Single White Female
March 26, 2010
It is a truth, universally acknowledged that a single man, in possession of good fortune, will lie when describing himself in the singles ads.
In fact, I think all these people are lying. I happened to glance through the singles ads in The Sunday Telegraph at work recently, not my copy, someone left one lying about.
I can’t believe that there are so many attractive single people about.
And wealthy.
Men seeking women, women seeking men, women seeking women, men seeking men, cats seeking dogs, the list is endless, but they all describe themselves as attractive.
And/or sexy.
And/or athletic.
And/or naturally blonde.
If they’re so damn gorgeous, why are they single?
I’m starting to think these ads are little like estate agents blurb, so where a spacious studio apartment is described, which actually turns out to be a garage, a naturally blonde, mature, athletic female, is actually a grey haired shot putter on hormone replacement therapy.
I myself am of course single. Not necessarily looking, but the thought does flit across my mind from time to time. I can’t reply to any of the gentlemen advertising, because they’re all seeking slim, attractive brunettes.
I could place my own, slightly dishonest advert, which would read something along the lines of:
Attractive plus size sexy lady, natural brunette, seeks Matthew Fox look-alike of ample means for fun, friendship, maybe more.
But that wouldn’t be truthful, and any gentleman responding to that would be doomed to disappointment. And I could probably be sued under the Trades Description Act.
I have however quite genuinely, drawn up an advert for the Telegraph, with the correct number of words and without telling any porky pies. I haven’t had the courage to actually submit it yet, but I will. I really will.
This will be submitted under the Women seeking Men section:
Fat and gone to seed 37 yr old fake redhead. Geekish tendencies, likes everything except jazz and fruit. Seeks male with pulse. Wilts.
OUTBREAK 2: THE WILTSHIRE PANDEMIC
December 16, 2008
“Coughs and sneezes spread diseases:
Catch them in your handkerchief.”
This week’s epistle was originally to be the wittily entitled “When Good Fruit Goes Bad” however such is the state of the nation that I feel the need to discuss a different, but no less prevalent, menace.
For the past two weeks my place of work has become a Hot Zone. From the hacking cough of the terminally bubonic to the body fluid expulsions of the Ebola-addled, it’s been like working at the bottom of the plague pit, only less sanitary.
What started out as a simple cold has mutated into leprosy for my colleague Jim. We car share for our journey to work, but every day I find myself checking my vehicle for any appendages that he may have inadvertently dropped after I’ve taken another tight corner too fast.
Jim says the antibiotics aren't working
Ed’s flu virus has developed into a low sexy throaty growl, matched only by Barry White and Bluto, and the rest of my colleagues have been carried off in stain-resistant body bags to the local pyres.
After one shift of working at germ central, I quickly realised that my surgical mask would not offer adequate protection against the pox that was being circulated by the building’s air-conditioning and switched to a HAZMAT suit.
I am a delicate creature. Much like a thorough-bred race horse, so much as a glimpse of a snotty nose and I collapse in a feverish wheezing heap, doomed to die slowly in front of endless Top Gear repeats on Dave, weighed down by blankets and cats and choking noisily on my own mucus.
Which is a shame really, considering that I always had a more romantic death knell in mind.
Formed from years of watching black and white movies, I imagine myself in sepia tones, lying in a consumptive fever on a chaise longe and delicately coughing spots of blood into a lace hankie. And all the while a handsome man with a pencil moustache stands over me begging “Don’t die darling, darling don’t die.” In wonderfully clipped posh English tones.
Apparently though, no one in the United Kingdom dies of consumption anymore, or bubonic plague, or even leprosy. And yet all these antiquated diseases are to be found within the walls of my place of employment.
I sit surrounded by people who look like Norman Bates’ mother, and whose efforts to clear the crackling catarrh from their asthmatic chests sound like heavy goods vehicles shifting down a gear whilst stuck in the traffic outside.
Unfortunately the author of this column was unable to finish this piece after tragically choking to death whilst sucking on a preventative strawberry-flavour Strepsil.
PUBIC HAIR – Where Do You Draw The Bikini Line?
July 19, 2008
It’s a contentious issue, for both men and women. Let me tell you where I am currently in the debate.
Imagine, if you will indulge me for a moment, Sleeping Beauty’s fairytale castle; a triumph of engineering and God’s own eye for beauty. A castle that is encumbered by deep-rooted thorny brambles which block the very passage so many princes have sought to enter. Are you getting a picture?
Let’s just say that without the princes hammering at my castle gates, certain parts of my anatomy have been allowed to go back to nature. I shave my legs and under arms, pluck my eyebrows and wax my top lip. On the whole I am not a hirsute figure of a woman.
Except for Chewbacca between my legs.
Given that the last person to venture down there was my Gynaecologist I figured I’d make him work for a living. Now I’m not saying he needed a hedge strimmer and protective goggles to find his way in, but I’m fairly certain he said something about spotting Bill Oddie down there.
Maybe it’s time to rein nature in for a while.
I’m having an all over spray tan on Friday, in readiness for my annual summer (and invariably rained out) BBQ and bash. Along with various horror stories about waxing that I can’t even bring self to repeat, (Ladies, there are certain times of the month when it is unacceptable to expect someone to wax your bikini line, you know what I’m saying) my beautician told me that I could elect to wear undies or I could bare all.
It’s a struggle to keep me in clothes at the best of times (something I inherited from my father, sadly however I did not inherit his thin gene), I’ve never been bashful about exposing myself. I do however maintain my modesty to protect others. When Michelle told me that she could take it if I could, I knew I would be sporting a tan without the white bits.
It also means I’m going to have to tackle the Bush of Doom, the Thatch of Despair as it has become known.
Do men have this problem?
I am of course referring to the modern ‘metrosexual’ male, the David Beckham’s of this world as it were. Men of for example, my father’s generation (i.e retired), would only under go the razor if they were having a vasectomy. However the popularity of the ‘back, crack and sack’ wax as it is known, appears to be taking off.
A friend’s husband had such a treatment and she was furious. She was repulsed by his newfound baldness. Maybe whipping it all off is a little extreme (how does one even wax testicles? I imagine it to be a little like trying to pull sticky-tape off a blancmange), but when I was with my partner the thought of him having a little trim in the area of his gentlemen vegetables, was quite nice. An unruly thatch, it has to be said, is a little off-putting.
However such thoughts are hypocritical in light of my own 70’s disco afro.
Having now made the decision to tackle it, the question then becomes how much is enough? Should I go for the neat Brazilian landing strip or, as is more likely, the boldness (or should that be baldness?) of the Hollywood.
It has been the case in the past, that once I get started I don’t know when, or indeed where, to stop. Which is fine between you and a loved one, but it’s something else entirely to bare one’s naked pudenda to a virtual stranger.
I think the key here is going to be less is more. A gentle trim all over and some light weeding at the edges…it’s not like it’s going to be on display again once I’ve had the tan applied.
Which actually, now I come to think on it, is a little disappointing and also a waste of tanning spray.
