Male Order

I am often asked how I met my partner Dawn.  Many of my blogposts feature dating disasters in the time leading up to when I met her, but here I can recount the actual story surrounding the events that dictated how we got together.

Picture the scene; it is late November 2008 and I have been separated and single now for approaching 15 months, having had what seemed like more dates than a calendar. However, despite my eager search for long term female companionship, I had only managed a series of one-off liaisons, mainly being nights out in a restaurant, with about a quarter of those extending themselves briefly into alliances before I decided it wasn't worth pursuing.

So, with Christmas and New Year around the corner, I essentially gave up.. My dating site subscription(s) had or were just about to expire and I vowed to start afresh in early 2009.  But before I did so, I turned to Plenty of Fish, a dating site that boasts to be the largest free dating site in cyberspace. The trouble with free sites is that many of the people on there are just downright weird, although having said that, any single person I knew who had managed to fix themselves up with a partner had done so via POF, as it affectionately known, so it must have something going for it.

With a feeling of "What the Hell!", I departed from my usual format of a selection of pictures and slightly humorous site profile to one with no picture and a downright risque and very humorous profile (please see "The Day I Went to France and it was Closed" for what someone actually thought of my profile piccys). "Nothing ventured" I thought, it didn't cost anything and there was always the chance that there may be a fun date or two before my search began in earnest again in January.

I wasn't really expecting much contact because as a general rule, women don't respond or contact men without pictures (and not many had contacted me when I had displayed pictures, so what chance did that give me!). But I was amazed.  I had more interest from that than any other site or profile in the previous year. The types of women I had been previously trying to contact and who had ignored me completely were now almost forming a queue!  I ruled most out, either through their age (I wasn't interested in someone I could be either a father or son to), their location (I wanted someone within an hour and preferably in the same country) or who were smokers. And then I saw a profile than sparked my interest.

Elsewhere, and around a mile away from me, a yoga teacher had been dilly and dallying about her own situation.  She had repeatedly tried and failed to make her own marriage work but a recent episode had finally convinced her that the situation was irretrievable and that was that; she would have to move on. Being of a holistic nature, she embarked on a little bit of Cosmic Ordering. For those who don't know what this means, essentially it is creating a wish list and asking for it to be delivered. So a Male Order, if you like. She asked the universe to provide someone with the following attributes -

a) Tall
b) Good sense of humour
c) Good work ethic and who worked locally
d) Someone who was willing to hold her hand in public
e) A good conversationalist
f) Kind
g) Who had and liked children
h) Who respected her work and treated her as an equal, and, if at all possible,
i) Who had a physique to die for.

Aided by a friend, she nervously created her own profile in POF and waited.

And hers was the profile I had seen.

I didn't know about the Cosmic Ordering thing which is just as well because at that time I would have probably shrugged it off as a load of absolute nonsense.  But I tick all of those boxes (ok, except the last one as I have more of a physique to die from but it's close, right?) and the timing was absolutely uncanny.

2 The Mews

After a few emails and a phone call, we arranged our first date for the evening of the 5th December 2008 and I collected Dawn in a taxi before heading off to a local restaurant, 2 The Mews, for a romantic candlelit dinner for two. The taxi driver was ancient and her children who were then 11, 10 and 9, excitedly peered through the window to get a glimpse of their Mum's companion for the evening but instead got sight of a car driver who appeared to be in his eighties; not quite what they imagined.

But the evening was fun and after I had overcome the fact that I was unable to read the menu due to a) forgetting my glasses and b) the candlelight barely offering enough to see Dawn, let alone small print, I waved vaguely in the direction of the writing on the menu ordering "That one there" (it's a good job I eat anything!) and we set about the usual first date ritual of finding out a little about each other.

As it transpired, we talked for ages and I knew after about 15 minutes that she was completely trustworthy and would not hurt me.  This was a huge plus in my book and enabled me to lower the barriers that had previously been up as a self-protection mechanism and I let Dawn into my mind, my heart and my life.

The rest, as they say, is history.  I am publishing this blogpost on the 5th December 2013 and we will have been together five years.  Believe it or not, we have still yet to have an argument.  We both respect each other's opinions, feelings and space whilst encouraging and supporting each other through our daily lives, whether it be in the home or over work issues. Life is good and has probably never been better.

Happy 5th Anniversary to us!

Death Bingo

As a child, I never went to Skegness, as Cornwall was my parents holiday of choice. Skeggie (as it is affectionately known) doesn't conjure up a glamorous  image in the mind and so it was with some trepidation that the Band I am in (The Alvin Jones Band) accepted a booking there. Overnight accommodation was a must due to the fact that it is 160 miles and over three hours away by road, which is not exactly the sort of return journey you want to make at the end of a night when you've spent most of the day travelling, lugging the gear from the car to the venue, up the lift and stairs, across the hall, winding between the tables and then setting it all up before hanging around while they have the meal and speeches, playing for three hours plus and then doing the whole lot in reverse.

