What I want in a man

Oh it's all too depressing. Have just received from a jaunty friend, aged 56, an updated version of one of those emails that used to do the rounds.


What I Want In A Man!

Original List (age 22)

1. Handsome
2. Charming
3. Financially successful
4. A caring listener
5. Witty
6. In good shape
7. Dresses with style
8. Appreciates finer things
9. Full of thoughtful surprises


What I Want in a Man, Revised List (age 32)

1. Nice looking
2. Opens car doors, holds chairs
3. Has enough money for a nice dinner
4. Listens more than talks
5. Laughs at my jokes
6. Carries bags of groceries with ease
7. Owns at least one tie
8. Appreciates a good home-cooked meal
9. Remembers birthdays and anniversaries

What I Want in a Man, Revised List (age 42)

1. Not too ugly
2. Doesn't drive off until I'm in the car
3. Steady worker - splurges on dinner out occasionally
4. Nods head when I'm talking
5. Usually remembers punch lines of jokes
6. Is in good enough shape to rearrange the furniture
7. Wears a shirt that covers his stomach
8. Knows not to buy champagne with screw-top lids
9. Remembers to put the toilet seat down
10. Shaves most weekends

What I Want in a Man, Revised List (age 52)

1. Keeps hair in nose and ears trimmed
2. Doesn't belch or scratch in public
3. Can tow a caravan
4. Can cook a BBQ
5. Doesn't re-tell the same joke too many times
6. Appreciates a good TV dinner
7. Helps with the housework

What I Want in a Man, Revised List (age 62)

1. Doesn't scare small children
2. Remembers where I have put things
3. Can still tow a van without causing chaos on the road
4. Only snores lightly when asleep
5. Remembers why he's laughing
6. Is in good enough shape to stand up by himself
7. Usually wears some clothes
8. Doesn't notice my facial hair and wrinkles
9. Remembers where he left his teeth
10. Stops trying to tell jokes

What I Want in a Man, Revised List (age 72)

1. Breathing
2. Doesn't miss the toilet
3. Remembers where we both live


You see. Hugo would say this is where I'm going wrong: I haven't revised my list since I was 22. I would say, surely one has to maintain some standards? Plus, am willing to trade caravan-towing for charming and handsome. 

The borderline boiler trap

Supper with Hugo and Jemima. I must say, they’ve been my saviours in the village. There’s always much levity and combat with Hugo, a ruddy-faced, unreconstructed Hooray Henry, wine merchant and bon viveur, and Jemima, his blonde pony-tailed English rose wife, whom he plucked virtually straight from her graduation ceremony.

We’ve just demolished half a lamb, two bottles of delicious rosé and one of claret, and we’re now reclining on the sofa. At least, Jemima is reclining on Hugo, who is sitting back in a well satisfied, lord-of-his-castley way, and I am sitting on the floor fondling the ears of Dusty and Cinder.

‘Now, she’s a borderline boiler.’ Hugo is scanning the Telegraph.

‘What?’

‘Who?’

‘Condoleezza Rice. You know, when your eyes say no and your nuts say go!’

‘No, I don’t know,’ I say. Jemima and I exchange looks.

‘They’re ones who you don’t find attractive and yet they’re still sexy in some way. Women must have the same thing.’

Jemima and I shake our heads. ‘We either fancy them or we don’t,’ I say.

‘So what is your type, Eliza?’ asks Hugo. ‘How come you’re on your own? You’re still an attractive woman, not a boiler by any stretch. I can’t understand why you’re not fighting men off.’

‘Because they’re all like you!’ The wine is fortifying my defence. ‘As soon as they get to 40, they stop noticing women of their own age and go for girls in their twenties. And the annoying thing is, girls in their twenties smile prettily and go for them! Like you, Jemima!’ I am now throwing my hands around theatrically. ‘So perfectly viable women of my age are completely prised out of the equation.’

Jemima smiles sweetly and sweeps some greying wisps of hair from her husband’s eyes. Hugo continues undeterred. ‘How old are you?’

‘Darling!’ admonishes Jemima.

‘46? 47? Same as me, aren’t you? Well, you’ve got to stop looking at men in their forties and fifties and go for ones in their sixties.’

Honestly! The last man I was with (ie Gitface) was still in his 30s! Why, ten years later (well, 13), would I want to be with some leathery old grandfather figure? ‘If I were 26 or 7, it would be perfectly natural to go out with a man of 26 or 7. So why, now I’m 46 or 7, can’t I go out with someone the same age?’

