Gappy Tales

It is time, I have decided, to take a looong break from online “dating”.

The reasons for this are threefold:

1. It distracts me from other, much more important things, like writing and cleaning the oven on a reasonably regular basis.

2. I’m spectacularly crap at it and haven’t been on an actual date in months.

And 3. I hate it.

That is to say I hate it whilst at the same time finding it strangely, addictively, compulsive. A bit like a mind blowingly good in bed but otherwise entirely toxic boyfriend, it is full of promise, the highs can sometimes be amazing, but any woman with half an ounce of sense knows well enough that she’d best get her arse out of there sooner rather than later before it all goes wincingly, horribly wrong and her self esteem is blithely reduced to tatters.

Now – I upgraded fairly early on in my internet dating ‘career’ from the skin crawlingly awful, lecherous, punctuation free zone that is Match.com to what I thought might be the slightly more refined charms of Guardian Soulmates.  The men there could at least spell and seemed, frankly, much better looking.  But I’m afraid to say that my snobbery got me absolutely nowhere. Who was I kidding? Lechery couched in slightly more ornate, flowery, better looking terms, even with appropriate punctuation, is still lechery from whichever angle you wish to  look at it. It got to the stage where I thought that if I received just one more e-mail containing a slightly politer, more middle class version of, “Phwoargh, ‘ello darlin. What a shame you live on another planet eh” (I have the audacity to live outside the M25) then my will to live might finally desert me. Forever. And I can’t have that.

I also decided that if I read one more profile containing any of the following phrases, then I would be forced to take a life times vow of celibacy. And honestly? I can’t have that either…

1. ‘I like going out and staying in’. (Good god, how about that.)

2. ‘I love to laugh’. (No shit, really?)

3. ‘I would like to meet a person who is comfortable in their own skin.’ (Hmm who’s just discovered the self-help section at Waterstones and is all in touch with their feminine side then?)

4. ‘I want someone who is passionate.’ (Oh for crying out loud  – what does that even mean? Passionate about what? I can go on and on for bloody hours about my job if you really want me to, but if what you’re after is kinky sex on the first date you can forget it.)

Yep – nothing quite like an online dating cliche to make you want to stick your head in the oven. I mean why do perfectly intelligent people write that kind of shit about themselves? It’s not that I lack empathy – I know it can be tricky to write something coherent and cliche free that makes you sound in any way dateable, but christ, even I managed it in the end. Or did I?

In fact I asked a friend (we’ll call her K) what she thought I should write. She had thought long and hard, her brow looking all suitably furrowed, and in the end had said, ‘Well…. why don’t you put:  Works for Women’s Aid, has tattoo on head, is a bit gobby, prone to occasional bouts of angry feminist ranting, and likes gazumping men in busy car parks, particularly if they are deemed to have a ‘wanky’ car.’

‘Aw Kaaaaaay’, I had wailed. ‘I really don’t think that will get me a boyfriend any time soon.’

‘Noooo’, she had replied. ‘I don’t suppose it will. In which case I should just put up a picture of yourself in a tight dress and say as little as possible, frankly’.

I had made a face at her. ‘Do you think I should mention the fire spinning?’

‘No. That just makes you sound mental. They’ll all worry that you’ll set fire to their curtains.’

I did mention the fire spinning in the end. And the fact that I drive too fast and swear too much. Try as I might I just couldn’t quite bring myself to say how much I liked laughing and going out and staying in.

I’m still boyfriendless believe it or not.  But what I do have is a functioning blog and a very clean oven.

Life is fine, I have decided, just as it is.

I am so so sad to hear the news of Amy Winehouse’s death yesterday.

She was only 27 years old.

And in a popular culture full of manufactured, plastic dross, Amy was the real thing. Her voice and the emotional intensity and rawness of her songwriting always, always took my breath away.

Here she is at her best.

I hate olives.

I loathe them.

They taste like the particularly acrid semen of a man who doesn’t get his five a day.

There, I said it.

