing up.
Another face that has seemingly re-emerged is an interesting chap with the most gorgeous dog that I spotted on Tinder last weekend. I 'liked' him, and we matched, so on Ricardo's suggestion I sent him the following message:
I think my dog fancies your dog!
A couple of hours later I get the following:
Haha! Tinder for dogs! Genius! I've shown him a picture. I think it's mutual. We may have a problem!
We chat about dogs for a few hours, (his dog, Lennon, is a long-haired German Shepherd, and really is incredibly handsome), then he disappears, until suddenly on Saturday he messages me again apologising that he had replied to me but the message never got sent. We chat for the rest of the night. He's called Paul, is 60, he's a guitarist, knew straight away who Malon was named after, loves fantasy literature including my favourite Joe Abercrombie, the Black Crowes, and lives right on my favourite camping spot on Anglesey, Lligwy Beach! The downside is he's come out of a very long term relationship and is not sure what he's looking for right now, so I'm going to proceed very carefully here, so as to not scare him off.
But enough about this, you want to hear about Sunday with Biker Mike from Mars. Reader, it was lovely. Talacre was a bit fucked up, as they'd closed the beach car park due to muddy going, or high tide, one or the other, so I had to park on a side street and hope to not get a ticket, coz all the car parks have height restriction barriers. You never notice these until you start driving a vehicle that's 2.8 metres tall! The tide was in, which I have never seen at Talacre before, so there wasn't much beach to walk on, but we still managed to stay out there for over an hour, chatting away, laughing, throwing things for the dogs, who had sorted out who was Top Dog by the end of the walk. I'm not sure if it was my Malon, or his Mae, but they seemed happy enough. We brewed up in the van and ate cake and chatted loads more. He's nice, in a gruff Northern, slightly unreconstructed way. Very fond of the old banter, which he admits has got him into trouble in the past. This could get tiresome. He's not bad looking: got a sort of Paul Hollywood vibe going on, if you like that sort of thing. We part with a hug and a kiss on the cheek and a promise to talk later when we both get back home. I could stand to spend time with him again and maybe see how things develop. No fluttering hearts and choirs of angels though. I think I could get bored with the constant banter, and he might be a bit too unreconstructed for my taste, but he does have a cheeky sparkle in his eye that may yet win me over. Lots of nice ink too. Plus I need to add a ride on his Yammy XJR 1300 (it's bigger than my car!!) and in his Porsche 911 Carrera to my list of motorised experiences, although it will have to be pretty damn special to beat a Triumph Sprint 1100 and a Tesla!
But anyway, as soon as I get home and my phone clicks back into 'not driving' mode, there is a text waiting for me from Buckley Steve! Interesting. We chat for a bit, then drift off. I'd like to get together with him again. He was good company.
So, there we are, almost up to date. Just one extra to add: CD John from Milton Keynes, who messaged me on POF back in the first week, works as a make-up artist for the BBC, is stunningly beautiful, cross-dresses as a political statement and wants me to collaborate on an outfit with him! Fun times, reader, fun times.
Sunday, 28 January 2018
Circling the Drain
I got cancelled on again yesterday. I'd been chatting to this guy on Tinder, who we'll call Powys Alex, for a couple of weeks. He was straight up with me, and said that he was already cultivating a relationship with a lady but was keeping his options open, and was being honest about everything. Things seemed to be going quite nicely. He was funny, articulate and complimentary. We'd originally arranged to meet for afternoon tea on Wednesday, but I'd had to cancel that one due to my car being in the garage, so we'd rearranged for a walk up Moel Famau on Saturday morning. I though it might be a jolly wheeze to go in Vanessa (my camper van) so we could sit and drink tea and eat sandwiches afterwards. Lots of messages back and forth about looking forward to meeting a beautiful woman, or failing that, me, (that was my comeback, not his!) then suddenly, on Friday night:
'Hi Bridie. Nothing you've done or not done, but I'm going to cancel tomorrow. The date that is not the day! I will be in touch. Thanks. x'
OK, no worries, your loss. I ended up going on a Magical Mystery Tour in Vanessa with Ricardo and Malon (my Border collie) to Rhyl instead. Bemused, but not upset. Onward and upward...
Just when Plenty Of Fish is getting so ridiculously frustrating I want to rage-quit like a 16-year-old playing 'Hotline Miami', the occasional guy turns up who is either potential boyfriend material, or is just so much blog-fodder I can't resist!
Diver John is nice. We talk rock music and bike rallies, and he checks in on WhatsApp every so often, but he lives in Workington on the Cumbrian coast, and I really don't need another long-distance relationship, so I think that one might lapse. Another 'nice' guy is Biker Dog Mike from Weaverham in Cheshire, so called because he has a big bike (XJR 1300) and a small dog (Jack Russell terrier called Mae), who rides in a tank bag with goggles! This I have to see. We switch to WhatsApp, and by a slip of a finger I end up calling him. I hit cancel, but it's already registered, and he calls me back! We have a lovely giggly chat for about 10 minutes, then my dinner pings and he finishes his cigarette, so we end on a high note and say we'll talk more soon.
Meanwhile, an almost interesting geezer from Wrexham call Ade sends a message:
'Hello, I've only just joined this site and I'm not in a mad rush to collect a bucket full of names, I'm only after people I find really attractive and you really intrigue me.'
Well, thank you very much. We chat about this and that. He seems articulate, liberal, can string words together to make whole sentences which is a plus for on here! But of course, this is POF, and he's from Wrexham, so something has to be amiss somewhere...
Him: Did you read the bit on my profile where I mentioned I was looking for someone with a hedonistic personality ?
Me: Hmm, define 'hedonistic'. I don’t consider myself to be particularly hedonistic, but it’s all relative, as my late father loved to say...
Him: I enjoy swinging and visiting clubs and entertaining people in my hot tub
Me: Ah. Ok. Naa, I’m afraid that’s not really my bag. Good luck on your hunt though! X
Him: You have fun too . . Just wanted to clear that point x
Me: No worries! Better to get this sort of thing out in the open, so to speak!
Him: Agreed x
Me: Hot tub though...
Him: Magical experience . . Cold nights under the stars x
Me: Does sound rather magical. Do you do one-on-ones, or do there have to be other people involved?!
Him: It varies . . If we were a couple it would be mostly other couples . . But good looking individuals also sometimes make the guest list ;-) x
Me: So it wouldn’t just be me and you, hypothetically speaking...
Him; Your hypothetical [sic] correct lol x
Me: Ok. Just checking. Again, good luck!
And with that, I screengrab the conversation for posterity, and move on! Hot tub under the stars...Face it Bride, in Wrexham it was never going to happen!
Another thing in Wrexham that is never going to happen is me going on a date with young Simon888888 from Rhos! Another one I had to save to entertain you, gentle reader. Sit back and enjoy the mating game, Rhos-style:
Him: Wow lovely looking xx
Me: Thank you!
Him: Would love to meet up nice looking xx
Me: That’s nice, but what might we talk about when we meet?
Him: Your campervan tatts and piercings will chat all night sexy lady xxx
Him again: Dying to meet you xx
Me: Oh, don’t do that! I’m sure I’m not worth dying for! A lot of people find me a bit full-on. Are you sure you want to be seen with me in public, in Wrexham?!