‘You’ve already answered that question.’ Hugo tips his head back to drain his glass. ‘They’re not interested in you any more. Men, whether they’re 26 or 46, go out with women that they’re sexually attracted to, which is always going to be someone as physically perfect and young as they can get away with.’

‘Hugo!’ Jemima gives him a little smack on the arm.

‘Sorry, my love, but it’s true.’ Hugo leans over her to top up our glasses. ‘Whereas a man in his sixties – unless he’s super-rich or Woody Allen – would realise he was pushing his luck with a 20 year old, but he’d view someone like you, Eliza, as a youthful catch.’

I curl my lip at him. ‘What about personality? Chemistry. Clicking with someone? A meeting of minds?’

‘It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances, Ms Gray,’ he says wryly.

‘But when I look around me at all the married couples, I think, how? Why? They’re mostly hideous.’

‘It’s all to do with what you can get away with,’ says Hugo. ‘Some men don’t realise they can do better.’

‘What about the women?’ I squeal with indignation. ‘Why aren’t they allowed to do better?’

‘Some of them do,’ says Jemima. ‘Sam Taylor Wood. Demi Moore. Francesca Annis.’

‘Except when she got to 60, he buggered off with a younger model,’ I point out.

‘That’s why it’s wise to grab an older man while you have the chance,’ says Hugo. ‘Then you’ll always be the younger model.’ As Jemima reaches forward to get the iPad on the coffee table, Hugo pats her on the bottom. ‘Won’t you, my love?’

Jemima gives him a Princess Di-y demure look, sits back and opens up her Facebook page. ‘Come on, Eliza,’ she says, moving up to make a space on the sofa, ‘let’s see if there’s anyone here we’ve got for you.’ She starts scrolling through her 756 Friends.

‘Gosh, he’s gorgeous!’ I stop her at an Orlando Bloomy type.

‘Married,’ she says. ‘But only recently, when he hit 40.’

‘To a 28-year-old,’ adds Hugo.

She scrolls on down, stopping to offer me a newly divorced paratrooper aged 43.

‘Not bad,’ I say. ‘But Action Man… I can’t see it, somehow.’

‘Don’t dismiss him out of hand,’ says Jemima. ‘He’s got two young children, so he might want someone a bit more mature and motherly.’

‘OK.’ Honestly. Mature and motherly. How did life come to this? ‘I’m always available for introductions. Moving on…’

No sooner has Jemima flicked the screen than Hugo halts the flow of faces. His stubby fingers expand a Liz Hurleyish siren. ‘Now look at Carina. Same age as us. Attractive. No problem pulling men.’

‘So how does she do it?’

‘Likes it up Trap 2.’

‘Hugo!’ Jemima gives him one of her little smacks and returns to the scrolling. This time we pounce simultaneously. ‘What about him?’ squeaks Jemima, just as I’m saying, ‘He’s gorgeous!’

‘Who’s that?’ Hugo looks over Jemima’s shoulder. ‘Oh, Tyler.’ He lets out a snort of laughter.

‘Why are you laughing?’ I ask suspiciously.

‘He’d be quite a catch,’ says Jemima.

‘That’s what every woman from the age of 20 onwards thinks,’ says Hugo. ‘He’s Eliza’s absolute case in point. But why not? Maybe he’s bored of women throwing themselves at him and he’d like someone with a bit more …’

‘Yes?’

‘Class. Experience. Discernment. Someone who can see beyond the trappings…’

‘Which are?’

‘Well he’s one of the richest vignerons in California and Provence – in fact, the rosé we had tonight…’ Hugo goes off to the kitchen to fetch the bottle, while Jemima shows me more photos. He is drop-dead divine. Like the young Robert Redford, or Brad Pitt in Thelma and Louise.

Hugo, trying to mitigate a burp, thrusts a bottle under my nose. ‘There. That’s his gold medal-winner. Château Tyler d’Or. Beautiful place in the hills north-west of St Tropez. But his main estate is in Napa Valley.’

I am practically drooling.

‘You’re going to push it, aren’t you Eliza?’ laughs Hugo. ‘You’re just as bad as us men. If you can get away with it, you will. And why not? I’ll introduce you – he’s coming over soon for a tasting. I’ll get him down here for a night. Come for dinner.’

Yes! Will no longer need to online date. Will soon have real-life non-virtual beau.

Favouritism

The ignominy! The rejection! I've favourited three men and not one has bothered to write to me! Claude said that was the way to do it. Let them know you're there and then let them make the first move. But they haven't!

Maybe they haven't checked their favourites. Maybe they've been away for the weekend. Will just write a brief, chirpy little message to Hamish.