The Skegness Savoy

So, we were treated to a nights accommodation in a nearby hotel (The Savoy - or should that have been The Saveloy?) which was a short walk from the venue we were playing at called "Grand Central", Skeggies premier entertainment, shopping and dining complex.  This was a multi-million development, but having seen some of the interior decor I'm not sure that the currency in question was pounds...

Anyhow, a few people had reacted with a sharp intake of breath when I had told them where we were off to, but I have to confess that on arrival I was pleasantly surprised.  Yes, it's a seaside town which means that there was an abundance of Amusement Arcades, tacky gift shops and a whole string of restaurants all selling fish and chips. Yes, there is a Pleasure Beach, mini theme park, rides, a small pier and everything else that comes with the territory of being an English seaside town, which primarily seems to be all of the above with a distinct lack of warm sunshine. But it was clean and well maintained, and inhabited by possibly the friendliest people I have had the pleasure to meet. Wherever we went, nothing was too much trouble and we were accommodated every step of the way. The gig was great fun, we were well received and a grand time was had by all.  But the funniest part of this weekend was the game of what we christened "Death Bingo" (because a) we almost laughed ourselves to death watching it, and b) some of the participants looked nearly dead) that took place in the Savoy while we were waiting to go along to the Grand Central for the main event.

The "multi-million" Grand Central

We had arrived at about 4, unloaded, set our gear up and then wandered along to check in at the Savoy. With an hour or so to kill, we opted to have a drink in the hotel bar, which was empty on our arrival. However, within just a few minutes the dining room had emptied and we were joined by 20 or so ladies obviously out on a "Jolly".  They were, I would say, all in their late 70's and were very loud, but not in the "Essex Girl" sense. No, I think they were just loud because they were probably all a bit deaf and couldn't hear each other!

After a few minutes a lady who appeared to be their leader/organiser started selling Bingo cards.  She wisely avoided us, smiling and saying "'Ay oop, these Gents won't be wantin' ta play Bingo" and then proceeded to spread all of the money, markers and coins out all over the Pool table in the middle of the room.  Bang went a game then!  No chance!

Enter the bingo caller; a man in middle age with a blond quiff, baby pink V-neck jumper and a voice that made Graham Norton sound masculine.

"Ooooh, Ladies, welcome and we'll soon be starting the Bingo" he exclaimed, gesticulating wildly in all directions as he minced across the room.   "This game is a Full House game, no lines.  Off we go, can we keep the noise down please?"

The hubbub in the room failed to subside as he set up the electronic bingo machine and tried to make himself heard.  "Ladies, ladies, please, I'm about to start."  Our first number is..."

"Just a minute, 'ang on, I need me glasses an' thur in me bag over thur." said one.  "Oh, Gladys, for God's sake, yorra nightmur!" said the organiser.

"Right, are we ready now?" the caller continued. "Our first number is.... is... hang about... our first number is... Zero!"

Quizzical looks flew across the tables as the hubbub increased.  "Whaddya mean, zero, thur's no bloody zero on the card." claimed one.  "No, no, it's not working," the caller said, there must be something wrong with it."

"Get a move on!" said another.

"Ladies, please, I'm trying to start. Ok, here we go, the first number, one and three, 13.  Second number..."

"Hold on, Sue, have you gorra pen, mine's run out" said another player.

"What was the number again?" asked someone.

"Thirteen."

"Thirty?"

"No, thirteen!"Come on, ladies, keep it quiet!.


"What's the second number?"

"We haven't done the second number yet.  I'm just about to.  The second number is... four and seven, 47."

"Right, I've got my pen, what was the first number again?"

"Oh my Lord, thirteen!  Ladies, please settle down and pay attention!"

"I'm lost.  Has he called the second number?  I thought we'd just had 13."

And so on.  After a few minutes the caller did restore order and all was going well.  Then, Gladys called out "Line!"

"No, no, thur's no lines in this game, I said that."

"Oh, sorry."

The game continued for a few more minutes, until

"Line!"

"No, no, no, I've already said, thur's no lines in this game!  We said that a few minutes ago.  Full House only!"

"Oh, sorry, sorry, I was gettin' all excited as well."

"Ladies, can I please say again, it's a Full House game, thur are no lines!".

And so the game went on... and on... and on... and on, so much so that I was beginning to wonder if there were actually any numbers left.  I was thinking how funny would it be if all the numbers were called and no-one had a Full House..  and then the machine stuck on the number 24.  Despite all efforts, it would not budge.  The organiser came to the rescue.

"Ok, ok, I'll try and sort it out." she said, at which point she began fiddling with and then banging the machine.  It remained stuck on 24, then started going back through the numbers that had been called.