Him: Look I fancy ya full on I just want 2 birth tent so we can snuggle up for night xx
Me: LOL Does this tactic get you many dates?!
Him: Oh yes plenty haha
Me: Well, not this time, I’m afraid! Thanks for checking in, and good luck to you! X
I swear, I couldn't make it up. It's Saturday night conversations like this that almost make it all worthwhile!
Wednesday, 24 January 2018
Plenty of Weirdos
So, as I mentioned in my last post, I was feeling a bit glum on Sunday, and Tinder wasn't really throwing out much hope, so following on from a conversation with some friends on Friday, I decided to try out Plenty Of Fish.
Oh. My. God. What a pile of weirdos!
The POF format is different from Tinder, more like a traditional dating platform where you fill in loads of questions and the algorithm matches you with alleged like-minded people. You can message anyone, regardless of whether or not they 'like' you, and there's a feature called 'meet me', but I can't access that because it's subscription-only. Within 24 hours of logging on to the site, I had attracted more than 100 'so-and-so wants to meet you' messages!
While I was browsing, I came across a couple of familiar faces, including Deva Don! I shot him a message on WhatsApp:
Me: I’ve just spotted you on POF! Don’t worry, I won’t say anything!
Him: I set it up at the same time [as Tinder] and haven’t paid it much attention. I’ve been as sick as a dog all week with that Aussie flu. It’s horrible. Anyway, I’m kidding myself that I’ve got the time for dating.
Me: Aww, I’m sorry to hear about the flu. Take care of yourself. Rest, lots of fluids, and paracetamol is the key, I gather. Dating can wait.
Him: Flu or not, I think I’m resigned to life as a singleton for a while.
Me: No reason not to talk to people though. You’re sounding as misanthropic as you were last weekend, and yet here we are, having a conversation!
Him: I know. I just don’t envisage time to myself for a while though
Me: That’s fine. Do you want me to leave you alone?
Him: Don’t be daft. Well, maybe for the next several hours because I’m in bed
Me: I’ll take that! I need to go to sleep too. Night night. Hope you get better soon.
I'm keeping this one on a slow burn...
Meanwhile, the messages are trickling in. I'm not sure how to deal with most of them as they are from guys who are in the right age range, and have big bikes, but all seem to be 5'6" tall and horribly overweight. Like I say, no filters on this site. Call me shallow, but I like a man who is taller than me, and preferably takes care of himself. I know they are out there, and are not unicorns. I've been spoiled by the Gentleman Caller...
Suddenly I get a message from a geezer calling himself Spiffyace666 (?) Nice face, cyclist, looks interesting. This is how the conversation ran, paraphrasing my answers for brevity:
Him: What drugs you on Ringo?
Me: I'm sorry, I don't understand the question.
Him: What do you normally do?
Me: You mean recreationally?
I tell him. He doesn't like it.
Him: Not surprised you get migraines smoking that shit.
Me: I'd rather be a pot-head than an alcoholic.
Him: I'd rather be neither. I hate junky druggie dope heads and smack heads.
Aaand with that, he leaves. Bye then. Now, most of my friends know I like a toke, but dope head? Moi? It's something I aspire to be, when I retire, but not right now. Next!
Alpharomeo159 is a tall skinny ageing hippy from Birmingham. He is very upfront about not looking for friends. He wants a partner, but not to move in. He still has school-age kids living with him, despite being 68. Now, if there is one thing I learned from the Gentleman Caller, it's never to underestimate a chap in his 60s. Mr Romeo sounds interesting, and cool, and wants to meet, but lives in Birmingham. I've done the long-distance thing, and if I'm going to do it again I'll try to stick with Druid John in Preston, thanks.
There is also Tomcat67, who sounds lovely, and chats away like nobody's business, is partially-sighted and lives in Ruthin with his grown-up sons and two cats. We exchange long messages, and he passes the LGBT+ test, as one of his sons is gay. I will cultivate this one, as he really does sound like a genuinely nice bloke. Might have to take it away from POF though, as the messaging interface is rubbish.
Another waif and stray I seem to have picked up is Artbiker, who is an artist, and a biker, from Swansea, who smashes straight through the LGBT+ test by also having a recently out transgender daughter! He mentioned it first, so I have no reason to doubt him. We take the conversation away from POF onto WhatsApp, and have been exchanging chatty messages, but I don't really see it going anywhere. See above about long-distance relationships.
Frankly, I'm getting bored now. I went out to lunch and the pictures with Ricardo yesterday, and it was soooo nice not to have to make small talk with a stranger. I'm going to swap numbers with Mr Tomcat, and deactivate my POF account. I don't like the interface, and I really don't like having to constantly field messages like this one from mervpugh1964, who is 5'3" and from Oswestry, and I quote verbatim:
'Hi like u r u up 4 chatting?'
Not unless you can type in whole words and sentences, sweetheart! I may have to add another test, the Text Speak Test, to the list. Oh boy...
Oh. My. God. What a pile of weirdos!
The POF format is different from Tinder, more like a traditional dating platform where you fill in loads of questions and the algorithm matches you with alleged like-minded people. You can message anyone, regardless of whether or not they 'like' you, and there's a feature called 'meet me', but I can't access that because it's subscription-only. Within 24 hours of logging on to the site, I had attracted more than 100 'so-and-so wants to meet you' messages!
While I was browsing, I came across a couple of familiar faces, including Deva Don! I shot him a message on WhatsApp:
Me: I’ve just spotted you on POF! Don’t worry, I won’t say anything!
Him: I set it up at the same time [as Tinder] and haven’t paid it much attention. I’ve been as sick as a dog all week with that Aussie flu. It’s horrible. Anyway, I’m kidding myself that I’ve got the time for dating.
Me: Aww, I’m sorry to hear about the flu. Take care of yourself. Rest, lots of fluids, and paracetamol is the key, I gather. Dating can wait.
Him: Flu or not, I think I’m resigned to life as a singleton for a while.
Me: No reason not to talk to people though. You’re sounding as misanthropic as you were last weekend, and yet here we are, having a conversation!
Him: I know. I just don’t envisage time to myself for a while though
Me: That’s fine. Do you want me to leave you alone?
Him: Don’t be daft. Well, maybe for the next several hours because I’m in bed
Me: I’ll take that! I need to go to sleep too. Night night. Hope you get better soon.
I'm keeping this one on a slow burn...
Meanwhile, the messages are trickling in. I'm not sure how to deal with most of them as they are from guys who are in the right age range, and have big bikes, but all seem to be 5'6" tall and horribly overweight. Like I say, no filters on this site. Call me shallow, but I like a man who is taller than me, and preferably takes care of himself. I know they are out there, and are not unicorns. I've been spoiled by the Gentleman Caller...
Suddenly I get a message from a geezer calling himself Spiffyace666 (?) Nice face, cyclist, looks interesting. This is how the conversation ran, paraphrasing my answers for brevity:
Him: What drugs you on Ringo?
Me: I'm sorry, I don't understand the question.
Him: What do you normally do?
Me: You mean recreationally?
I tell him. He doesn't like it.
Him: Not surprised you get migraines smoking that shit.
Me: I'd rather be a pot-head than an alcoholic.
