A friend was dismayed when her divorced daughter tried online dating. She thought the usual ways of finding a partner were safer. Her fears were groundless. A suitable man appeared quickly. Now he’s a much-loved son-in law, husband and step-father.
Were the traditional ways preferable?
My supervisor when I was Saturday girl at Woolworths was smitten with the Assistant Manager, but felt he was out of her reach. He was very dapper, quite the gentleman. One day he asked if she would like to have tea with his family after work.
Next day, I heard how it went. She arrived at his house to find his mother wearing just knickers, scrubbing her armpits with a dishcloth, over a sink full of dirty dishes. The place was like a tip. Taken into the “best” front room, full of his squabbling siblings, she dreaded eating anything cooked in that kitchen.
Thankfully, one of the kids was sent to the local chippie. Eventually , mother appeared in a skimpy nightie, threw a newspaper package at her and said “Yours is two and six”. Her dreamboat was so engrossed in the television he never noticed her slipping out.
Join a Club.
Despite my father being a card-carrying member of the Tory party, I was easily persuaded by a friend to visit the Labour party social club, having been promised some nice older boys. Indeed we quickly got chatted up by two chaps, Terry and Dave aged around 18, we were 14, but looked older. We agreed to go for a drive into the country and lunch in a restaurant on Sunday.
Eileen and I arrived at the meeting place, each provided a cover to parents, explaining our finery. We were hoping for a sports car, or maybe a cute Mini, when a rusty cloud of fumes pulled up, an ancient motor bike and sidecar, WW2 vintage. The two men were in full camouflage gear on the bike, while we, beehives and skirts crushed, crammed into the grotty sidecar.
After a long journey we arrived at what looked like a lunar landscape, thick dust, big craters, hills made of mud. It was a motor bike scramble. The only females there, we huddled on a plank, unable to talk over the noise while our beaus drove around. A miserable couple of hours later, frozen and coughing, we enjoyed a lovely lunch of corned beef doorstep sandwiches and tin mugs of tea in the shack. We declined another date, and Terry sent me a letter saying we were two stupid stuck-up schoolgirls.
My friend Patsy was an attractive Italian lady, published poet, keen concert-goer. Her ex was a lecherous philanderer, leaving her wary of men. Her good neighbours insisted she would love Patrick, their widower pal in America. Lifelong friends, they said he was perfect, so much in common. Photos showed a handsome silver fox, a real southern gentleman. He was coming here for work, keen to meet Patsy, see the sights together. Lengthy phone calls preceded his arrival, ”We really connected, you know?” she sighed.
Settled into his hotel, he phoned, and Patsy described the itinerary. Then, out of the blue he said “Honey we have talked about so many things, and I feel I know you already, but I have not asked you the most important question of all. Do you like to F***?” She slammed the phone down in tears, gutted. Her friends were mortified and uncomprehending.
There was a happy ending though, it came about when a much younger tree surgeon came to do some work for her.
So come on Moodscopers. Would you leave it to fate, or let the internet find the right person for you?
A Moodscope member.
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