"15, 92, 65, 54.."

"We've 'ad all of them!" came a voice from a far table.

"Yes, I know, but I've got to go back through them all. I can't help it." said the organiser.  Groans filled the room.  "Look, look, it's simple, if we have to start again, then if he calls a number you've got then just mark it off again but if it's not marked then don't. Oooh, you know what I mean."

Well no, I don't think anyone did.  I'm still trying to fathom it out myself.  Unfortunately, at this point we had to leave but tears were streaming down our faces - to be honest you probably had to be there - and I have no idea if a) anyone actually had a clue that they were the source of our amusement, or b) whether or not they finished their game.

However, there was one final moment at breakfast the following morning that topped everything. Gladys loudly announced that she had a massive bruise on her thigh and she hadn't got a clue why.  It was the organiser who reminded her, equally loudly, that it was probably due to her antics in trying to straddle the Pool table the night before.  Gladys agreed.  It appeared to be a serious comment.

The mind boggles.

Krek waiter speke forrun

We English are rulers of the language world.  How our little country managed to give the world its primary spoken language I don't know (well I do actually, thinking about it, it was called the British Empire!) but we managed it and as a result are linguistically lazy. Picture the scene; a remote part of Africa, where a plane has come down and news crews have converged to an area where they have barely had human contact in years. A Sky news reporter interviews a local tribesman who gives his eye witness report... in perfect English. Conversely, I once worked for an Englishman who claimed that he was fluent in most languages; all he had to do was speak slowly and shout.

Our language has evolved over centuries and there is a really interesting article by Stephen Fry on the importance of correct spelling and grammar... or not.  Check it out here. Personally, I abhor incorrect use of grammar and spelling but do acknowledge that there is some creativity allowed and this is how new words evolve.  Where space is limited (such as in text messages) then I also acknowledge that "C U ltr m8" is inevitable and quick.  With the younger generations texting like there is no tomorrow, I therefore predict a raft of future news headlines reading something like "K8 and Wils get g/kids" as well as an overload in A&E departments for RSI injuries to thumbs.

Incidentally, have we all worked out the title of this blogpost?  It's written phonetically, so say it out loud if you haven't.*   And this leads me onto the main point of this scribe. In the 1960's there were some "wonderful and innovative" (ahem) new education techniques brought in.  One of these was ITA (Initial Teaching Alphabet), a way to assist the whole reading experience by learning words phonetically. This involved young children learning ITA first and then, when sufficiently proficient in that, transferring to the usual English alphabet. ITA had over 40 symbols and many of them bore no resemblance to our letters (check it out for fun - here's the Wikipedia entry for ITA).  Fortunately, it didn't catch on and died out pretty quickly, leaving our beautiful English language unharmed.

But, not content with that, we went on to create derivatives of other tongues like French and Spanish (which we refer to as Franglais and Spanglish) and have a whale of a time in particular with our Gallic neighbours. Our mickey taking is relentless as we produce comedy shows like "'Allo, 'Allo" and in "Only Fools and Horses", Del Boy never fails to amuse with his lack of understanding in how and when to use various French words and phrases.  One of my personal favourites is in the 2002 episode, "Strangers on the Shore", when there is the following exchange between Del and Rodney -

Del One of my most favouritist meals is Duck à l'Orange, but I don't know how to say that in French.
Rodney It's canard.
Del You can say that again bruv!
Rodney No the French word for duck is canard.
Del Is it? I thought that was something to do with the QE2?
Rodney No that's Cunard. They're the ones with the boats and what have you. The French for duck is canard.
Del Right lovely jubbly. Right, so how do the French say à l'Orange then?
Rodney A l'Orange!
Del What, the same as we do?
Rodney Yes
Del Oh dear, it's a pity they don't use more of our words innit eh?

Anyway, I do believe the French are getting their own back.

The car I currently drive is a Peugeot 5008 and which came from our local automotive park.  This is dominated by a company called Toomey who have main dealerships for not only Peugeot but Nissan, Vauxhall, Renault and Citroen too.  When I collected it, I saw a sign on the wall saying "Toomay Pershow". I thought nothing of it really until I called up to check the car in for a routine check.  "Hello, Toomey Peugeot, how can I help you?" was the phone greeting.  Toomey Peugeot?  Toomey Pershow?  Surely not.

Again, I thought nothing of it apart from maybe assuming that someone had made a monumental spelling error on the sign which had gone up without anyone actually noticing.

However, just recently, a service reminder arrived in the post which was signed off by the Manager and it actually stated on the literature itself "Toomey Pershow".

When I booked the car in, I decided to check it out.

"Anything else I can help with?" said the helpful receptionist.

"Well yes, as it happens.  Your literature is signed off as Toomey Pershow."

"Yes, that's right."

"But you are Toomey Peugeot."

"Yes."