Him: I'd rather be neither. I hate junky druggie dope heads and smack heads.
Aaand with that, he leaves. Bye then. Now, most of my friends know I like a toke, but dope head? Moi? It's something I aspire to be, when I retire, but not right now. Next!
Alpharomeo159 is a tall skinny ageing hippy from Birmingham. He is very upfront about not looking for friends. He wants a partner, but not to move in. He still has school-age kids living with him, despite being 68. Now, if there is one thing I learned from the Gentleman Caller, it's never to underestimate a chap in his 60s. Mr Romeo sounds interesting, and cool, and wants to meet, but lives in Birmingham. I've done the long-distance thing, and if I'm going to do it again I'll try to stick with Druid John in Preston, thanks.
There is also Tomcat67, who sounds lovely, and chats away like nobody's business, is partially-sighted and lives in Ruthin with his grown-up sons and two cats. We exchange long messages, and he passes the LGBT+ test, as one of his sons is gay. I will cultivate this one, as he really does sound like a genuinely nice bloke. Might have to take it away from POF though, as the messaging interface is rubbish.
Another waif and stray I seem to have picked up is Artbiker, who is an artist, and a biker, from Swansea, who smashes straight through the LGBT+ test by also having a recently out transgender daughter! He mentioned it first, so I have no reason to doubt him. We take the conversation away from POF onto WhatsApp, and have been exchanging chatty messages, but I don't really see it going anywhere. See above about long-distance relationships.
Frankly, I'm getting bored now. I went out to lunch and the pictures with Ricardo yesterday, and it was soooo nice not to have to make small talk with a stranger. I'm going to swap numbers with Mr Tomcat, and deactivate my POF account. I don't like the interface, and I really don't like having to constantly field messages like this one from mervpugh1964, who is 5'3" and from Oswestry, and I quote verbatim:
'Hi like u r u up 4 chatting?'
Not unless you can type in whole words and sentences, sweetheart! I may have to add another test, the Text Speak Test, to the list. Oh boy...
Sunday, 21 January 2018
The Old Grey Flannelette Pyjama Test, and other stories
It's all gone a bit quiet here over the last couple of days after the flurry of activity what was last week. Druid John is either busy, or has decided in the cold light of day that I am not the lady for him after all. We'll see. I shouldn't rush into anything really, as I recognise that I am still on the rebound from the Gentleman Caller from last year.
I'm feeling a little glum today after attending a fabulous Silver Wedding party last night. I managed nearly 15 years of marriage to my second husband (a total of 20 years together, six with the first), and I do sometimes wonder where I went wrong. Was it me? Was it them? But when something is not right, there's no point in slogging away at it when neither party is happy. As it is written, don't hang on to your mistakes just because you spent a long time making them! (Not that either of my marriages was a mistake. They were right at the time, and I got the most awesome child out of the second one, so no regrets on that score).
But this is all getting a bit grim, and you are here for entertainment, not to read about my misery, so, on to The Flannelette Pyjama Test!
Some years ago, pre-baby, I was doing a lot of work in London, staying with my friend Annabelle (not her real name). One evening, she invited an ex of hers round for dinner. He was in the flat when I got home from work, and the attraction was instant: a long, lean elegant man with swept back Nick Cave-style hair and beautiful hands. She set us up on a date a couple of days later, and commented as I left that I was wearing a Red Dress even though I was head to foot in black, as I usually am. I knew what she meant though! Robert (not his real name either) and I met in Stoke Newington Cemetery. Yes, we were a pair of dodgy old goths; so sue me! I can still remember the joy of that day. We walked round the cemetery for hours, then went into town and had a bit of dinner in Soho. Another mutual friend worked on the door of a small indie cinema close by, so we popped in there to see what was on. Jack let us in for free and we watched a very odd movie about Valley Girls and dinosaurs or something. That part's a bit of a blur. Anyway, we went back to his flat in Stockwell for a night cap, Annabelle's flat being just a tube stop away in Brixton. After chewing the fat for a little while longer I said 'Just throw me out whenever you want me to leave', at which point he replied 'I wasn't actually considering throwing you out', and the rest is dot dot dot.
I started staying at Robert's flat whenever I was working in London. It seemed to be going pretty well, but I should have read the signs beforehand. Annabelle has certain, shall we say, tastes, and is attracted to people who have similar tastes. At a risk of giving away too much information, I'm down with the usual spiciness of adding corsetry or footwear to bedroom activities, we're all adults here, right? But I had never come across a fetish as outlandish or full-on as this:
They weren't old grey pyjamas, they were pale blue with stars on, from La Senza, if I recall correctly. I hadn't slept in them, I'd put them on first thing in the morning to wander round the flat in. Robert was busying himself in the kitchen making breakfast before going to work when I shuffled in, blurry from sleep, feeling comfy and very un-sexy in my cosy PJs. He practically pounced on me right there on the kitchen floor and was very nearly late for work, but managed to tear himself, if not the PJs, away. I am under no illusion that it was the flannelette, and not what was inside, that was the cause of his ardour. I mentioned it to Anna, and she casually said 'Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention that!'. Thanks a bunch, mate!! The main shock of it to me was that when I am in my cosy jammies it should be taken as a sign that I want to be left alone. Cuddles at the most. Even the great Pat Califia enjoys a night off in bunny slippers eating animal crackers in front of the TV. Flannelette pyjamas are not sexy, and are certainly not an indication that I want to get down and dirty on the cold kitchen floor of a council flat in Stockwell!
The relationship with Robert carried on for a few more months but then fizzled out, as these things tend to do when based mostly on sex. I fell pregnant (not by him!), and stopped working in London. I wish him well, and hope he found happiness.
But now it's a question I have to ask any prospective partner: do you have any fetishes outside the norm that I need to be aware of?! Hence, the Flannelette Pyjama Test.
Friday, 19 January 2018
The one you've been waiting for!
Reader, I met him!
I started getting a bit twitchy around lunchtime, as I hadn't heard from him all morning, so I dropped him a text:
'Hi, I'm assuming we're still on for tonight: you haven't been carried off by a freak tornado, or suddenly gone back to your wife, [wouldn't be the first time...] or anything?!'
I eventually hear back from him at 4.15! Talk about nervous. He has limited cell coverage where he works at Lancashire Wildlife Trust. I make myself presentable and head off.
I'm halfway down the A483 to Chester when he calls me. I answer (on speaker, of course!), but all I hear is fuzz. I briefly suspect heavy breathing, coz I really do hardly know this guy, and realise that I neglected to invoke The Plan, but really, get a grip Bride, who the hell does that these days? It's a pocket dial! I hang up. I've just pulled on to the A55 when a message comes through from him. Of course, I'm still driving, in the dark, in heavy rush hour traffic, but I'm still a little nervous so I pull off at the next lay-by and check the message. I fully expect it to say 'Sorry, I'm not coming, this is never going to work, so it's not worth starting. Good bye'. Yes, I am that paranoid!
No, of course it doesn't say that!
