roller-skating squirrel, which I had read on the BBC’s Web site. It was then, while pondering the limitless variety of the Internet, that the idea occurred.
Why not put Rupert’s profile on an Internet dating service? Only last week, I read an article about a choir mistress who found love at the age of fifty-nine with a retired greyhound breeder. If there is hope for them, there is hope for Rupert. And surely the advantages of such a discreet and convenient dating service would outweigh any minor invasions of his privacy. I kept this to myself while I was on the phone, of course, but in my head I was already composing an advertisement along the following lines:
“Handsome, professional 26-year-old with own flat and teethseeks respectable lady for companionship and potential marriage. Must have good sense of humor and love musicals. Virgin preferred. No feminists, socialists, sailors, or divorcées. No piercings below the ears, no tattoos or unnatural hair dye, please. Must be kind to animals, including parrots.”
The choice of dating Web site is, of course, key. I typed “online Internet dating” into Google (Rupert once explained to me that Google is a little like direct inquiries, and I am rather proud of my prowess). The results that popped up almost immediately were staggering. There were dating Web sites for women seeking “sugar daddies,” for men seeking policewomen, for those desiring “large and lovely connections,” for wine lovers, for vegetarians, and for those seeking people to engage in acts of such specific physical athleticism that I snapped the lid of my LapTop down in horror before opening it again, slowly, transfixed in spite of myself.
This will take some thought. Things were so much simpler in my day, when Jeffrey and I simply locked eyes at a Durham Conservatives cheese and wine evening.
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 19
Over dinner this evening—a shepherd’s pie, which Natalia burned on top to a blackened crust—I decided to test out Jeffrey’s opinion of my plan to advertise Rupert on the Internet, and to see if he would help me choose an appropriate Web site. I thought it would be sensible to get a second opinion after the debacle of Rupert’s birthday party, and my unsuccessful attempt to set up Sophie with David. However, Jeffrey’s opinion was not easy to obtain. It took him an inordinate amount of time to grasp what I was suggesting and why. As soon as understanding dawned, I put down my fork and stared expectantly at him, but he simply shook his head slowly, said, “Don’t be ridiculous, woman,” and took out his copy of today’s
FinancialTimes,
which he then erected like a giant peach windbreak between us.
Men. It is all very well for him to dismiss my concerns, but he is not faced with the same daily reminders of what we are missing out on. I am a fifty-three-year-old woman. Everywhere around me, my friends and contemporaries are booking ivy-clad idyllic rural churches, erecting marquees or welcoming their grandchildren into the world. Edward and Harriet already have both a three-year-old grandson and a bouncing baby granddaughter. The only thing my children have taken responsibility for is a cactus and a goldfish that died when one of Sophie’s school friends poured a raspberry martini into its tank.
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 20
I am sorry for wallowing in self-pity yesterday. It does not do to dwell on my problems. Bell ringing last night certainly put them into perspective. Gerald remains in a bad way. A dog may be a man’s best friend, but unfortunately it does not appear to make an adequate replacement for a wife of thirty years who raised two sons and held a certificate in pastry cookery. Gerald’s cheeks are pale, his demeanor hangdog, his clothes soiled. He mopes, moons, and misses his turn at the Reverse St. Sylvester. Something must be done, and I think I know what. Gerald is crying out for a woman’s caring touch. Rupert is not the only man in need of my
Why not put Rupert’s profile on an Internet dating service? Only last week, I read an article about a choir mistress who found love at the age of fifty-nine with a retired greyhound breeder. If there is hope for them, there is hope for Rupert. And surely the advantages of such a discreet and convenient dating service would outweigh any minor invasions of his privacy. I kept this to myself while I was on the phone, of course, but in my head I was already composing an advertisement along the following lines:
“Handsome, professional 26-year-old with own flat and teethseeks respectable lady for companionship and potential marriage. Must have good sense of humor and love musicals. Virgin preferred. No feminists, socialists, sailors, or divorcées. No piercings below the ears, no tattoos or unnatural hair dye, please. Must be kind to animals, including parrots.”
The choice of dating Web site is, of course, key. I typed “online Internet dating” into Google (Rupert once explained to me that Google is a little like direct inquiries, and I am rather proud of my prowess). The results that popped up almost immediately were staggering. There were dating Web sites for women seeking “sugar daddies,” for men seeking policewomen, for those desiring “large and lovely connections,” for wine lovers, for vegetarians, and for those seeking people to engage in acts of such specific physical athleticism that I snapped the lid of my LapTop down in horror before opening it again, slowly, transfixed in spite of myself.
This will take some thought. Things were so much simpler in my day, when Jeffrey and I simply locked eyes at a Durham Conservatives cheese and wine evening.
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 19
Over dinner this evening—a shepherd’s pie, which Natalia burned on top to a blackened crust—I decided to test out Jeffrey’s opinion of my plan to advertise Rupert on the Internet, and to see if he would help me choose an appropriate Web site. I thought it would be sensible to get a second opinion after the debacle of Rupert’s birthday party, and my unsuccessful attempt to set up Sophie with David. However, Jeffrey’s opinion was not easy to obtain. It took him an inordinate amount of time to grasp what I was suggesting and why. As soon as understanding dawned, I put down my fork and stared expectantly at him, but he simply shook his head slowly, said, “Don’t be ridiculous, woman,” and took out his copy of today’s
FinancialTimes,
which he then erected like a giant peach windbreak between us.
Men. It is all very well for him to dismiss my concerns, but he is not faced with the same daily reminders of what we are missing out on. I am a fifty-three-year-old woman. Everywhere around me, my friends and contemporaries are booking ivy-clad idyllic rural churches, erecting marquees or welcoming their grandchildren into the world. Edward and Harriet already have both a three-year-old grandson and a bouncing baby granddaughter. The only thing my children have taken responsibility for is a cactus and a goldfish that died when one of Sophie’s school friends poured a raspberry martini into its tank.
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 20
I am sorry for wallowing in self-pity yesterday. It does not do to dwell on my problems. Bell ringing last night certainly put them into perspective. Gerald remains in a bad way. A dog may be a man’s best friend, but unfortunately it does not appear to make an adequate replacement for a wife of thirty years who raised two sons and held a certificate in pastry cookery. Gerald’s cheeks are pale, his demeanor hangdog, his clothes soiled. He mopes, moons, and misses his turn at the Reverse St. Sylvester. Something must be done, and I think I know what. Gerald is crying out for a woman’s caring touch. Rupert is not the only man in need of my
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