"So what's that about then?  Is there a Mr. Pershow somewhere behind the scenes?"

"No, it's what Peugeot have told us that we have to do."

"I'm sorry?  Pardon?"

"Peugeot have told us we have to put Toomey Pershow on all the literature.  Apparently it stops people pronouncing it Pew-got."

There was a few seconds of stunned silence before I could respond.

"Are you serious?  Peugeot actively want their name to be spelt incorrectly?  It's not actually even phonetically correct, is it?  If they were going to do that, then it should be Per-jo.  It's a bit rubbish, isn't it?"

Embarrassed silence, then...

"Well... err... I don't think many of us like it either, but it's what we've been told to do.  I can't really say much more..."

So there you have it.  The French have decided that we are too linguistically incompetent to pronounce their car manufacturers correctly so have equally incompetently tried to phonetically get it right whilst getting it slightly wrong.  They even have their own Yell entry - click here - unbelievable!  Maybe we'll see a surge of dealerships such as "Toomey Rennow" or "Toomey Sitrun", although if the French are true to form, it will probably be "Toomey Renall" or "Toomey Seetron".  Thank goodness the Japanese haven't decided to follow suit as I'm still trying to get my head around the correct way to pronounce the Nissan Qashqai.

My car is up for renewal in February.  I think I'll get a Ford.


*If you really still don't know what the title is, then you clearly either aren't saying "Correct Way to Speak Foreign.", or you are, in fact, foreign.  Don't worry; just say it slowly and in a loud voice.  It'll be fine.

Does every dog have its day?

If Southend United were a dog, this is what it would probably be...

It's been a while.

When I say that, I'm mainly referring to the date of my last blog, which was back at the beginning of February.  Since then, my life has undergone a series of major changes which have ultimately resulted in me spending the vast majority of my time working, with what little time I have left spent sleeping and doing the Dad's taxi thing.  Oh, and supporting Southend United, a club which I have had an affinity with since 1969 and which makes it the longest relationship (aside from my parents) that I have ever had in my life.

As this blog primarily started out about dating disasters, can I therefore count the regular "dates" with my football club mistress as potential blog fodder?  Rhetorical question, of course. I'm going to.

My love affair at my mistresses home - Roots Hall - started when I was just 8 years old and I remember the day well.  My football mad Dad must have longed for the day when I showed an interest in the"Beautiful Game" and on 30th August 1969 that day arrived.  I discovered Southend were playing against Crewe Alexandra in league division 4, asked him to take me and he duly obliged, paying for us to stand on the South Bank - a big open terrace behind the goal long since replaced by flats and a small, two tier stand - and we cheered Southend onto a 2-0 victory.  Neither of us knew any of the players (he was a Fulham fan) but that day, the names of Billy Best, Phil Chisnall, Gary Moore and Mike Beesley - amongst others - were etched into my memory banks as heroes in blue and white. That was it. I was hooked.

Since then, I have been a fan through thick and thin much to previous girlfriends/wives disgust. I've seen every promotion the club has had and attended most of the "big" games, travelling across, up and down the country to places like Bury, Grimsby and Kidderminster for 90 minute liaisons with the second love of my life.  Seasons have been enjoyed and endured in equal measure, through the dark days of the mid 1980's when the club was within a whisker of folding through to the early 2000's when club legend Steve Tilson took the club to two Leyland-Daf Trophy finals and the League Two play off final at the Millennium Stadium Cardiff and then up to the heady heights of The Championship, claiming the League One Title along the way.

But since those days and the immediate relegation from the Championship, the club has been in a downward spiral and now languishes back in League Two where wily Scot and experienced manager Paul Sturrock nearly oversaw a promotion last season by getting the second highest points total in the clubs history that left us one tantalizing point short of success.  Our route to a higher division was ended in the play offs by - wait for it - Crewe Alexandra, a team we had already beaten twice in the league that season.

This season therefore should have been the first rung back on the ladder of success but, despite an encouraging run of form up to November when Southend were nicely placed for automatic promotion, a series of injuries, suspensions and wretched home performances has seen this year turn into a bit of a disaster.  Promotion now looks extremely unlikely.  However, the club has had some decent performances in cup competitions and won through to the Johnstone Paint Trophy Final at Wembley, overcoming two teams from higher divisions along the way and guaranteeing the club a decent payday.  Paul Sturrock had never been to Wembley as a manager and was, like the rest of us, looking forward to it greatly.

Club Chairman Ron Martin however decided to swing the axe on Sturrock two weeks prior to the Wembley final and in doing so - via a decision that I'm sure was made with best intentions - turned the club into a laughing stock across the football world by saying that Sturrock could still manage and lead the team out at Wembley for the final as he had earned that right by getting us there.