I have tried to like olives. I mean really tried. I have put far more effort into it that any damn foodstuff deserves frankly.  I still periodically re-try them in the hope that I might have changed my mind, or that they will have magically transformed themselves into the delicious treat that everyone claims them to be. But much like leopards and philandering husbands (sigh) they never change.

There is a myth that abounds about olives that states if you force yourself to eat fifty of them in a row you will then like them forever. Some of the most dedicated peddlers of this myth come disguised as my friends. My own friends are involved in a conspiracy to try and  make me eat olives. Sometimes they vary the theme by persuading me that these particular olives are different – perhaps they are a different colour or maybe they’re stuffed with something equally vile such as pimento paste – but the outcome is always the same…  My friends clutch at each other crying real tears of mirth whilst I pull tortured faces and make agonised, strangled, heaving noises.

It recently occurred to me that I had my olive attitude all wrong. Why the self induced pressure to develop an appreciation for something that was so clearly the spawn of a furious and vengeful Satan? Why the tenacity? The dogged, zealous  determination to stick with a challenge that provided no pleasure factor whatsoever? I realised in that moment that I could never win against olives. That they were pure, undiluted little ovals of evil and there was no shame in admitting my defeat.

Hey, I thought, I don’t actually have to like olives!

It was an epiphany people. And I am now finally free. I thank you.

Lately I have been imagining my blog as a little baby bird, cheeping fretfully in its nest, all downy fluff and gaping beak: feed me feed me feed me! I have been a neglectful blog owner of late to be sure, a neglect brought on by a combination of fancying a bit of a break, being rather busy, and that strange phenomenon of it becoming harder and harder to start something again once you have stopped for a while. But I have missed both the catharsis and the community of blogging, and besides, I have some news. Of sorts.

Of course one of the reasons I have been absent of late is that I have been incredibly busy sifting through the vast hungry hordes of my various on-line admirers   Oooh there are some smooth virtual talkers out there, let me tell you. My inbox is fit to bursting with such profound statements as:  ‘Hi how r u? U r hot.’  I mean how could a girl possibly resist? Although I have to say that my absolute all time favourite e-mail read: ‘You faccsinate me. I really like you.’ Now that is a quality typo. I read it as you vaccinate me, which probably made me fall about laughing rather more than was strictly necessary but hey ho. If you’re going to dabble in on-line dating, one thing I have found is that you’ve got to take the laughs where you can get ‘em.

So… I believe that when we last spoke, I was parting company rather hastily with Mr Asian Babes. Well I have since then met up with three other potential prospects. For the purposes of this blog, we’ll call them Mr Premier Inn, Mr Daily Mail, and Mr Unidentified Baggage. With this post I’ll begin, shall I, with Mr Premier Inn.

I met up with him (oddly enough considering it was in a city an hours drive away) in the exact same pub in which I had met Mr Asian Babes. The venue had been his suggestion and I hadn’t wanted to admit to any concern about getting a reputation amongst the staff, so instead I had smiled inwardly and said o.k, that was no problem, yes I knew where it was, I would meet him at eight. When I arrived slightly early he was already there waiting for me in a stiff collared shirt and v neck jumper. I could tell almost instantly that he was not my type of man, but never mind thought I.  Meeting new people is always interesting.  May as well just relax and enjoy the conversation. Midway through the conversation however, Mr Premier Inn suddenly informed me that he was in fact working in this here same town the next day and so was thinking of booking a room in the hotel over the road. Did I, by any chance,  know how much it cost?  No I did not, said I with a frown, and promptly changed the subject. At which point Mr Premier Inn suddenly became strangely concerned at what a long drive home I had. In this weather too. That’s o.k. said I, I like driving. Particularly in the rain. At which point Mr Premier Inn deftly steered the conversation back to the hotel across the road. At which point I made it clear that I was leaving. Alone.

The next morning I received a text message informing me that he didn’t think we’d really “hit it off” last night, but thanks anyway. I resisted the urge to reply, “Oh. You think?” and instead contented myself with spluttering various takes on ‘you cheeky little bastard’ at my blackberry for the next minute or so.

