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Sons and lovers

  Wed 21st December 2016

I was rather glumly looking back at my dating site stats for 2016. I've contacted thirty-seven women this year. Seven replied, all politely declining me. Two women contacted me, one with a dribble of inconsequential messages, and the other to give me a fortnight that was so thrilling that it felt my life was being renewed. It was sex-drenched from the outset, the first time since Seriouscrush in 2007 when I have felt the joyous liberation of being fancied; and bewildering in its sudden end, everything ripped up in one short phone call. Another unfortunate thing to come out of it was that I started dancing around my bedroom to Ce Ce Peniston's Finally, proving that being in lust ruins one's musical taste.

I still can't bear to delete her texts. No-one's ever spoken to me the way Trish did.

My venal motive for remaining on the site, of being able to silence the constant whine of my desire for Wendy, is hardly the right position from which to attempt a relationship. M / 52 / Lancaster, WLTM someone to help him get over a one-sided attraction. But I don't know what else to do.


The first of the girls' conditional offers for university are filtering through. My eldest has received ones from Nottingham for Modern European Studies, and Bristol for French and Politics. Middle one has acting auditions at LAMDA and the Royal Scottish Conservatoire; not sure about the youngest ("Dad, what is it about light that makes it light?") She enjoys her job in a record shop, where her duties include entertaining a little dog which scampers around the shelves all day, and where the owner lets her choose the music. She's applied for Popular Music at Liverpool, but her heart's not in it.

It's going to be a stomach-quivering day in October when we wave them off. I don't want my boos to be eighteen. I want to put them inside quilt covers and swing them around and throw them onto the settee in hazardous games. I'll be silently worried about them all day, every day, imagining all the little hurts and exclusions and slights and failures.


I've been in a village just over the border in North Yorkshire this afternoon, mystery shopping to see if the Post Office knew how to change a vehicle tax class. Never having driven in my life I was winging it a bit with answering their questions.

All I know about cars is that Olly's can go very fast, looks really stylish and is the kind of car you drive a new girlfriend up to a posh restaurant and appreciatively watch her short skirt riding up a bit as she gets into the passenger seat. However, as that is a sexist and vulgar thought of manly crudeness, I am glad it has never occurred to me.

Due to health and safety reasons, I had to call in on my way home for six pints, where I met my friend who's become a lot nicer a person after he had a heart attack and stopped being so fucking self-obsessed and talking about Northern fucking Soul all the time.

In walks this gorgeous woman. Early/mid 40s, with dyed dark blonde-going-on-red hair cut in one of those lovely sloping bobs, this fantastic bouclé purple top, (probably acrylic but made to look like wool) a black skirt ending just above the knee, black tights and black flatties.

My friend was being quite interesting for a change, but I had to go and talk to her. I mentally rehearsed what I'd say.

I went over to her -- and to my alarm she was sat with some ragged-haired younger bloke I hadn't noticed. "Hi -- sorry to interrupt -- but can I just say, with your combination of your haircut and top and that skirt" -- I am trembling at this point at having over-stepped the drunken mark -- , "you look absolutely gorgeous."

"What about me?" says the bloke, laughing. "Oh no, you're gorgeous too. You're meant for each other."

"I'm her son," he said.

"Well, thank you anyway," she said.

Well-intentioned, but I think that's classified as a fail.

4 comments

I wish you better luck in 2017 on the dating front, but don’t you want to get back with Trish?
My daughter is 34 now, and I still worry … it never stops, nor would I wish to.
WHY didn’t you make a date with the gorgeous woman for after she’d finished with her son?
Slipping?
Merry Christmas BTW.

Thu 22nd December 2016 @ 22:27
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

1) No, not with someone who could really make me almost be on the verge of falling in love with her, and then, out of the blue sack me off, and refuse to tell me why. Shame. She’s educated, bilingual, thoroughly working class, and drinks like a fish. She wanted to fuck all the time, but in quite a sub manner, which really turns me on. Anyway let’s terminate this paragraph…

2) You never stop being a parent, ever.

3) Because I felt humiliated over my error and was aware other people were looking at me. And because, believe it or not, not every woman I meet is interested in me.

And to you! And thank fuck you’ve said Happy Christmas. No doubt some Americans will be here soon with their relativistic “Happy Holidays” shite.

Thu 22nd December 2016 @ 22:55

A shame it takes a near-death experience to make someone a lot nicer. Better late than not at all.

2017 couldn’t possibly be any worse than 2016, could it? (Had to delete my ‘holiday’ comment after reading the above. We are so conditioned, we Americans.)

Mon 26th December 2016 @ 16:10
Comment from: [Member]

Well, whatever you call it, I hope you and the girls and Mrs Exile had a good Christmas.

Wed 28th December 2016 @ 01:58


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looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person


M / 57 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].

"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.

WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.


There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades.
Sergei Korovin, quoted in Pavel Krusanov, The Blue Book of the Alcoholic

I am here to change my life. I am here to force myself to change my life.
Chinese man I met during Freshers Week at Lancaster University, 2008

The more democratised art becomes, the more we recognise in it our own mediocrity.
James Meek

Tell me, why is it that even when we are enjoying music, for instance, or a beautiful evening, or a conversation in agreeable company, it all seems no more than a hint of some infinite felicity existing apart somewhere, rather than actual happiness – such, I mean, as we ourselves can really possess?
Turgenev, Fathers and Sons

I hate the iPod; I hate the idea that music is such a personal thing that you can just stick some earplugs in your ears and have an experience with music. Music is a social phenomenon.
Jeremy Wagner

La vie poetique has its pleasures, and readings--ideally a long way from home--are one of them. I can pretend to be George Szirtes.
George Szirtes

Using words well is a social virtue. Use 'fortuitous' once more to mean 'fortunate' and you move an English word another step towards the dustbin. If your mistake took hold, no-one who valued clarity would be able to use the word again.
John Whale

One good thing about being a Marxist is that you don't have to pretend to like work.
Terry Eagleton, What Is A Novel?, Lancaster University, 1 Feb 2010

The working man is a fucking loser.
Mick, The Golden Lion, Lancaster, 21 Mar 2011

The Comfort of Strangers

23.1.16: Big clearout of the defunct and dormant and dull
16.1.19: Further pruning

If your comment box looks like this, I'm afraid I sometimes can't be bothered with all that palarver just to leave a comment.

63 mago
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