Back in the traffic stream I crawl down the motorway to Green Lane station in Birkenhead, watching the ETA on the satnav get later and later...I hate being late for anything, never mind to meet a man who has come all the way down from Leyland to Liverpool just to have dinner with me. I pay the right royal sum of £3.40 for a return ticket across the water. So much more civilised than paying tunnel fees and astronomic parking charges in Liverpool! Quicker too - I arrive at Lime Street at 6.32, to find Mr John waiting for me at the top of the escalator.
3.5 very swift conversation-filled hours later, after Lebanese dinner at Bakchich on Bold Street, a drink at a Wetherspoons pub called The Lime Kiln (he sent me pics a few days ago of an historic lime kiln that he's looking to have preserved. As spooky-type people, we share a delight in synchronicity), another drink in the Crown next to Lime Street Station, a pub I have not been in for 30 years, but the last time I was there was to see Hawkwind. More synchronicity. Beautiful pub, terrible loos. He misses his second-to-last train, we sit for a few minutes to consult diaries (he keeps a paper diary, and has beautiful handwriting!) and make another date to look at art and go to the theatre, but not until early next month as Imbolg is in the way and he has plans. I head off back under the Mersey and home, feeling relaxed and confident that this could go somewhere. The Moon is just starting to wax: an auspicious time to start a new chapter. It's about time I reconnected with the Times, Tides and Seasons.
Meanwhile....a couple of new 'likes' have popped up on Tinder. I'm not going to desperately pursue them, but in the interests of keeping my readers entertained I will gently see which direction they go in!
Peace.
I started getting a bit twitchy around lunchtime, as I hadn't heard from him all morning, so I dropped him a text:
'Hi, I'm assuming we're still on for tonight: you haven't been carried off by a freak tornado, or suddenly gone back to your wife, [wouldn't be the first time...] or anything?!'
I eventually hear back from him at 4.15! Talk about nervous. He has limited cell coverage where he works at Lancashire Wildlife Trust. I make myself presentable and head off.
I'm halfway down the A483 to Chester when he calls me. I answer (on speaker, of course!), but all I hear is fuzz. I briefly suspect heavy breathing, coz I really do hardly know this guy, and realise that I neglected to invoke The Plan, but really, get a grip Bride, who the hell does that these days? It's a pocket dial! I hang up. I've just pulled on to the A55 when a message comes through from him. Of course, I'm still driving, in the dark, in heavy rush hour traffic, but I'm still a little nervous so I pull off at the next lay-by and check the message. I fully expect it to say 'Sorry, I'm not coming, this is never going to work, so it's not worth starting. Good bye'. Yes, I am that paranoid!
No, of course it doesn't say that!
Back in the traffic stream I crawl down the motorway to Green Lane station in Birkenhead, watching the ETA on the satnav get later and later...I hate being late for anything, never mind to meet a man who has come all the way down from Leyland to Liverpool just to have dinner with me. I pay the right royal sum of £3.40 for a return ticket across the water. So much more civilised than paying tunnel fees and astronomic parking charges in Liverpool! Quicker too - I arrive at Lime Street at 6.32, to find Mr John waiting for me at the top of the escalator.
3.5 very swift conversation-filled hours later, after Lebanese dinner at Bakchich on Bold Street, a drink at a Wetherspoons pub called The Lime Kiln (he sent me pics a few days ago of an historic lime kiln that he's looking to have preserved. As spooky-type people, we share a delight in synchronicity), another drink in the Crown next to Lime Street Station, a pub I have not been in for 30 years, but the last time I was there was to see Hawkwind. More synchronicity. Beautiful pub, terrible loos. He misses his second-to-last train, we sit for a few minutes to consult diaries (he keeps a paper diary, and has beautiful handwriting!) and make another date to look at art and go to the theatre, but not until early next month as Imbolg is in the way and he has plans. I head off back under the Mersey and home, feeling relaxed and confident that this could go somewhere. The Moon is just starting to wax: an auspicious time to start a new chapter. It's about time I reconnected with the Times, Tides and Seasons.
Meanwhile....a couple of new 'likes' have popped up on Tinder. I'm not going to desperately pursue them, but in the interests of keeping my readers entertained I will gently see which direction they go in!
Peace.
Thursday, 18 January 2018
A Druid called John
OK, I've been being pestered for this so here it is.
I came across John on Saturday afternoon when I really should have been doing something else, like working. Nice face, long hair, hippyish.
'Do you question life and how you can make life on earth better? Do you love things about your life that make you so happy you want to share them? Are you passionate about the things that you love or love doing? Have you got so many things you want to do but there isn't enough time to do everything? If you say yes to them all, let's meet and discuss. Namaste'
Yes, yes and yes!
We match immediately, which means he must have already 'liked' me before I found him, and he starts the conversation. We have a friend in common, but that friend is so distant from me the chance of her knowing about this blog is slim so I didn't feel the need to change his name. She does know that we've come into contact now anyway, as he told her. They work together. We chat lightly about Hawkwind, Motorhead (Fast Eddie Clarke had just passed away), camper vans (another great talking point as well as the tattoos), festivals, veganism, smoking, then tattoos.
Him: Is the tattoo on your back? It has a labyrinth in it too!
Me: It does! Well spotted.
Him: I've built a labyrinth as well as a stone circle at Brockholes, Preston, the wildlife trust nature reserve
At this point it all gets a bit choirs of angels and deep connections across the aeons. I tell him I'm a witch (I'm not strictly, but its a close enough description), he tells me he's a druid, and we start making plans to meet as this is all sounding too good!
The main issue is that he lives near Preston, I live in Wrexham, and we have lives. Sunday is looking good for both of us. I get back onto Whatshalfway.com and find that the midpoint for us is Warrington. Hardly the most inspiring town in the North West! I start looking at places to go walking. I think Norton Priory looks interesting, but the best bit, the Walled Garden, is closed until March. He suggests the museum, but it's not open on Sundays. The course of true love never did run smooth.
The conversation moves to texting, and pretty much goes on for most of Saturday evening. I discover that as well as being a 'proper' grown-up and having a car and all, he also rides a motorbike! A Honda Shadow 600. Oh, be still my beating heart, this is sounding better and better every day!
The conversation continues on Sunday, and all week. He passes the LGBT test, of course, I would have been very surprised if he hadn't, and the animals test, the Flannelette Pyjama test (oh, yeah, that's a thing too. Will explain at a later date), the Faerie test, the Leave or Remain test, the Theatre test, all of it, in fact. And then we discover that we were both studying in Liverpool at the same time in the early 80s! The chances of us having been at the same Here & Now gigs are extremely high. On paper/cellphone screen, this guy is perfect. Now we just have to get past the face-to-face part.
As Sunday is starting to look like a no-goer, we change the plan and settle for dinner in Liverpool. He can get the train down from Preston, I can drive to the Wirral and travel across by train from there.
At time of writing, we are meeting tonight at 6.30 at Lime Street Station. Watch this space, and wish me luck!
Wednesday, 17 January 2018
A Busy Weekend
At the weekend my day job tried to take over (for those who don't know I am a freelance theatrical costume maker.) I had taken on a contract from Bolton Octagon which had to be turned around in a week. I only got to fit the costumes on Thursday, so was expecting to have to work all weekend to get them ready for delivery on Monday. But never fear, dear reader, I had my phone handy at all times to document the comings and goings on Tinder.
