Someone Special

"And have you anyone special in your life?" she enquired, solicitously or so I thought. When I replied in the negative she proceeded to launch into an account of her own love life, the pros, the cons and all that jazz. I studied her closely, looking for hints and tips, something that would help me snare a mate, a dancing partner, a dinner date, a friendly voice in the void of a Sunday afternoon and all I saw was orange lipstick haphazardly applied, and a face that has seen at least thirty five more summers that my own mottled visage.

The rest of my Sunday was wasted as I pondered my many shortcomings: impatience, an inability to drink myself into a stupor, two left feet, a preference for home cooking, a hatred of bigots, a dislike of organised religion, myopia, oh, and impatience. I decided by the end of the day to be positive, to concentrate on my attributes: good humour, generosity, a love of all things book related, punctuality, and a creative hand in the kitchen. No matter, the exercise was obviously a complete waste of time. I would just have to cultivate other more endearing qualities or maybe accept that it is out of my hands and in the lap of the gods. All I have to do is age well, mature, let time gently pass and by the time I’m in my eighties some equally mature Don Juan will saunter (on his zimmer frame) into my life and keep me company in the Autumn of my years. Bloody hell!!!

In the meantime the only romance I am going to get a whiff of is through the pages of some far-fetched novel where the woman always finds true love, or the man sees his future mate across a crowded room and knows in an instant that they are "the one". That brings the beloved Jane Austen to mind, but who could find fault with anything this skilled and witty novelist has written: Emma, Northanger Abbey, Sense & Sensibility, Persuasion, Pride & Prejudice, Mansfield Park. They’re all wonderful and different and yet the same in so many ways. He loves her, she doesn’t love him, father doesn’t approve, stubborn heroines, ruthless relatives, greed and ignorance, but in the end the man gets his woman and the woman gets her man and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Now leave me be while I sulk for just a little bit longer and try to ignore any possible traits I may have in common with the indomitable Miss Haversham whose fate, had she had worn orange lipstick, might well have taken a different turn.