assistance in this area; my track record in this department may not be impeccable, but duty calls.
There is not what you might call an abundance of single women in the village with an interest in campanology and dogs, but once again a thought has occurred. Miss Hughes. She is the only unattached lady at bell ringing, and I am quite convin-ced that she grew up in the sort of place that was crawling with Labradors. She has never married—something to do with anorthodontist who ran off with her sister—but love can blossom late, like in those
Saga
advertisements of tanned sixty-year-olds holding hands on silver beaches. And despite the walking stick, she can’t be more than a year or two Gerald’s senior.
As if fate were on my side with matters of the heart, as soon as I got home the telephone rang, and it was Bridget, an old university friend who now works in publishing in London and is practically an expert on Internet dating. As she is a divorcée this is only to be expected, though I thought it best not to ask if she had signed up to “wine lovers” or “large and lovely.” After I had told her that Rupert enthusiastically backed the plan—an exaggeration, I admit, but he did evangelize about the Internet’s ability to connect one with like-minded people when he persuaded me to start this blog, so he can hardly object—she recommended that I look at the dating section of whichever newspaper he reads online. This turned out to be sterling advice: I have just had a look at the
Daily Telegraph’
s Web site, and it does indeed carry a dating service, called Kindred Spirits, that looks most promising. All I need to do now is finesse the wording. “Handsome, professional 26-year-old with own flat and teeth” or “Professional, hand-some 26-year-old with own teeth and flat”? I must get this right. I would hate to annoy him.
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 21
A disturbing incident at Church Flowers today. Usually the proceedings could not be more soothing: we meet, we select some seasonal blooms, we arrange, we place them for maximum effect in terms of both catching the light and concealing cobwebs, we stop for a cup of tea, and repeat the above. Today, however, Pru came over to me with a hard look in her eye. Her lips were pursed so that her fuchsia lipstick latticed out into her powdery cheeks. Perhaps she was troubled that I had taken the laststem of gladioli? Unfortunately not. It appears that the consequences of Rupert’s birthday party continue to ripple beyond the bill for getting the rug dry-cleaned. Pru informed me that, as I had requested, her daughter had fallen “head over heels” for my son, as befitted her “sweet, trusting nature.” I was rather taken aback. As far as I could tell, Rupert had done nothing to encourage Ruth. He had even left her gift—
The Little Book of Clouds
—wedged behind the U-bend of the downstairs lavatory, which is hardly consistent with a
coup de foudre.
Besides, the party was weeks ago.
However, Pru insisted that Ruth was still so smitten with Rupert that she cried herself to sleep at night because he never replied to the photo text message she had sent of herself with a heart painted on her cheek. Apparently, she “felt something click” when she first set eyes on him, and she just knew from the intense look in his eyes that he felt the same. I did not know what to say beyond wondering why it had taken her this long to say something and speculating that Rupert’s contact lenses could have been irritating him, but I thought it best to keep all that to myself. Pru clearly expected a more substantial explanation; I also noticed that the other ladies had put down their blocks of flower arranger’s foam to listen. It was a delicate situation.
On the one hand, I would like Rupert to settle, and Ruth is superficially a very reasonable candidate. She is attractive enough to look the part in a wedding photo, if only she would do something about her frizzy hair, but not so
There is not what you might call an abundance of single women in the village with an interest in campanology and dogs, but once again a thought has occurred. Miss Hughes. She is the only unattached lady at bell ringing, and I am quite convin-ced that she grew up in the sort of place that was crawling with Labradors. She has never married—something to do with anorthodontist who ran off with her sister—but love can blossom late, like in those
Saga
advertisements of tanned sixty-year-olds holding hands on silver beaches. And despite the walking stick, she can’t be more than a year or two Gerald’s senior.
As if fate were on my side with matters of the heart, as soon as I got home the telephone rang, and it was Bridget, an old university friend who now works in publishing in London and is practically an expert on Internet dating. As she is a divorcée this is only to be expected, though I thought it best not to ask if she had signed up to “wine lovers” or “large and lovely.” After I had told her that Rupert enthusiastically backed the plan—an exaggeration, I admit, but he did evangelize about the Internet’s ability to connect one with like-minded people when he persuaded me to start this blog, so he can hardly object—she recommended that I look at the dating section of whichever newspaper he reads online. This turned out to be sterling advice: I have just had a look at the
Daily Telegraph’
s Web site, and it does indeed carry a dating service, called Kindred Spirits, that looks most promising. All I need to do now is finesse the wording. “Handsome, professional 26-year-old with own flat and teeth” or “Professional, hand-some 26-year-old with own teeth and flat”? I must get this right. I would hate to annoy him.
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 21
A disturbing incident at Church Flowers today. Usually the proceedings could not be more soothing: we meet, we select some seasonal blooms, we arrange, we place them for maximum effect in terms of both catching the light and concealing cobwebs, we stop for a cup of tea, and repeat the above. Today, however, Pru came over to me with a hard look in her eye. Her lips were pursed so that her fuchsia lipstick latticed out into her powdery cheeks. Perhaps she was troubled that I had taken the laststem of gladioli? Unfortunately not. It appears that the consequences of Rupert’s birthday party continue to ripple beyond the bill for getting the rug dry-cleaned. Pru informed me that, as I had requested, her daughter had fallen “head over heels” for my son, as befitted her “sweet, trusting nature.” I was rather taken aback. As far as I could tell, Rupert had done nothing to encourage Ruth. He had even left her gift—
The Little Book of Clouds
—wedged behind the U-bend of the downstairs lavatory, which is hardly consistent with a
coup de foudre.
Besides, the party was weeks ago.
However, Pru insisted that Ruth was still so smitten with Rupert that she cried herself to sleep at night because he never replied to the photo text message she had sent of herself with a heart painted on her cheek. Apparently, she “felt something click” when she first set eyes on him, and she just knew from the intense look in his eyes that he felt the same. I did not know what to say beyond wondering why it had taken her this long to say something and speculating that Rupert’s contact lenses could have been irritating him, but I thought it best to keep all that to myself. Pru clearly expected a more substantial explanation; I also noticed that the other ladies had put down their blocks of flower arranger’s foam to listen. It was a delicate situation.
On the one hand, I would like Rupert to settle, and Ruth is superficially a very reasonable candidate. She is attractive enough to look the part in a wedding photo, if only she would do something about her frizzy hair, but not so
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