Whilst up in Bolton on Thursday a match pops up with a gentleman name of Tony. Later that afternoon we start chatting and he turns out to be a delightful chap, witty, good writing style (I do like a man who can spell and doesn't use too much text-speak!), cyclist, software developer, father of 4, ex-scooterist, former resident of Amsterdam (and we all know what that means!), lives in Runcorn. This one really does sound like he could be a replacement for the One That Got Away at Christmas. He asks me if I'd like to go on a date with him. And this is where it all falls down.
We move the conversation to WhatsApp and try to find a mutually convenient time to meet up for afternoon tea on Saturday. I discover a very useful website called Whatshalfway.com which shows that halfway between Runcorn and Wrexham is, conveniently enough, Chester. We decide on a farm cafe on the outskirts of Chester at 3pm. So far, so awesome.
My work proceeds apace, and I figure I can make time to take a couple of hours out to meet a nice-sounding geezer for a cup of tea and scone, when I get a message from him apologising but he has to take his daughter shopping for a party she wants to throw that evening, and can we postpone till Sunday? Of course I say yes. Family must always come first. It's not the first, nor do I suspect it will be the last time I am thrown over for a child. Sunday comes, and no date, but another apology. We try to re-arrange for a drink on Wednesday evening. It's still Wednesday, and no word from the nice Mr Scooterboy Tony. Ah well. Reading back through his messages to write this he did sound very sweet, but a Scooterboy and a Biker Chick was never really going to cut it. We would have been re-enacting Quadrophenia every time we got together. Next!
The next person to pop up was a very left-field player who I'm going to call Deva Don, not his real name, because we have friends in common and he doesn't want them to know he's on Tinder. All terribly secret squirrel! He messages me very late on Friday night. He is acerbic, sarcastic and sounds very bitter, but as we have friends in common, and in his photo he does look rather dishy, I keep at it despite his best efforts:
Him: So, it appears we're not compatible. In fact, I'm probably not compatible with anyone here at the moment.
Me: Aren't we? OK, if you think not I shall bow to your superior knowledge. Be well, and good luck.
Him: Sorry, I didn't wish to appear rude. The thing is that I'm having doubts about actually being on Tinder as I don't get time for dating. Well, nothing but the most casual anyway - and I'm not sure if anybody wants that including myself perhaps. I'd also feel daft suggesting it. God, Tinder is just making me confused.
Me: Look, if you are a friend of X and Y, I think you might be an interesting guy. Here's my mobile number. If you fancy and could manage a quiet drink one evening, drop me a line. No pressure.
And I left it there.
On Sunday afternoon he texted me from work. Then later that evening he messaged me on WhatsApp. No date yet, but the connection is open.
Another back field runner pops up on Sunday morning. Paddleboard Pete and I also have friends in common, so his name has also been changed. Not immediately sparky, but he keeps messaging me every other day or so, and has offered to take me out to the Chinese Buffet in town next time he's in the area (not that I'm going to hold him to it!) so he's worthy of a mention. So many guys have 'liked' me, then either not bothered to reply to my messages, or evaporated after one or two texts. What's the point in that? Spoilsports. Ah well, their loss. Never shall they grace the pages of this blog with even an honourable mention.
Which brings me to John the Druid.
What can I say about John the Druid?! He almost warrants a post all to himself. In fact, I'm going to leave you in suspense as we are meeting for dinner tomorrow night. Watch this space, as they say. /|\
Whilst up in Bolton on Thursday a match pops up with a gentleman name of Tony. Later that afternoon we start chatting and he turns out to be a delightful chap, witty, good writing style (I do like a man who can spell and doesn't use too much text-speak!), cyclist, software developer, father of 4, ex-scooterist, former resident of Amsterdam (and we all know what that means!), lives in Runcorn. This one really does sound like he could be a replacement for the One That Got Away at Christmas. He asks me if I'd like to go on a date with him. And this is where it all falls down.
We move the conversation to WhatsApp and try to find a mutually convenient time to meet up for afternoon tea on Saturday. I discover a very useful website called Whatshalfway.com which shows that halfway between Runcorn and Wrexham is, conveniently enough, Chester. We decide on a farm cafe on the outskirts of Chester at 3pm. So far, so awesome.
My work proceeds apace, and I figure I can make time to take a couple of hours out to meet a nice-sounding geezer for a cup of tea and scone, when I get a message from him apologising but he has to take his daughter shopping for a party she wants to throw that evening, and can we postpone till Sunday? Of course I say yes. Family must always come first. It's not the first, nor do I suspect it will be the last time I am thrown over for a child. Sunday comes, and no date, but another apology. We try to re-arrange for a drink on Wednesday evening. It's still Wednesday, and no word from the nice Mr Scooterboy Tony. Ah well. Reading back through his messages to write this he did sound very sweet, but a Scooterboy and a Biker Chick was never really going to cut it. We would have been re-enacting Quadrophenia every time we got together. Next!
The next person to pop up was a very left-field player who I'm going to call Deva Don, not his real name, because we have friends in common and he doesn't want them to know he's on Tinder. All terribly secret squirrel! He messages me very late on Friday night. He is acerbic, sarcastic and sounds very bitter, but as we have friends in common, and in his photo he does look rather dishy, I keep at it despite his best efforts:
Him: So, it appears we're not compatible. In fact, I'm probably not compatible with anyone here at the moment.
Me: Aren't we? OK, if you think not I shall bow to your superior knowledge. Be well, and good luck.
Him: Sorry, I didn't wish to appear rude. The thing is that I'm having doubts about actually being on Tinder as I don't get time for dating. Well, nothing but the most casual anyway - and I'm not sure if anybody wants that including myself perhaps. I'd also feel daft suggesting it. God, Tinder is just making me confused.
Me: Look, if you are a friend of X and Y, I think you might be an interesting guy. Here's my mobile number. If you fancy and could manage a quiet drink one evening, drop me a line. No pressure.
And I left it there.
On Sunday afternoon he texted me from work. Then later that evening he messaged me on WhatsApp. No date yet, but the connection is open.
Another back field runner pops up on Sunday morning. Paddleboard Pete and I also have friends in common, so his name has also been changed. Not immediately sparky, but he keeps messaging me every other day or so, and has offered to take me out to the Chinese Buffet in town next time he's in the area (not that I'm going to hold him to it!) so he's worthy of a mention. So many guys have 'liked' me, then either not bothered to reply to my messages, or evaporated after one or two texts. What's the point in that? Spoilsports. Ah well, their loss. Never shall they grace the pages of this blog with even an honourable mention.
Which brings me to John the Druid.
What can I say about John the Druid?! He almost warrants a post all to himself. In fact, I'm going to leave you in suspense as we are meeting for dinner tomorrow night. Watch this space, as they say. /|\
Some narrow escapes and some also-rans
Meanwhile, last week was a flurry of online activity.
After my sweet but uninspiring lunch date with Mat-with-one-t, who I may be going out for a walk with later this week, because see below about never having too many friends, especially to go walking with, Spaniel Norm from Thornton Hough, Irish Brendan from Stoke, Fantasy Andy from Runcorn and Lee from Wallasey enter stage right.