I mean, a Premier Inn? For goodness sake.

It’s a funny thing, curiosity. It begins like a mild itch – the sort you scratch without realising – but then if left unchecked can escalate into something often described as burning. A burning curiosity.

You may remember I recently wrote a post entitled The Fish and the Bicycle, in which I discussed relationships, my lack of one, and the fact that I was following Slummy Single Mummy’s forays into the internet dating jungle with interest. Soon after that I read a post in Sandy Calico’s archives about her eight hour long first date with her husband, whom she had first met on-line.

You can see where this is going can’t you…

In The Fish and the Bicycle I bemoaned the fact that most men my age seemed either to want to settle down, get married and have a family or just have casual non-committal sex, usually outside of their marriage or primary relationship, and how both of those options left me cold as if I was going to bother becoming involved with someone I would want a relationship that lay somewhere in between those two ‘extremes’. Something that was loving, monogamous, exciting and fun, but with someone who didn’t want to monopolise my time or move in.  I seem to remember writing that I wasn’t holding my breath. Also that I didn’t care enough about having a relationship to actively pursue one – which is true – but that of course didn’t take into account the burning curiosity that could possibly arise as a result of reading other womens posts about their on-line dating adventures. It didn’t take into account the sneaky little thoughts that would then flutter around in my mind whispering: what could possibly be the harm of having a little dabble in a dating site and seeing what happens? Maybe it might just be fun!

So I did it. It is done. I have put a profile – complete with photos – up on a well known dating site. I have been as ethical as possible and stated clearly that I am interested in “making new friends and meeting new people” rather than claiming to be searching for the love of my life, and so far it has been up for about a week. And well I never! An eye opening experience is the most polite phrase I can think of to describe it, and I did spend at least ten minutes trying to think of something less hackneyed, but no – I can’t think of anything else that doesn’t involve prolific amounts of swearing. I mean WTF?!

I’ve found on-line dating to be rather like reality television, in that you know it’s awful (the ‘winking’ especially makes me cringe) but you can’t help watching it play out anyway. I mean don’t get me wrong – I have no problem with the concept of on-line “dating” (although I hate that word) especially for people who are no longer in their twenties and able to spend every weekend out socialising and meeting other single people. I don’t think there’s the same stigma attached to it as there once was anyway – we do everything else on line these days: banking, studying, shopping – why not meeting new people? And it obviously works for plenty of folk.

It is not working for me so far though, I have to say. In fact I’m starting to worry that I have a sign on my forehead visible to everyone except me that says: Freaks, Weirdos and Fred West Lookalikes, Come On Down! I have so far managed to attract the slightly dubious attentions of both RandyAndy and MagicFingers, (please don’t even get me started on DrRob) and am also receiving on average about four e-mails a day, out of which the most interesting content as of yet has been that I apparently have a “very well maintained face.” Er… thanks. I think.

So you can imagine my relief when the other day I finally found a profile of a man who could spell and was funny. Who had interesting hobbies. Who was tall, good looking and solvent. Great, I thought. I’ll go out with you.

So I did. And aside from the fact that I was half an hour late because I couldn’t find the pub and had spent the last thirty minutes driving aimlessly around a deserted marina, it had sort of been going o.k. He wasn’t ever going to set my world on fire (he looked rather different to his profile photo in person and was a bit timid for my liking) but he was good enough company and I was having a good enough time. Until that is, he showed me his iphone and I saw very clearly in the bottom left hand corner of the screen a rather busty app entitled Asian Babes. Or was it Asian Hots?

Anyway,

NEXT!

Sometimes, when I get the opportunity – which isn’t often – I like to go off and have adventures on my own.