This was something unprecedented in football history and didn't sit well with new incumbent Phil Brown, ex Bolton, Derby, Hull and Preston manager (as well as being an unsuccessful applicant for every managerial post going over the last 18 months).  He was happy for Sturrock to lead the team out, but manage?  There wasn't the same enthusiasm for that and so, after several private meetings and while the club had been ridiculed throughout the national media for days, Sturrock decided that he wouldn't press the point and politely declined the clubs offer.

But every dog has it's day, as the saying goes, it's just that if this little club was a dog, it would certainly be the comedy type such as the chihuahua at the top of the page that would stand more chance of a giant killing by sticking in the throat of it's foe rather than actually causing physical damage.

And so this dog of a clubs day had come, at Wembley on April 7th, and yet again bloody Crewe Alexandra were the opponents, so there was a chance for some revenge to be exacted on the team who had pooped on our potential promotion party last year.

There's a little group of us that follow the team (no, I'm talking about the entire crowd) and between four or five of them had pulled out all the stops regarding the organisation and laid on 2 coaches to take us to the National Stadium via a pub in Upminster called "The Crumpled Horn", who had very kindly agreed to open the bar for our arrival at 9:15 and lay on a full English Breakfast for the 77 visitors.

A big thanks to the pub staff who ensured everyone was served with drinks and food before we had to make our way to Wembley, leaving at around 10:40 to ensure arrival in plenty of time for the kick off at 1:15.

Now some people of  a certain age who had drunk a certain number of pints of lager in just over an hour weren't really able to last the entire journey...

...but we were soon in sight of the landmark stadium and ready for our dog of a club to choke the life out of their higher league opponents.

The sight of all the Shrimpers fans going up Wembley Way and around the stadium generally was a fantastic spectacle.

The trip to Wembley had caught the imagination of everyone in Southend and over 32,000 tickets had been sold, as opposed to the 11,000-odd from Crewe, meaning that the Southend contingent outnumbered their northern counterparts by almost 3-1.  A similar scoreline on the pitch would be nice thank you very much, and our hopes were high when the main Crewe striker was out injured and another of their players, Adam Dugdale, had lost his 6 year old son in the days leading up to the game so wasn't playing either.  Word had got around to both sets of supporters that there would be a minutes applause in the sixth minute to show respect for the poor lad.

The nerve ends were jangling as kick off approached.  The players came out of the tunnel and were greeted by a sea of blue, which must have been a quite daunting sight.  Consequently they froze like rabbits in the headlights as Crewe started out of the the blocks with a proverbial gnashing of the teeth, swallowing up possession and restricting Southend's touches of the ball to hasty and usually poorly placed clearances.

During the 5th minute, Crewe won a corner and Southend were completely undone by a simple training ground routine, with skipper Murphy running 30 yards unchallenged to stroke the ball into the net following a clever dummy. With Southend stunned into silence, there then immediately followed the rather strange feeling of having to break into applause for the Dugdale boy as the 6th minute arrived, when in fact all you felt like doing was throwing the match programme down and screaming at the team to wake up.  And wake up they did, eventually, as Crewe started to ease off and then began to splutter.  Britt Assombalonga was brought down in the box and on another day - any other day in fact - a penalty would have been awarded.  Tamika Mkandawire headed over the bar from 6 yards and a Ryan Cresswell knock down was unable to be touched into the net.

But at half time, Southend had come back into the game and were very much in it, as long as they didn't concede a second goal.

Sadly, that position only lasted 4 minutes, the length of time for maverick and enigma Bilel Mohsni to get caught in possession, allowing the Crewe players to bear down on goal and almost walk the ball in to make it 2-0.

With that, Southend tried to step up a gear.  Assombalonga was brought down again in similar fashion and again there was no penalty; then, GavinTomlin put in a cross from the left that Mohsni and Assombalonga both went for but somehow the ball - headed goalwards from less than 2 yards out - struck a Crewe defender and bounced to safety.

There was more drama - Assombalonga had a goal disallowed for offside and Sean Clohessy was brought down on the edge of the area but yet again no foul was given.  The introduction of substitutes Barry Corr, Ben Reeves and Freddy Eastwood failed to get Southend back in the game and Crewe were coasting.  They had chewed us up, spat us out and ensured that the Trophy was headed north.  Very much in "Crewe's control" you might say.

So it wasn't to be Southend's day yet again.  Maybe that day will come on Wednesday April 10th, because, while the first team will be battling a Rochdale team in Lancashire, Southend Council will be meeting to decide on whether the revised proposal will be passed that will eventually allow the new stadium at Fossetts Farm to be built.  Much has been written and discussed about this long running saga but, in a nutshell, if we can't move to Fossetts Farm, then the club in it's current form is finished.

