One day, love will come in the form of somebody who wants to
give more than take, and you will know why love is rare.
My future son-in-law hunts ducks. I can rationalise this, as
humans have long eaten meat, but my heart feels sad for the
mate of the fallen duck. One moment, he is a contented duck
flapping beside his beloved, and the next, a forlorn duck
watching his mate being carried in the jaws of an exuberant
springer spaniel to someone disguised as a half-dead tree in a
marshy maimai; which brings me to my story.
I do not want to be a forlorn duck! I want my very own drake
upon whose breast I can rest my weary head. In pursuit of such
a fellow, I have gone on many dating sites and had many
bizarre, disturbing, and humiliating experiences, often on the
same date. The only good thing I can remember is an apple pie
made for me by a Dutchman, but he didn’t let his dog inside,
and even the lovelorn have standards.
My older sister, Dammie, who has the smug demeanour of a
duck with a devoted drake, tells me I must stop foolishly
chasing deadbeat men and make sure my grandchildren can
read. However, an aging woman with errant facial hairs waving
Red Riding Hood for beginners has little chance against the
wily dopamine-destroying computer game ,Minecraft. I know full
well the little darlings would gladly feed grandmama to the wily
wolf in exchange for just a few more moments in a virtual world
which rewards addiction, not hard work.
I wonder, am I addicted to love? I can tick most boxes on the
needs of life, and one can live without romantic love, which can
be a dangerous sport, as in the case, say, of Romeo and Juliet.
However, the eternal question that floats like a cloud in all
weathers is “what is life without love?” In my wintry moods, I go
on dating sites that promise that they too can fire Cupid’s
arrows. However, Cupid’s arrow shot such a plonker on my
most recent foray into computer-generated affection that I have
officially retired from the sport of dating.
I met Percy on a site called 60’s Dating, which matches you
with totally unsuitable people by asking probing questions such
as, are you an early or late riser, or do you believe in liberal
parenting?
It seems getting up early and a preference for liberal parenting
was enough for an arrow called Percy to come whizzing my
way.
Our virtual sniffing around each other went like this.
Ash: You are rather attractive.
Percy: So are you, mutual admiration society.
Ash: Well that’s a good start. Do you like cooking and food in
general?
Percy: I’m sitting with a stupid grin on my face, and people are
looking at me strangely. I love it. I do a great moussaka,
Caesar salad, Thai curry.
Ash: Oh gosh, I’m so pleased. My ex-husband only ate white
bread and cheddar cheese sandwiches. I love dogs and will get
one soon.
Percy: Ooh, what sort? I was going to get a labradoodle, Ash.
I’m not sure if it’s the love of dogs or food, but Percy falls in
love with me.
Percy: Would you be in my arms if you were here right now?
Ash: No, because I’m having a problem converting a PDF to
word.
Percy: I didn’t believe it would happen that I would ever feel this
way. I am always thinking of you. Smiling. Reaching for the
phone. Feeling silly and teenage... tell me to get a grip. No
don’t. I’m fine. I give myself to you. If you want.
Ash: Thank you for your poems, but my phone keeps pinging
with them, and I have to be up at 5.
Percy: I miss you.
Isn’t it marvellous to miss someone you’ve never met. I hope
you still love me.
Ash: Crikey! Do I?
Percy: If you do not love me, I shall not be loved. Samuel
Beckett.
I finally meet Percy in a small bar. It is far from a smoky Bogart-
type encounter. Before he has even ordered a drink, he tells
me he has a confession to make. I am worried he is going to
prostrate himself on the floor of my local where I am quite well
known. It transpires he is not Bogartian at all but Prince
Andrewian with a penchant for the underage and to give him
credit, he must really have been trying to turn over a new leaf,
going from 16 to 60.
I run from the bar sobbing. I ring two of my sons who rush
around with their girlfriends to console me and drink the Mumm
and Pinot I had bought in the expectation I would be dancing
with my new date after a candlelit dinner.
I am ashamed of myself that I bought into the nonsense of believing someone could love me without knowing me. I am as
guilty as Percy. Perhaps I just needed to prove to myself that I
am loveable after being dumped like an empty Uber Eats bag.
As an eternal optimist, I just kept hoping someone might fish
this old bag out of the rubbish and be waiting just for me in the
playground when class is out. I don’t doubt the unstinting
support of my children, but there is something a bit tragic about
hanging out in the playground with the juniors when one is a
senior.
Is it too much to ask?
To fly once more before I soar.
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