her about my ad. Anyway I’m happy to say that Kate is now my New Best Friend. I mean, we’ve go so much in common. We’re the same age, both single and both desperate. Isn’t that an incredible coincidence? In fact, her birthday is a week after mine. Amazing!
“What did you do on your birthday this year?” she asked a few hours later as we strode across the Heath in the afternoon sunshine.
“I got dumped by my boyfriend,” I said. “What did you do?”
“I cried all day,” she replied happily. We walked on in silence for a while, stopping to watch a knot of children flying kites on Parliament Hill. And then Kate said, “You know, we should look for guys together. It’s much easier hunting in a pack.” This is probably true. I’ve often wished that Frances and Emma and Sally would consider it, but they’re determined to leave their romantic happiness to the vagaries of Fate. Or God. But God really didn’t seem to be doing that much at the moment. I preferred Kate’s proactive approach.
“What we need is singles dos,” she said firmly. “There are lots of them—Eat ’n’ Greet, Dine ’n’ Shine, Dateless in Docklands, that kind of thing. I’ll do some research and let you know.”
“What a brilliant idea,” I said, as we parted. “You’re on.”
p. 80 In the meantime I waited suspensefully—oh heavens, the torment!—for the replies to my small ad to arrive. Maybe Lizzie was right, I wondered as two and a half weeks went by. Maybe I wouldn’t get a single response—no irony intended, ha ha! Perhaps there isn’t much demand for sparky girls at the moment. Maybe dull girls are all the rage. But, just in case, I went in search of some more expensive unguents in order to look my best for any future blokes. I mean, at thirty-seven, one’s got to take action because, as Lizzie says, my face is going over to the enemy. But I’m not having it—no sir! Crows’ feet—eff off and die! Naso-labial lines—hold it right there!
“Yes, yes, tricky . . .” said the woman at the expensive unguents counter in Selfridges. She narrowed her eyes in concentration as she scrutinized my skin. “You’ve got a luminosity problem,” she announced.
“Well, can anything be done about it?” I asked anxiously. “I’ll pay.”
“In that case the Helena Ardenique multiaction retinyl complex intensive lotion with added ceramides for active cell renewal should do the trick,” she explained. “Firmness and elasticity are measurably improved, lines and wrinkles diminished by a guaranteed forty-one and half percent and luminosity and skin glow restored. What it does,” she concluded, “is to make your skin ‘act younger.’ ”
“That’s fantastic ,” I said as I wrote out my check for seventy pounds.
Then I went home and there, there on the doormat, having arrived by the second post, was a plain, brown A5-sized envelope stamped, “Private and Confidential.” And inside that plain, brown envelope, dear reader, were no fewer than thirty-two letters! And what an assortment of writing paper—Basildon Bond, Croxley Script, Conqueror, Airmail, Andrex—ha ha! Some even had hearts and flowers stuck to the envelope! Some were typed, some were word-processed, some were neatly handwritten, while others were almost illegible. Illegible, but p. 81 possibly quite eligible none the less, I hoped as I ripped into them with lepidopterous stomach and pounding heart.
For crying out loud! A Norfolk pig farmer! And, at forty-nine well outside my stated age range! If I’d wanted a Norfolk pig farmer I’d have bloody well asked for one, wouldn’t I? I’d have placed my personal ad in the King’s Lynn Gazette or Pig Farmer’s Weekly. Anyway, the other replies broke down as follows: five accountants, twelve computer software designers, one data collection manager, two probation officers, one natural catastrophe modeler, three chiropodists, one stockbroker, one master mariner and six solicitors
“What did you do on your birthday this year?” she asked a few hours later as we strode across the Heath in the afternoon sunshine.
“I got dumped by my boyfriend,” I said. “What did you do?”
“I cried all day,” she replied happily. We walked on in silence for a while, stopping to watch a knot of children flying kites on Parliament Hill. And then Kate said, “You know, we should look for guys together. It’s much easier hunting in a pack.” This is probably true. I’ve often wished that Frances and Emma and Sally would consider it, but they’re determined to leave their romantic happiness to the vagaries of Fate. Or God. But God really didn’t seem to be doing that much at the moment. I preferred Kate’s proactive approach.
“What we need is singles dos,” she said firmly. “There are lots of them—Eat ’n’ Greet, Dine ’n’ Shine, Dateless in Docklands, that kind of thing. I’ll do some research and let you know.”
“What a brilliant idea,” I said, as we parted. “You’re on.”
p. 80 In the meantime I waited suspensefully—oh heavens, the torment!—for the replies to my small ad to arrive. Maybe Lizzie was right, I wondered as two and a half weeks went by. Maybe I wouldn’t get a single response—no irony intended, ha ha! Perhaps there isn’t much demand for sparky girls at the moment. Maybe dull girls are all the rage. But, just in case, I went in search of some more expensive unguents in order to look my best for any future blokes. I mean, at thirty-seven, one’s got to take action because, as Lizzie says, my face is going over to the enemy. But I’m not having it—no sir! Crows’ feet—eff off and die! Naso-labial lines—hold it right there!
“Yes, yes, tricky . . .” said the woman at the expensive unguents counter in Selfridges. She narrowed her eyes in concentration as she scrutinized my skin. “You’ve got a luminosity problem,” she announced.
“Well, can anything be done about it?” I asked anxiously. “I’ll pay.”
“In that case the Helena Ardenique multiaction retinyl complex intensive lotion with added ceramides for active cell renewal should do the trick,” she explained. “Firmness and elasticity are measurably improved, lines and wrinkles diminished by a guaranteed forty-one and half percent and luminosity and skin glow restored. What it does,” she concluded, “is to make your skin ‘act younger.’ ”
“That’s fantastic ,” I said as I wrote out my check for seventy pounds.
Then I went home and there, there on the doormat, having arrived by the second post, was a plain, brown A5-sized envelope stamped, “Private and Confidential.” And inside that plain, brown envelope, dear reader, were no fewer than thirty-two letters! And what an assortment of writing paper—Basildon Bond, Croxley Script, Conqueror, Airmail, Andrex—ha ha! Some even had hearts and flowers stuck to the envelope! Some were typed, some were word-processed, some were neatly handwritten, while others were almost illegible. Illegible, but p. 81 possibly quite eligible none the less, I hoped as I ripped into them with lepidopterous stomach and pounding heart.
For crying out loud! A Norfolk pig farmer! And, at forty-nine well outside my stated age range! If I’d wanted a Norfolk pig farmer I’d have bloody well asked for one, wouldn’t I? I’d have placed my personal ad in the King’s Lynn Gazette or Pig Farmer’s Weekly. Anyway, the other replies broke down as follows: five accountants, twelve computer software designers, one data collection manager, two probation officers, one natural catastrophe modeler, three chiropodists, one stockbroker, one master mariner and six solicitors
Similar Books