But if permission is granted, then does that mean everything is rosy?  I think that's unlikely. Nothing surprises me anymore with this club. Following them for nearly 45 years, I am never amazed at their capacity to disappoint.  To draw more analogies with female relationships, it is like they are the wife that is having an affair, then you find out it is with your best mate.  However, the pain doesn't stop there; she throws you out, moves him in and finally you discover that the kids have started calling him Dad.  It eventually wears you down.  One can only hope that at least the battling performance and injustice at Wembley will have enabled some of the "Day Trippers" - probably 20,000 of them - to come down to Roots Hall in the future just to start following the team, just to see what real football can be like in the lower echelons.

I'm still looking forward to when our Dog can have its day again, because when you follow a team like Southend, there are no expectations whatsoever.  Which means that occasionally, just occasionally, when something does happen that is quite mind blowing - like beating Manchester United, Rooney and Ronaldo et al 1-0 in the Carling Cup to become the only team in the world to have a positive record against them - it makes that day so much more satisfying.

Which is the only reason why we all do it.

The Battle of Grand Drive

Sunday evening –  Snow has been falling for most of the day and the scene is picture postcard winter.  The gritting lorries have been out in force though and the roads seem clear-ish.  No more snow is expected.

The girls have been out in the snow today, either sledging, building snowmen or just having fun.  We ask them to get their school stuff ready for the morning; they look at us as though we have just told them we have tortured and then killed the family cat.

“But we’re gahn aht,” one of them says, “there’s a load of us gahn to tahn.” (see blogpost “Uprising” for Essex-speak translation).

“I don’t think you are going out, you’re going to school. If there’s more snow and it’s closed, well, that’s different, but otherwise you’re going.”

“None of our friends are gahn in though.”

“Really?  Well, you are. Sorry.”

This was a cue for much under-the-breath mumbling and a few foot stomps, but there was generally an uneasy truce.  After all, who knew what the morning would bring…

Monday morning – The alarm went off at 6:30am as usual and I went downstairs to make a cup of tea.  I would need as much sustenance as I could get to prepare myself for the inevitable onslaught. A cursory look outside showed no further snowfall.  I turned on the local radio and listened to the school closures… these were almost all in the north of the County or rural areas.  The mainstream areas were fine, with no traffic delays either at that time.  I was sure the school would be open. At 7:00am I climbed the stairs and woke the girls.  This would be their normal rising time anyway but I was expecting some kickback.  I made sure they were properly awake. 

“Come on, there’s been no more snow.  School’s open and you’re going in.”

I went downstairs and waited, finishing my tea.  One of the girls came down to get her uniform out of the pile of ironing (she clearly hadn’t done it the night before as instructed as she probably thought we’d be snowed in) and heard the school closures on the radio… Belfairs was not one of them.  

But wait… there was a chance… the presenter finished the piece with,

“… but this may not be 100% correct so the best thing you can do is to check your school’s website.”

With a look of hope on her face, she made her way to the PC and tap-tapped onto the School Home page which downloaded a few seconds later, showing a huge message on the screen –

Belfairs Academy is OPEN today

The sigh of disappointment and anger resonated around the house. That was it.  The battle had begun.

“Have I got to go in today, Mark?”

“Yep. ‘Fraid so.”

“But why?  None of my friends are going in.”

“I’m sure they are.  School’s open.”

“But the teachers won’t be in.  We’ll have to sit doing nothing.”

“Oh well.  So be it.  Now go and get ready.”

News spread through the troops quickly and there were protests.  Another one came down half-dressed saying she couldn't find any blouses.  This verbal volley was repelled by a quick arm movement and the production of one from the ironing pile, passed across with a smile and a “There you go” message.  She departed back upstairs, tail between her legs.  

Another then came down saying she hadn't any blouses at all. She was reminded that we were nearly halfway through the school year and where were the ones she’d been wearing so far?  Overnight they had apparently become too small/too dirty/ripped (delete as appropriate).  A poor shot which failed to hit any target at all and was dealt with by “If you don’t find one, you’re grounded for next weekend.”

So, three of the four revolutionaries had given it a shot but had failed.  We were standing firm.  The fourth one had yet to surface at all (she is at a different school that opens a bit later and only closes in the event of nuclear attack) but we sensed she may be the most difficult nut to crack.

Girl number one comes down, ready for school.  Well, if you can call ready for school in this weather having no coat, no gloves, no boots or snow shoes and no bag.  She was clearly a scout who had been sent down by the others to test the water… but we were prepared!  Wellies were lined up at the door and a carrier bag for the school shoes produced. There was resistance over the coat and gloves issue but this was overcome and after a few minutes of fierce negotiations where we failed to give an inch, off she went.  One down, three to go.

This had clearly been unexpected by the dissidents as there was confusion in the ranks… two of the remaining girls started arguing over ownership of a pair of Hunters Wellie socks.  Dawn moved swiftly in to resolve the dispute and hurry them along, but the chinks in the armour were there… it was hardly a united front they were presenting.  The resistance was crumbling.

