I'm in New York next week where it will be raining men for my birthday. Unfortunately they will all be sheltering under an awning to protect their Gucci loafers as they are already partnered up with each other - but at least I shall be a gay icon at my own birthday party. There are worse things.
After some spirited socialising I'm suffering from dating fatigue. I'm so looking forward to getting away from it all. Apart from seeing the relocated Ambassador in Manhattan (I'm dumb with excitement at the thought of it - which is, as you know, a rarity), I am going to a gala evening at the opera, Carnegie hall, having a party thrown for me and generally being wined and dined every single evening. I can't wait.
Meanwhile it's been convenient that three of the men I've met up with recently have been called David as it saves me having to remember their names, though it is tricky knowing which one is which, especially when I got a message from one asking me to call him back as soon as possible and I didn't recognise the number. Unfortunately this David was the guy who is coming to fix the flashing on my roof and so he was a bit surprised to be called darling... (it saves me getting them mixed up).
However, my month's dating course is almost up. What a relief. I can't stand the highs and the lows. It's an emotional wringer. It has gone from the giddy excitement of looking forward to champagne at Claridges and dinner afterwards in one of those swanky business restaurants that I used to eat in all the time as the only woman not in a dark suit, and sometimes, the only woman - to the disappointment of realising that the classiest thing about the date is the postcode. I'm a sucker for a bit of flattery and after months of feeling very under-appreciated by His Royal Worcester it has been wonderful to be complimented and invited out to lovely places where I never once see the bill. Apart from the flowers I was even sent a gift in the post one morning. It has been sweet to have some easy affection instead of having it wrung out at the end of a telephone conversation disguised as a cough. I had a crisis of confidence after we stopped seeing each other and started this dating diet and so I asked my ex husband, somewhat doubtfully, if he thought I was still fanciable. Yes, he replied, with alacrity (because the man has to be nice to me otherwise I don't let him come round and mow the lawn and replace all the lightbulbs in the house he is still paying for) of course you are. I know, it's hardly the sexual seal of approval when you have to ask the man who left you for reassurance that some hapless twit out there in the big world of testosterone and "really enjoy staying in with a DVD" (good God, I can do that single, I don't need a man to be bored out of my skull on a Saturday night, thank you very much) will maybe ask you out, remember your birthday and write 'sweetheart' in the card. It's the sort of 'well-I-don't-want-you-but-somebody-else-will premise that clearance sales work on.
It has been thrilling and fun, but it has also been uncomfortable and, at times, depressing - even, like the last post, really frightening. The sad stories I have struggled not to bang my head on the table and cry upon hearing, and so many tales of marriage breakdown that dating starts to feel like Groundhog Day - especially when they are all called David. Even my own story starts to sound like a script. I've been desired, delighted and then dismissed and still had to drink the coffee. and felt like the relationship equivalent of cat nip for anyone on the autistic spectrum. There are a lot of men out there sitting at home playing the one arm banjo. Those are my shoppers...
But thankfully there are the nice ones. And the particularly nice one who I plan to see a lot more of.
Mind you after a martini every one seems nice. Even me.
One Martini is bliss, two makes Chimps look handsome and three means you can have your appendix out without anaesthesia. One particular two-Martini man told me I looked younger and 'far more beautiful' than I did in my picture (proving my own point). If it hadn't been for the fact that he got out a toothpick to excavate the remains of his halibut while he was trying to flirt with me, I would have fallen head over heels in love with him.
Call me Cheeta.