Spaniel Norm proved to be an interesting player in this drama. He wanted my mobile number so that he could call me. He did. He was chatty and funny for a few minutes, then asked about my offspring. Now, it may be bad and wrong for me to use my transgender daughter as a filter for choosing a date, but if I have to explain to someone what 'LGBT' stands for, along side 'RP' in the context of my accent, I'm fairly sure the relationship is never going to work. Especially when it is accompanied by phrases like 'but he's a really nice person when you get to know him' when referring to a trans person. Saved by my dinner being ready, I ended the conversation, sent a polite text wishing him well in his search for female company, and blocked his number.
Armed with this filter, I enter into conversation with Lee from Wallasey. Lee asks a lot of questions about my tattoos. My Tinder account is linked to my Facebook account, and most of my profile pics are from FB. Tinder seems to have decided that my main pic should be a photo of the tattoos on my back. I probably could change it, by deleting it from the server, but it makes for an interesting conversation starter, if nothing else. Frankly, if a guy doesn't like heavily tattooed women, we're never going to get past the messaging stage anyway.
Lee seems interesting, good writer, passes the LGBT test with flying colours, asking intelligent questions about my offspring's coming out and transition, then he asks about the significance of the caracal tattoo on my back.
Me: Do you want the short answer, or the 'OMG-this-woman's-a-complete-nut-job-get-me-out-of-here-now' answer?
Him: Give me the full nut-job answer, and don't leave anything out!
So I told him. I told him about Totems, and travelling on the Astral Plane, and Power Animals, and I left nothing out. He seemed to swallow it. Well, he did ask!
He then asked about other body modifications. I told him about the facial piercings, the stretched earlobes, the funny coloured hair and the dreadlocks.
Him: Oh, none of that is visible in your profile pics
Me: Oh, sorry, I did my best!
Him: Well, I did swipe right...
Nothing. Vanished. Gone. Unmatched! Guy seemingly swallows a ton of magical bollocks about astral travel, but baulks at possibly dating a woman with visible piercings and dreadlocks. Weird. Never mind. Onward and upward.
The first also-ran is Irish Brendan from near Stoke who cycles everywhere, works with young men with behavioural problems, likes Christie Moore and wants to meet for tea on Wednesday in Nantwich. Today is Wednesday, and we have not confirmed, so I guess that one has gone by the board. He seemed nice, funny and friendly, and the gods know I'm a sucker for an Irish accent, but again, I'm not going to take it personally. I hope he finds what he's looking for.
Fantasy Andy is another interesting also-ran who may yet make a re-appearance. Early 40s, works as a chef near Runcorn, and has two young children, one of whom is on the spectrum. We discover a shared love of the works of Joe Abercrombie, his son having been named Logan after the Bloody Nine. Look him up if you aren't familiar; Abercrombie knocks spots off anything churned out and badly edited by George RR Martin. We haven't made any plans to meet, but he's a busy man, still sends me the occasional message, and we have promised ourselves a good old geek-out session over Mr Abercrombie.
Which brings us to the weekend, Scooter Tony, Deva Don and John the Druid, but that will have to wait until later.
After my sweet but uninspiring lunch date with Mat-with-one-t, who I may be going out for a walk with later this week, because see below about never having too many friends, especially to go walking with, Spaniel Norm from Thornton Hough, Irish Brendan from Stoke, Fantasy Andy from Runcorn and Lee from Wallasey enter stage right.
Spaniel Norm proved to be an interesting player in this drama. He wanted my mobile number so that he could call me. He did. He was chatty and funny for a few minutes, then asked about my offspring. Now, it may be bad and wrong for me to use my transgender daughter as a filter for choosing a date, but if I have to explain to someone what 'LGBT' stands for, along side 'RP' in the context of my accent, I'm fairly sure the relationship is never going to work. Especially when it is accompanied by phrases like 'but he's a really nice person when you get to know him' when referring to a trans person. Saved by my dinner being ready, I ended the conversation, sent a polite text wishing him well in his search for female company, and blocked his number.
Armed with this filter, I enter into conversation with Lee from Wallasey. Lee asks a lot of questions about my tattoos. My Tinder account is linked to my Facebook account, and most of my profile pics are from FB. Tinder seems to have decided that my main pic should be a photo of the tattoos on my back. I probably could change it, by deleting it from the server, but it makes for an interesting conversation starter, if nothing else. Frankly, if a guy doesn't like heavily tattooed women, we're never going to get past the messaging stage anyway.
Lee seems interesting, good writer, passes the LGBT test with flying colours, asking intelligent questions about my offspring's coming out and transition, then he asks about the significance of the caracal tattoo on my back.
Me: Do you want the short answer, or the 'OMG-this-woman's-a-complete-nut-job-get-me-out-of-here-now' answer?
Him: Give me the full nut-job answer, and don't leave anything out!
So I told him. I told him about Totems, and travelling on the Astral Plane, and Power Animals, and I left nothing out. He seemed to swallow it. Well, he did ask!
He then asked about other body modifications. I told him about the facial piercings, the stretched earlobes, the funny coloured hair and the dreadlocks.
Him: Oh, none of that is visible in your profile pics
Me: Oh, sorry, I did my best!
Him: Well, I did swipe right...
Nothing. Vanished. Gone. Unmatched! Guy seemingly swallows a ton of magical bollocks about astral travel, but baulks at possibly dating a woman with visible piercings and dreadlocks. Weird. Never mind. Onward and upward.
The first also-ran is Irish Brendan from near Stoke who cycles everywhere, works with young men with behavioural problems, likes Christie Moore and wants to meet for tea on Wednesday in Nantwich. Today is Wednesday, and we have not confirmed, so I guess that one has gone by the board. He seemed nice, funny and friendly, and the gods know I'm a sucker for an Irish accent, but again, I'm not going to take it personally. I hope he finds what he's looking for.
Fantasy Andy is another interesting also-ran who may yet make a re-appearance. Early 40s, works as a chef near Runcorn, and has two young children, one of whom is on the spectrum. We discover a shared love of the works of Joe Abercrombie, his son having been named Logan after the Bloody Nine. Look him up if you aren't familiar; Abercrombie knocks spots off anything churned out and badly edited by George RR Martin. We haven't made any plans to meet, but he's a busy man, still sends me the occasional message, and we have promised ourselves a good old geek-out session over Mr Abercrombie.
Which brings us to the weekend, Scooter Tony, Deva Don and John the Druid, but that will have to wait until later.
One from out of the blue
Now, call me greedy if you like, but despite having one confirmed and two provisional dates set up for this week (more on them later), I couldn't help but go window shopping again yesterday morning. Call it addiction, call it FOMO, whatever, I don't care, I'll get over it, but in the mean time...
Up pops Stephen, says he's 47, with a lot of tattoos, a laid-back attitude and a nice face. I swipe right and waddyaknow, we match straight away! After much messaging, mostly about tattoos, we switch to texting. I'm no longer nervous about giving out my mobile number as its very easy to block people these days. Again, more on that later. He seems very keen, and invites my up to his house in Buckley for a smoke, as we share an enjoyment of smoke-able intoxicants. I persuade him that I'd be happier meeting in public first. I may be That Kind Of Girl, but I don't want him to know that too soon!