I like setting off on journeys feeling slightly unsure of where I’m going. A fixed destination with only vague directions as to how to get there is best. I quite enjoy the getting lost, which is fortunate seeing as my sense of direction is nothing short of appalling. I am – embarrassingly and unwittingly I might add – the ideal poster-girl for every pseudo-scientific ‘fact’ you have ever heard about women and inferior spatial awareness. I even get lost in peoples houses.  But I know I’ll always find wherever it is I’m supposed to be in the end, and in the meantime there is the pleasure of driving around new places in a slow meandering fashion, discovering previously unseen villages and countryside and stopping every now and then to ask directions in a place where nobody knows you and you could, in fact, be anybody. It still raises an eyebrow or two in my part of the world, a woman striding into a pub alone to ask if anybody knows where such and such a place is. It always makes me smile to myself, the feeling of vaguely disapproving eyes on my back as I set off to my car again, inevitably to turn round and go in the complete opposite direction to where I had been heading.

Anyway, last saturday night presented one such opportunity. I was heading out into the wilds to a remote campsite where a very old friend with whom I have only recently been reunited after many years out of touch was staying with her partner and a group of their friends. A journey that should have taken just one hour in fact took two as I became hopelessly but happily lost in amongst the green hills and valleys of the beautiful landscape that I call home. I love those hills. From a distance they look for all the world as though they have been covered with smooth green suede, dense and velvety, solid and constant, the shade of green forever changing depending on the time of day and the season. I was looking for a mysterious left hand turn which I was beginning to suspect was entirely fictitious, when I spotted a likely looking muddy track and turned off to drive up and along it, only to have it suddenly and almost cinematically open up onto a small festival in full swing. Surprised and delighted, I got out of the car and walked onto site to see children playing happily with brightly coloured diablos in the middle of a sunny field while adults lugged brim-full water butts into a make-shift kitchen to fill enormous communal pans for dinner. Nobody seemed to have the faintest idea where this elusive campsite might be, or the mysterious left hand turn, and finding myself drawn slyly in by the carnival atmosphere I became tempted to buy a cup of chai and stay awhile. But of course by this point I was already late.

I eventually found – as I knew I would – the turn-off to the campsite. It was between two white rocks. Hidden almost behind one of the rocks was a small yellow milk-churn with the campsites name painted on it in faded letters. When I got to the end of the track my friend was waiting for me, smiling, excited, her eyes shining,

“Come on. Come and see this amazing place.”

There were no tents or caravans. Instead there were yurts and tipis pitched in small circular clearings, each one made private by a surrounding of trees and hedges and wild flowers. Pale round paving stones, some painted with astrological symbols and strange patterns marked out the paths, while tucked secretly away in all the dark little corners, beautiful tall wooden carvings kept quiet eerie watch like sentries. The sun set bright orange over the panoramic views of those ancient green suede hills and hundreds of tea-lights inside tiny little jam jars that hung from branches everywhere flickered gently like strings of fairy lights as the smoke from open fires drifted in swirls and scented the air. It was magical. A fairy glen. Other worldly as though out of a story book.  It was all so absurdly beautiful, I nearly laughed out loud.

And so it was there I sat in the fading light around a fire with my friend and the eight or so women she was with, most of whom I had never met before. Taking turns to draw on a large Hookah pipe, the spicy appley charcoal scent merging with that of the wood smoke, they talked happily of their day, of swimming in the sea, of the photgraphs they had taken. Leaving the group a while to wander and marvel a little more at my surroundings, I felt the atmosphere on my return to have subtley but noticeably shifted however. People sat sombre and quiet, all turned towards and intensely focused on just one woman who now stood at the head of the group holding a small pink wild flower in her cupped hand.

I looked around me, feeling slightly off balance, my eyes seeking some further visual clue as to what was happening, and I saw in fact that all of the women held something in their hands. Another flower. A stone. One held a small feather. The woman at the front seemed almost to be struggling for words, or at least to be searching for the right words. She shifted her weight slowly from one foot to the other and looked up at the stars – for it was now night – all the while turning those delicate petals over and over in her hand. The others waited. Silent.

After a time my friend spoke.

“You need to ask him to come forwards. He’s behind you. You need to ask him to step forwards so that you can see him more clearly.”

