mutters.
‘It’s not that I don’t approve, hon, it’s just I don’t happen to believe that anyone can download love. It’s such a waste of time, and if it’s one thing I’ve learned recently, it’s that we have NO time to waste. None.’
‘. . . but I can’t think of any other way to fill this void that you’ve left in my life. So if you think about it, indirectly, this is all your fault.’
‘Oh, come on, it’s not like I set out to die at twenty-eight.’
‘You know where I’m coming from, Charlotte. I’m just too knackered these days to get out there and do the whole clubbing, pubbing scene, so therefore this is the only avenue of meeting potential partners that’s open to me. Whether you like it or not, internet dating sites are the latter-day equivalent of fifties dance halls.’
Honest to God, she might as well add ‘discuss’ on to the end of that sentence. Like she’s doling out English assignments.
‘So,’ she says, turning back to her laptop, in her schoolmarm voice, only not nearly as shouty, given that she’s talking to herself. ‘Allow me to demonstrate what’s out there, and I’ll also provide a brief translation from guy-speak into English for you.’
‘I’m right here, babe, trying my level best to be nonjudgemental, but just so you know? You’re completely wasting your time. Besides, isn’t wading through all these profiles like some kind of misery tourism?’
‘When a guy, such as this one here, describes himself as “fun”, that means annoying. Similarly “wild” means gets drunk easily. For “new age” read smelly and hairy, and for “headstrong” read argumentative. “Enjoys pubbing and clubbing” means he’s an alcoholic, and this one here,’ she says, tapping her biro on the screen, ‘says he’s “cuddly” which is a well-known euphemism for grossly overweight.’
‘Listen to you, when it comes to fellas, you’ve more ridiculous rules than Blockbuster Video.’
‘Honestly, when you read how these guys describe themselves, then you meet them in the flesh . . . some of them could give lessons in self-delusion to Heather Mills. But, on the plus side, what I do have going for me is that my expectations are very low. If you ask me, all relationships are one per cent romance, forty per cent being pissed off when they let you down . . .’
‘And fifty-nine per cent picking socks off radiators,’ I finish the sentence for her.
Weird, not getting any reaction.
‘However . . .’ she scrolls down a bit, then clicks on another guy’s profile.
‘. . . hello there . . . this one shows promise.’
‘Shows promise? Isn’t that teacher-code for what you write on school reports for kids who are rubbish at a subject but try hard, and you know their parents will kill them if they go home with any less than a C minus?’
‘A dog owner,’ she muses hopefully. ‘This means that he’s capable of emotional attachment to another living being, and can therefore be interpreted as a Very Good Sign.’
She clicks on his profile and starts filling in personal details about herself. Except that under ‘age’ she knocks three years off, and under ‘occupation’ she puts ‘personal trainer’.
‘You dirty big liar!’
‘You needn’t sit there judging me,’ she mumbles back at my photo, almost making me think that the girl’s been a bit psychic all this time, and none of us noticed.
She definitely senses I’m close by, she must.
‘This is just to hook him in, that’s all. When they think I’m hanging around gyms all day in a spandex leotard, I get an average of fifty per cent more hits than I do when they visualize me sitting in a staff room correcting essays. Besides, everyone sexes up their life online. It’s not like this is a Stasi report, now is it?’
‘Fiona, I don’t know where your soulmate is but I can tell you one thing, he most definitely is NOT on a website. Besides, I bet his profile photo is airbrushed or Photoshopped and
‘It’s not that I don’t approve, hon, it’s just I don’t happen to believe that anyone can download love. It’s such a waste of time, and if it’s one thing I’ve learned recently, it’s that we have NO time to waste. None.’
‘. . . but I can’t think of any other way to fill this void that you’ve left in my life. So if you think about it, indirectly, this is all your fault.’
‘Oh, come on, it’s not like I set out to die at twenty-eight.’
‘You know where I’m coming from, Charlotte. I’m just too knackered these days to get out there and do the whole clubbing, pubbing scene, so therefore this is the only avenue of meeting potential partners that’s open to me. Whether you like it or not, internet dating sites are the latter-day equivalent of fifties dance halls.’
Honest to God, she might as well add ‘discuss’ on to the end of that sentence. Like she’s doling out English assignments.
‘So,’ she says, turning back to her laptop, in her schoolmarm voice, only not nearly as shouty, given that she’s talking to herself. ‘Allow me to demonstrate what’s out there, and I’ll also provide a brief translation from guy-speak into English for you.’
‘I’m right here, babe, trying my level best to be nonjudgemental, but just so you know? You’re completely wasting your time. Besides, isn’t wading through all these profiles like some kind of misery tourism?’
‘When a guy, such as this one here, describes himself as “fun”, that means annoying. Similarly “wild” means gets drunk easily. For “new age” read smelly and hairy, and for “headstrong” read argumentative. “Enjoys pubbing and clubbing” means he’s an alcoholic, and this one here,’ she says, tapping her biro on the screen, ‘says he’s “cuddly” which is a well-known euphemism for grossly overweight.’
‘Listen to you, when it comes to fellas, you’ve more ridiculous rules than Blockbuster Video.’
‘Honestly, when you read how these guys describe themselves, then you meet them in the flesh . . . some of them could give lessons in self-delusion to Heather Mills. But, on the plus side, what I do have going for me is that my expectations are very low. If you ask me, all relationships are one per cent romance, forty per cent being pissed off when they let you down . . .’
‘And fifty-nine per cent picking socks off radiators,’ I finish the sentence for her.
Weird, not getting any reaction.
‘However . . .’ she scrolls down a bit, then clicks on another guy’s profile.
‘. . . hello there . . . this one shows promise.’
‘Shows promise? Isn’t that teacher-code for what you write on school reports for kids who are rubbish at a subject but try hard, and you know their parents will kill them if they go home with any less than a C minus?’
‘A dog owner,’ she muses hopefully. ‘This means that he’s capable of emotional attachment to another living being, and can therefore be interpreted as a Very Good Sign.’
She clicks on his profile and starts filling in personal details about herself. Except that under ‘age’ she knocks three years off, and under ‘occupation’ she puts ‘personal trainer’.
‘You dirty big liar!’
‘You needn’t sit there judging me,’ she mumbles back at my photo, almost making me think that the girl’s been a bit psychic all this time, and none of us noticed.
She definitely senses I’m close by, she must.
‘This is just to hook him in, that’s all. When they think I’m hanging around gyms all day in a spandex leotard, I get an average of fifty per cent more hits than I do when they visualize me sitting in a staff room correcting essays. Besides, everyone sexes up their life online. It’s not like this is a Stasi report, now is it?’
‘Fiona, I don’t know where your soulmate is but I can tell you one thing, he most definitely is NOT on a website. Besides, I bet his profile photo is airbrushed or Photoshopped and
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