At this point I feel the need to introduce my readers to my very lovely friend Ricardo. He and I met on OKCupid just over 2 years ago. My first foray into online dating. We met for tea and scones in Llangollen, and the first thing he asked after we shook hands was 'Do you mind if we pop into this charity shop over the road first?' How to win your way into a girl's heart! I have one friend who likes to be taken to DIY stores. Me, I like a charity shop. After a couple of dates which were thoroughly enjoyable it was clear that there was no romantic spark between us, but he has since become one of my dearest and closest friends. To add to Wallace Simpson's adage, you can never be too rich, too thin, or have too many friends.
Anyway, Ricardo and I hatched a plan between us. If my date is going down the toilet I text him a codeword, he calls me with an excuse, and I have to go home. I'm a little wary of this chap Steve, but you have to take chances in life so I invoke The Plan.
One has to question one's sanity when one heads out for a date with a total stranger in the middle of a snow storm, but I now owe it to my readers, so out in the car I venture, driving through a blizzard in the dark with the flakes whizzing past in the headlights like the Millenium Falcon making the jump to hyper-space (or a Tesla on 'ludicrous plus' mode. Yes, this is a thing)
Well, he was lovely. Cute, shortish, chatty, smart in that 'naturally clever but under-educated' sort of way, Radio 4 listener, Remainer (very important!) and passed the LGBT Test. We sat and talked non-stop for more than 2 hours, before he had to leave as he gets up at 5am for work. We share a kiss next to his very big black 4x4 pick-up truck (he also owns a Suzuki 650 and a VW T5 campervan, for those keeping score), and say we'll see each other again. Will we? I could stand it. We'll see.
Meanwhile, there are a couple that got away, some also-rans, and John the Druid, but that will have to wait for another post.
Up pops Stephen, says he's 47, with a lot of tattoos, a laid-back attitude and a nice face. I swipe right and waddyaknow, we match straight away! After much messaging, mostly about tattoos, we switch to texting. I'm no longer nervous about giving out my mobile number as its very easy to block people these days. Again, more on that later. He seems very keen, and invites my up to his house in Buckley for a smoke, as we share an enjoyment of smoke-able intoxicants. I persuade him that I'd be happier meeting in public first. I may be That Kind Of Girl, but I don't want him to know that too soon!
At this point I feel the need to introduce my readers to my very lovely friend Ricardo. He and I met on OKCupid just over 2 years ago. My first foray into online dating. We met for tea and scones in Llangollen, and the first thing he asked after we shook hands was 'Do you mind if we pop into this charity shop over the road first?' How to win your way into a girl's heart! I have one friend who likes to be taken to DIY stores. Me, I like a charity shop. After a couple of dates which were thoroughly enjoyable it was clear that there was no romantic spark between us, but he has since become one of my dearest and closest friends. To add to Wallace Simpson's adage, you can never be too rich, too thin, or have too many friends.
Anyway, Ricardo and I hatched a plan between us. If my date is going down the toilet I text him a codeword, he calls me with an excuse, and I have to go home. I'm a little wary of this chap Steve, but you have to take chances in life so I invoke The Plan.
One has to question one's sanity when one heads out for a date with a total stranger in the middle of a snow storm, but I now owe it to my readers, so out in the car I venture, driving through a blizzard in the dark with the flakes whizzing past in the headlights like the Millenium Falcon making the jump to hyper-space (or a Tesla on 'ludicrous plus' mode. Yes, this is a thing)
Well, he was lovely. Cute, shortish, chatty, smart in that 'naturally clever but under-educated' sort of way, Radio 4 listener, Remainer (very important!) and passed the LGBT Test. We sat and talked non-stop for more than 2 hours, before he had to leave as he gets up at 5am for work. We share a kiss next to his very big black 4x4 pick-up truck (he also owns a Suzuki 650 and a VW T5 campervan, for those keeping score), and say we'll see each other again. Will we? I could stand it. We'll see.
Meanwhile, there are a couple that got away, some also-rans, and John the Druid, but that will have to wait for another post.
Tuesday, 16 January 2018
The first first date.
For those who may be unfamiliar with how Tinder works, you scroll through endless photos of people, click on someone you like the look of, read what ever meagre and badly spelled biog they may have bothered to write, then swipe right if you like them or left to consign them to the reject pile. If someone has done the same to you and you 'like' each other, you can them send them a message and away you go. Some people use it as a hook-up site for casual dating, others are genuinely looking for someone special. Unlike other dating sites or apps, there are no endless questions to answer, and no algorithm trying to match you with your perfect mate. Tinder recognises that as human animals visual attraction is most important (and large motorbikes!), and leaves the rest to its subscribers. Oh, and you can't send pictures via the Tinder messaging app, so how these rumours of Unsolicited Dick Pics get spread around I don't know. I've never had one. I'm starting to feel cheated...
So, there I was, utterly heart-broken and cycling endlessly through the Five Stages of Grief (I'm still hovering between Bargaining and Acceptance), scrolling past troll after troll until up pops young Steve from Stoke. Very cute, big bike (there's a pattern forming here...), worth a swipe right. We matched! Turned out he is a Spiritualist with a BMW GS1200 and the cutest 14 week old chihuahua puppy in the universe called Scooby. A good soul. A very good soul, in fact. We moved off Tinder into texting (coz at the time I didn't have a WhatsApp account which seems to be the favoured messaging app outside of Facebook, and is now owned by Facebook!) and he sent me pictures of Scooby, and his old dog and soulmate Bruce the Rottweiler, whose spirit he believes has been reborn in Scooby (if you've ever met a chihuahua this is not as outlandish as it may seem!), and his tattoos, and then Angel card readings. And then motivational posters. Oh dear. He's a follower of Doreen Virtue, and a Christian, and wants to meet me.
Me: So you don't mind that I'm a demon-consorting witch? I don't need saving!
Him: I don't mind at all we will get on.
Okay then. This could get interesting.
Working with the adage passed on to me by my beloved sister-in-law that the best way to get over somebody is to get under somebody else I continue the conversation with Spiritualist Steve (I've started giving them nicknames by this point, as they're starting to stack up...) because I think he might be good in the sack, but almost I pity the first guy I really do hook up with as I'm starting to rebound horribly.
Along with SpiritLevel Steve there was also Vintage Dave from Shrewsbury, who works for an antique dealer, and who had a picture of himself astride a shiny red Ducati, but it was all a lie! It was his mate's bike! We talked bikes, and guitars, and car-booting, then had a row over Brexit. I think he might be a Leaver, which is pretty much a deal-breaker here, but he avoided it becoming an issue by playing the Sick Mother, Can't Commit card before we even got to the coffee stage. He seemed nice, and I wished him well. You can't take things personally here, because it usually isn't.
The next guy to make a decent impression was Mat-with-one-t from Crewe. Very interesting biog, looked a bit nerdy and gothy, 44 years old, amateur musician, looking for someone left-wing and quirky. Now this could get somewhere. Conversation moved off Tinder very quickly so we could swap pictures of our cats!