For a moment I thought it might all be a prank. But the expressions on the faces around me showed clearly that it was not. These women were communing with the spirits of their dead ancestors. They truly believed it. Believed that the woman stood in front of them had a gift – a sacred gift that could be used to help and heal others. Over the course of the evening I watched, speechless, as one woman openly wept with gratitude and joy at having contacted her much loved and long dead grandmother, and another left the group to wander angrily into the surrounding forest alone, unhappy and unnerved that the spirits should be being called upon at this time and in this place.

It’s funny because sometimes in my darker moments I mourn lifes adventures. I fear that mine are done – that my stories have all been told. But that night my old friend reminded me that really – no matter my skepticism, no matter my cynicism – there’s still more to come. I’m still only half way through.

Lately (discounting of course the last couple of weeks in which I have been in a ‘price of secondary school uniform shocker’ induced coma) I have been blogging like a bastard.

It’s official. I am on blogging fire.

My bloggy cup runneth over, in fact I do believe the blog gods are looking down upon me favourably and smilingly once more.

I have gone from the dreaded – and what I thought might be irreversible – bloggers block to suddenly having ideas again. Where did they come from all of a sudden? I don’t have a clue but neither do I wish to argue. For the last month or so I have no longer had to drag posts forth, kicking and screaming as though ripped from my chest using every last ounce of my will and determination. No, this last month has seen the words fairly racing from my brain to my finger tips and effortlessly tumbling out onto the screen – not in a messy nonsensical jumble – but in a smooth, easy flowing order. And with this new sense of energy and effortlessness has come a renewed enthusiasm, not only for writing but for reading as well. Now all the children are back at school, I have more time to devote to both which pleases me greatly.

When I first began blogging I subscribed pretty much straight away to Problogger – not because I wanted particularly to be a professional blogger – but because for a total beginner like myself it was chock full of information about how to blog. Problogger taught me loads, from how to submit my blog to Technorati, to how to deal with really negative comments, all the way through to how to effectively engage with readers and other bloggers. I accept that I am perhaps not the best poster girl for Problogger if what you are after is an enormous following, and actually to be fair I don’t read it much these days now that I’m fairly confident I know the basic ropes, but in the beginning I did find it extremely useful.

One thing from Problogger that for some reason has always stuck in my head, is a vlog post (I can’t remember by who) that spoke of how important it is to have a niche, or at least a distinct category into which your blog can easily slot. The idea was that from there you can then work on becoming the best and/or most unique blogger within your chosen category or niche.  Actually I think the reason I particularly remember this piece of advice is two-fold: firstly because the vlogger had a strange habit of  pronouncing niche, “neetchy” – I now cannot look at that word in its written form without reading it neetchy so thanks for that Mr Vlogger-man – and secondly because my blog has always (both here and at my old Blogger site, Single Parenthood… Tales from the front line) jumped untidily from one subject to another, thus neatly avoiding any obvious pigeon-holing.

Now I have no intention of changing the way I blog in an attempt to increase my popularity (I’d quickly become bored if I stuck rigidly to just one subject matter and anyway I’m perfectly happy with the lovely readers I’ve got) but I do sometimes find myself wondering if perhaps this vlogger was right, and that I might enjoy more ‘success’ if I narrowed my focus – if I just concentrated on the ‘mummy’ aspect of my blog for example, or on the ‘personal’, or the ‘recovery’ posts. Perhaps my blog, and others like it, are the virtual equivalents of a jack of all trades, and therefore masters of none.

I do also realise that for some, blog posts about blogging tend to result in a loss of the will to live, and if this is the case with you dear reader then I can only apologise for not having warned you earlier. But I’m interested in how other bloggers feel about the importance of sticking within clearly defined boundaries when it comes to subject matter. Do you feel that it is important that your readers know what to expect from you? Do you consider certain subjects to be off-limits? Has there ever been something that you would have liked to blog about, but didn’t because it wasn’t in keeping with your usual fare?

Let me know what you think.