It is a sad indictment on my single status that whenever I mention the M word (men) or the R word (relationships) friends jump up and down shouting “Debsy you MUST stop looking for this man … when you do, he will appear … you’re trying too hard”. The notion that I could ever have tried too hard at anything will amuse some of my former school teachers I suspect.
What I surmise I am not doing a very good job at is letting it be known that I’m not trying to find him at all. Granted, it would be nice if he pitched up tonight with a bottle of chablis and two tickets to Paris, but I haven’t made my plans for this evening on the tentative basis that this will happen. I actually quite like being single. I do.
Let me etch out an example … last year in December Mr Distant Cynic went emotionally and physically AWOL on me for what turned out to be the third and final time. The first time I was devastated, the second time mildly upset and on the third I vowed to patch my heart back up and never let him venture anywhere close to it again. Ever. I believe you might have described my mood as defiant on this last occasion.
Slightly embittered by my latest disastrous dalliance with the opposite sex I pulled the emotional shutters down.
One sunny Saturday morning, right in the middle of this emotional-shuttering defiance, I’d agreed that a photographer could call to take some shots of my family and I for a magazine feature (not as glamorous as it sounds). So, we sat waiting … my Dad grumbling about how long it was going to take and my Mum tutting that the guy was five minutes late. To top it all I had a cold, puffy eyes and a bit of a hangover, so I wasn’t as aesthetically pleasing as I’d hoped I would be.
The doorbell rang, and there he stood. Mr Snapper.
Now many serious photographers get quite upset when you mention the word ‘snaps’ …”Do you mind?? They are NOT snaps… or pics….!!!” And almost certainly if I’d called any of the photographers I’d met previously “snappers” openly to their faces, I doubt I would have survived the conversation without their palms meeting my face at some point. But Mr Snapper snaps for the press …. any press, when it boils down to it. Even for those dreadful magazines that sport headlines like “My Boyfriend Turned out to be my Sister” and “I Became a Stripper and now I’m Allergic to Clothes”. So, Mr Snapper has no issue being called a snapper; you can see why that would be the case.
So Mr Snapper set about getting the shots he needed, and then set about trying to get me to go out for a drink with him.
Now, he’s an amusing chap with plenty of chat, not necessarily the type you would imagine uses the phrase “long term” very often, but nice enough all the same.
My long-winded point is this; I didn’t look for Mr Snapper. He ended up knocking on my door. I learned a long time ago that opportunities are around you all the time; it’s whether you notice them or not that’s the question, although you’d have to be sensorially impaired to not notice Mr Snapper.
So really, I’m not looking …. although I may leer inappropriately on occasion (questionable attempt at humour; please move on)
And the middle of not looking, I’ve come up with the what I believe could be the Next Big Thing for the machine that is reality TV ….. “Britain’s Got No Morals”
Basically, lots of discredited contestants (or ex MPs, if you will) battle it out to not be villified on national TV. I’m wondering what form the villification should take … perhaps a year performing some menial job where (and this is the killer punch) … expenses cannot be claimed …. I hope nobody is tempted to vote based on political persuasion; the outcome needs to be decided rationally and honourably, but then seeing as we would be writing the rules of the game, I guess we can forget that bit.
Et voila, another ratings topper made on a shoestring budget.
I’ve not even seen it yet but I’m hoping Geoff Hoon gets to do something connected with sewerage.
Crikey, is that the time? I really must take my leave and get back to not looking for a man …