Mat and I get on very well via messaging. We have a lot in common. Music, books, popular culture. We decide that even if we don't click together we could still be good friends. We arrange to meet. He doesn't have a car, so we plan for Wednesday in Chester for lunch, as I have to be there anyway, and he's a games journalist who keeps his own hours. I recognise him straight way from his photo and his description of himself: very tall, standing a bit forlornly outside Cafe Nero on Foregate Street. I know his type. I've been here before. Frankly, it was hard work. He was obviously very nervous, and kept avoiding eye contact. Referring the reader to my comment above about rebounding, I realise that this is not what I need right now. I need someone dynamic. Someone who will sweep me off my feet; who is just so vital that I almost have to run to keep up. Mat, despite the obvious intelligence and intellectual compatibility, is not this. He could have had potential, but the timing is just not right.
I go home, and get back online.
So, there I was, utterly heart-broken and cycling endlessly through the Five Stages of Grief (I'm still hovering between Bargaining and Acceptance), scrolling past troll after troll until up pops young Steve from Stoke. Very cute, big bike (there's a pattern forming here...), worth a swipe right. We matched! Turned out he is a Spiritualist with a BMW GS1200 and the cutest 14 week old chihuahua puppy in the universe called Scooby. A good soul. A very good soul, in fact. We moved off Tinder into texting (coz at the time I didn't have a WhatsApp account which seems to be the favoured messaging app outside of Facebook, and is now owned by Facebook!) and he sent me pictures of Scooby, and his old dog and soulmate Bruce the Rottweiler, whose spirit he believes has been reborn in Scooby (if you've ever met a chihuahua this is not as outlandish as it may seem!), and his tattoos, and then Angel card readings. And then motivational posters. Oh dear. He's a follower of Doreen Virtue, and a Christian, and wants to meet me.
Me: So you don't mind that I'm a demon-consorting witch? I don't need saving!
Him: I don't mind at all we will get on.
Okay then. This could get interesting.
Working with the adage passed on to me by my beloved sister-in-law that the best way to get over somebody is to get under somebody else I continue the conversation with Spiritualist Steve (I've started giving them nicknames by this point, as they're starting to stack up...) because I think he might be good in the sack, but almost I pity the first guy I really do hook up with as I'm starting to rebound horribly.
Along with SpiritLevel Steve there was also Vintage Dave from Shrewsbury, who works for an antique dealer, and who had a picture of himself astride a shiny red Ducati, but it was all a lie! It was his mate's bike! We talked bikes, and guitars, and car-booting, then had a row over Brexit. I think he might be a Leaver, which is pretty much a deal-breaker here, but he avoided it becoming an issue by playing the Sick Mother, Can't Commit card before we even got to the coffee stage. He seemed nice, and I wished him well. You can't take things personally here, because it usually isn't.
The next guy to make a decent impression was Mat-with-one-t from Crewe. Very interesting biog, looked a bit nerdy and gothy, 44 years old, amateur musician, looking for someone left-wing and quirky. Now this could get somewhere. Conversation moved off Tinder very quickly so we could swap pictures of our cats!
Mat and I get on very well via messaging. We have a lot in common. Music, books, popular culture. We decide that even if we don't click together we could still be good friends. We arrange to meet. He doesn't have a car, so we plan for Wednesday in Chester for lunch, as I have to be there anyway, and he's a games journalist who keeps his own hours. I recognise him straight way from his photo and his description of himself: very tall, standing a bit forlornly outside Cafe Nero on Foregate Street. I know his type. I've been here before. Frankly, it was hard work. He was obviously very nervous, and kept avoiding eye contact. Referring the reader to my comment above about rebounding, I realise that this is not what I need right now. I need someone dynamic. Someone who will sweep me off my feet; who is just so vital that I almost have to run to keep up. Mat, despite the obvious intelligence and intellectual compatibility, is not this. He could have had potential, but the timing is just not right.
I go home, and get back online.
Monday, 15 January 2018
To begin at the beginning
Welcome, gentle reader, to my blog. I'm hoping it will be short, but entertaining!
A bit of background:
Last May I found myself at a small local music festival with some good friends and my dog, single and without prospect of become not so. I split with my husband and baby-daddy in 2015 after 20 years together, and my long-term partner from the US had had to go home after staying with me for 6 months the previous October. I work with women, and I socialise with women, and all the eligible chaps my age just seemed like walking heart attacks waiting to happen. What was a fairly attractive, alternative-looking, solvent, independent woman-of-a-certain-age to do? Go on Tinder!
So I prepared a short biog, and logged on.
'Disreputable mother of one human, one dog and three cats (but no dragons) looking for a man for company and occasional heavy lifting! Politically left-wing, I love dancing, yoga, reading, films, theatre, cooking, walking, rock music, bikes, animals, my camper van, and good conversation, not necessarily in that order. Pretty self-sufficient with a full life, but willing to find space for the right guy.'
I didn't have to wait long.
After a few false starts chatting awkwardly to a couple of guys, a chap turned up who seemed just that little bit more intriguing. He said he was 53, lived in Oswestry, liked music and the arts, was not unattractive, certainly slim and fit, and had a very big motorbike. OK, so it was the motorbike that swung it! We met for coffee, then for dinner, then went to the theatre, then we stayed in...and by the time he admitted that he was actually 10 years older than he originally said, I was pretty well smitten. And so was he. It shouldn't have worked, but it did. We had 6 months of laughter, culture, bike rides, rock concerts and some frankly amazing sex before just after Christmas Real Life (tm) came crashing in and I had to give him up for the sake of a 2-year-old granddaughter called Lillie. We're still very much in touch, and that door is still open, *but* he always maintained I would have no trouble getting a date, and I had come to realise that I quite like having a man in my life, you know, for sex and heavy lifting, so last week back on Tinder I went.
A bit of background:
Last May I found myself at a small local music festival with some good friends and my dog, single and without prospect of become not so. I split with my husband and baby-daddy in 2015 after 20 years together, and my long-term partner from the US had had to go home after staying with me for 6 months the previous October. I work with women, and I socialise with women, and all the eligible chaps my age just seemed like walking heart attacks waiting to happen. What was a fairly attractive, alternative-looking, solvent, independent woman-of-a-certain-age to do? Go on Tinder!
So I prepared a short biog, and logged on.
'Disreputable mother of one human, one dog and three cats (but no dragons) looking for a man for company and occasional heavy lifting! Politically left-wing, I love dancing, yoga, reading, films, theatre, cooking, walking, rock music, bikes, animals, my camper van, and good conversation, not necessarily in that order. Pretty self-sufficient with a full life, but willing to find space for the right guy.'
I didn't have to wait long.
After a few false starts chatting awkwardly to a couple of guys, a chap turned up who seemed just that little bit more intriguing. He said he was 53, lived in Oswestry, liked music and the arts, was not unattractive, certainly slim and fit, and had a very big motorbike. OK, so it was the motorbike that swung it! We met for coffee, then for dinner, then went to the theatre, then we stayed in...and by the time he admitted that he was actually 10 years older than he originally said, I was pretty well smitten. And so was he. It shouldn't have worked, but it did. We had 6 months of laughter, culture, bike rides, rock concerts and some frankly amazing sex before just after Christmas Real Life (tm) came crashing in and I had to give him up for the sake of a 2-year-old granddaughter called Lillie. We're still very much in touch, and that door is still open, *but* he always maintained I would have no trouble getting a date, and I had come to realise that I quite like having a man in my life, you know, for sex and heavy lifting, so last week back on Tinder I went.
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