The second one came down, moaning all the time about how she had to walk to school on her own.  Strange that at other times she goes to great lengths to try and convince us that she really, really is grown up enough to get buses and trains everywhere unaccompanied.  There were two more futile attempts to stay at home but these amounted to no more than a rather whiney “Can’t I stay at home, please?  I’ve got no-one to go with.”  There was no real belief behind these attempts though, as she was putting on her gloves and wellies while saying it.  Off she went regardless.

Halfway through the battle and we were winning.  But the two left were wily and persuasive, not to mention the most stroppy of the brood.  Girl four had still not surfaced so she was given an ultimatum to either get up or be grounded which did the trick.  She would be late though and she was nowhere near ready.  Girl three, usually the head negotiator and tactical master, came down the stairs and we feared the worst.  Would this be the battle to end all battles?  No.  She knew the game was up and made no attempt to overturn the decision, unexpectedly leaving without fuss.  Just one more.

However, she made more commotion and noise than all of the others put together.  Her clothes weren't ready, she hadn't made her packed lunch, the butter was hard, it was ripping the bread, why couldn't she have dinner money, the teachers won’t be in, she couldn't find her bag, who’s nicked her gloves… any excuse to stall and delay.  Eventually though, at 8:40am, the white flag of surrender was waved and she made her way out of the house and up the road at a pace that would have given a snail a run for its money.  School starts for her at 8:45 and it’s a 20 minute walk at the best of times, so a detention for late arrival awaits her I expect.

So all is well again… until the next snowfall…

Tales of the Unexpected, Part 3 of 3.

<Deep American voice on>

Previously, Mark’s promised weekend of passion failed to materialise as he was stood up on the Friday night and completely ignored by the online dating community on the Saturday and Sunday.  How much worse can it get?  Find out here…

<Deep American voice off>

On the Monday I awoke in a pretty miserable and crestfallen state.  I never used to tell my staff anything at all about my private life, so I was pretty surprised when I walked into the office and was greeted by an inquisitive receptionist who asked “So, how did the date go then?”

“Eh?  How did you know?”

“There was an answerphone message from your Friday afternoon client. Can you call her as she has a query on her Will and she also asked if your date showed up.”

Good Lord, I hadn’t expected that. 

“Look, for the record I was stood up, but for heaven’s sake don’t let the client know. She said that she’d go out with me herself if my date didn’t show and I don’t even want to try and explain that away to her… she’s in her mid-seventies!  Anyway, if she calls, as far as she is concerned, everything was fine.”

She passed the message around the office and I imagine it provided them all with some amusement for a while.  Amusement was the last thing on my mind… I was still shocked at my apparent invisibility to the female dating community.

I returned my client’s call and sure enough, her first question was “How was your date?”

“Ok thank you.  You had a query with your Will I think?”  Move on, move on. I didn't dwell on the subject of the date and fortunately she didn't push the point either.  It was a minor query – something about a middle name – and it put her mind at ease.  She said it had been worrying her over the weekend and thanked me for my time.

The weather matched my mood as the skies darkened and we had the most almighty storm.  A lightning strike close by knocked the phone system out completely and we could neither make nor receive any calls.  Great.  The day was going from bad to worse.

Fortunately, the fax line was working and we arranged for BT to re-direct all calls through to that one, but this meant that all the receptionist could do was continually answer the fax telephone, explain what had happened and that someone would get back to them as soon as the phones were fixed.

Near the end of the day, the reception was busy; the phone was being answered continuously, files were being put away for the night and the post was being done.  I walked into with the last few letters that I’d signed and the receptionist turned to me and said,

“I've got that client you saw on Friday on the phone again, she has another query and she’s worried about it.  She needs to speak to you urgently.”

“Ok, pass me the phone, I’ll deal with it.” I said.  I took the phone and asked my client how I could help.  At that time I was surrounded by 4 reception staff.

“Hello, Mark here, what’s the problem?  I don’t have the file to hand but am sure I can answer it quickly for you.”

“Oh, hello, well, it isn't really a query but I just wanted to say that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since Friday. I’d love us to go out but of course, you may be looking for someone younger…”

The colour must have drained from my face as my staff suddenly stopped what they were doing and looked concerned.  One came up behind me to catch me if I fell backwards. I composed myself, motioning to them that I was ok.

“Err… well, that’s err… very… err... flattering and thank you but, err… well, I don’t think that would be appropriate really, would it?”  What could I say?  The staff obviously then cottoned on and a whole series of muffled sniggers went on behind me. How embarrassing was that!

The client said she understood and said goodbye, leaving me to deal with the now very amused staff.  Oh great. 

So not only had I been ignored by my peers, but I’d also been hit on by someone nearly 30 years my senior.  Was that how it was going to be from now on?  Was I past my sell by date?

Fortunately not – I’ll soon recount the most requested blog story of all, which is how I met my lovely partner Dawn – but that one week in the summer of 2008 took me through all the emotional highs and lows the Internet dating scene can provide.  

But the last non-internet bit was just cruel.

Tales of the Unexpected - Part 2 of 3

<Deep American Voice on>

Previously in this Blog, Mark has the hots for a cutie from a town 20 miles away, she cranks up the heat and promises him a weekend of passion but lets him down by failing to show.  He has a whole weekend at his disposal.  How will he spend it?  Stay tuned to find out...

<Deep American Voice off>

The story continues...

So I'd had a pretty rotten Friday night and was determined not to let the weekend's dating opportunities slip away from me.Therefore, just after 7:00am on Saturday, I was awake, up and on the laptop.  It was a blitz; every single dating site I'd ever registered on was launched and I was shown as available to chat.  The search filters were set slightly wider than usual and I began to trawl. By the way, that's generally what men have to do; trawl.  Women can fish. They sort through the offers they have and pick the ones they like, whereas most men (unless they are George Clooney lookalikes) have to be a bit more, well, shall we say flexible?  Look at her photo... does she have just the one head?  Are the eyes and ears in the right place?  Check the profile notes... does the word "deceased" appear anywhere in there?  No?  Then she's a possibility.

It was early and I didn't really expect anyone to be up and about at that time in the morning, so I sent a few messages and winks (for an explanation of a wink, see my blogpost "A Toe in the Water") before heading for a shower and then some shopping, returning at about 11:00 am.  I rushed to the laptop before even unloading the car.

But wait... that was strange...  my email account showed "0" new messages.  Was it broken? Offline? It must be... there weren't even any of the SPAM emails or usual messages from Russian Prostitutes (they always seem to be aged 28), 65+ year old rich widows promising me all sorts of riches if I became their lover or anyone at all from Africa. Ok... reboot required.

I made a cuppa while waiting (it's a Windows machine - say no more) and tried again.

Launch Internet Explorer.

Open email account.

Ah, that's better, 8 new messages.  But, hang on, we have 3 from companies offering me loans, 1 from the football team I support telling me that tickets for the pre-season friendly are going on sale soon, 1 from a travel company offering me discounts on package holidays, 1 from a mate about a party next week and the other 2 were trying to sell me Viagra (Who told them? That's what I want to know!).

There was absolutely nothing from anybody on any dating site.

Maybe it was still early, after all, it wasn't even lunchtime! I logged on again and saw a whole lot of different people online, but despite trying to chat, none of them were having it. What was wrong with me for God's sake!

More messages and winks were sent and I went out again, trying to kill some time.  I got back at about 4:00 pm and again logged on.  There were 10 new messages this time, but sadly all of them were SPAM.  Time was running out if I wanted a date tonight... I sent more winks, messages and chat requests but not one - I repeat, NOT ONE - got back to me.  My browser was zipping back and forth between dating sites as, one by one, people went offline (Probably going out on dates. Humph.) and as it crept toward 7:00 pm I had to admit that it was highly unlikely that I would be going out with anyone that evening.

For my own sanity I gave up, vowing to try again tomorrow and ended up spending a very lonely evening in front of the TV watching rubbish... there wasn't even football on as it was the close season!

Sunday morning saw a repeat of the same routine and got the same response.  Zero. The early morning and lunchtime trawl was completely fruitless and then I decided to break my own rule; I started contacting people without profile photos.

Now this isn't as shallow as it sounds; the general rule is that if someone doesn't put a photo on their profile, then they may be trying to hide something, possibly the fact that they are married, in a relationship, or not who they say they are.  But by now I'd got to the desperate stage where I just wanted to go out.

Finally, FINALLY, I got a response.  It was about 6:00 pm, her name was Linda, she said she was 48 and was about 15 miles away.  She couldn't really give me a reason why her profile didn't have a photo, so I asked if she'd email one and she agreed.  And then I saw the reason. If she was 48, I was Margaret Thatcher.

Anyway, at that stage I really didn't care as just wanted to get out of the flat. It got to about 7:00 pm and so I wondered if she wanted to go out for a Sunday night drink in a Pub somewhere?

However, that was met with a refusal; she was already going out on a date and now had to get ready. She therefore said her goodbye's and logged off.

So how bad was that?  The previous week, I was in a state of near euphoria at my potential weekend of passion with Charlotte, but in the space of 2 days that feeling had been quashed and I had been ignored - not turned down, but ignored - by the entire online dating community.  My self esteem was at an all time low, worse even than when I first left my marriage.  I was wondering if I would actually ever have female attention again.

Unbelievably, the pain still wasn't over and yes, it was possible for it to get even worse. Read about the tragic but comical conclusion in part three, to follow...