Twats and tossers

I blame Lily. Well, honestly. If I had Photoshop, whatever Photoshop may be, I could no doubt apply a digital powder puff. But I don’t. So I’m stuck with a pink and yellow blotchy iPhone version of myself. Which is possibly the actual version of myself. However, Claude says don’t talk nonsense, Liza, you always look fabulous and it’s better than the hippy and the rich bitch, so I am, as of this morning, live, online and ready to date! Though, frankly, I'm not sure that I can live up to Claude’s hyperbolic endorsement. 

Just trawling through the men to see if there’s anyone worth actually dating before I pay my 20 quid to be able to send and receive messages. Gosh. Albert from London looks like a matinee idol! Click to see profile. Oh. Shame about the write-up. ‘Albert is a bit of an intellectual. He likes literature, like, novels, magazines, newspapers.’ Doesn’t bode well. Hmmm. Philip’s not bad. Click. Designer. ‘Loyal, terribly witty, with this rare quality of taking a genuine interest in whoever he’s chatting to instead of talking about himself.’ There, sounds nice. Oh, except he’s ‘ just looking for that elusive lady to share the journey with.’ Yuk. Let’s just see the rest of his pix. Oh there he goes, skiing down a mountain. Forget it. Ah, now Hamish looks quite sexy. Bulging biceps and the ubiquitous motorbike between his legs. Extremely good body for a 45 year old. Only slightly cougarish if I went for him. Click. ‘My friend Hamish doesn't do roughing it so if it's a life under canvas you're looking for then move on.’ Well, that’s to the point. Mustn’t let such details put me off. They’ve obviously just had a bad camping experience. Yes, you see he’s also a ‘great debater and conversationalist,’ and what’s more an architect who’s restored a villa in Tuscany! Right, I’m going to favourite him!

Dan calls. 'Morning.'

'Guess what!' 

'You’ve booked a balloon trip across the Andes?'

'Close. I’ve joined a dating site.’

'Ah. And is there anyone worth dating?'

'Well, Hamish looks rather nice and he’s just restored a villa in Tuscany. But do you think there's any point in going for him, if he’s 45, wanting to meet a woman aged 32 to 42?'

'No, because he’s obviously a total twat. What’s wrong with a woman your own age? You can listen to the same music.'

'That’s what I think! But none of the blokes on the site think that. They all want women ten years younger than them.'

'Well they’re all total twats.'  

'And they all have pictures of themselves skiing. And what's more annoying is I've checked out all the women, and they all ski too! And they pretend they love watching sport!'

‘It’s as though skiing is something people actually want to do. Everyone with a picture of themselves skiing you should send a message to, saying "you tosser".’  

Ha! On a solidarity high, I launch into an anecdote to illustrate just how bad my Alzheimer's has got. Half-way through, I interrupt myself. ‘And, just to illustrate how bad my Alzheimer's has got, I’ve just realised this wasn’t the anecdote I meant to tell you to illustrate just how bad my Alzheimer’s has got. I’ve just remembered the one I meant to tell you. And it really was terrible, because it wasn’t just forgetting what someone said, it was like my brain wasn’t processing information properly. I was having tea with Jemima, and her children are 8 and 6 and their birthdays are very close together, and I said to them in an enthusiastic kind of voice, ‘just think, when you’re older, you can share a 21^st birthday party!’ And Jemima looked at me in this perplexed, mildly aghast sort of way. I’m going to start seeing that look on people’s faces more and more, aren’t I? People are going to start talking about me behind my back…’

‘What do you mean, start?’ laughs Dan.

‘Oh God. What am I going to do about it?’

‘I shouldn’t worry. By the time they get to 21 they’ll have got over it.’

Ritz one day, fish and chips the next

OK. All set to write online profile.

Ummm… 

Will just get little bowl of granola as deskside snack.

Right.

And a cup of coffee.

Will just review my profile so far. Hmmm. I don’t feel those multiple choice lists have quite captured my true self, particularly since most of the options I ticked I don’t even do or like. Must make the effort to present the true Eliza Gray. 

Ummm… 

This must be how Lily feels when asked to write a composition. I know, I’ll sign in as a man looking for a woman and see what other women say about themselves. 

Oh God! This is depressing. All these desperate women out there, trying to sound perky and not desperate. They don’t fool me for one minute. And yet I’m taken in by the men, who are all busy skydiving across Australia and skiing down Everest and running their own successful businesses. Not that I want an action man. Honestly, the outfits! It’s practically obligatory to include a photo in ski kit on a mountain, accompanied by at least one of a) trapezing in full sailing gear, b)  paragliding over a smoking volcano or c) sitting astride a motorbike in leathers. What is wrong with reclining on a sofa in a pair of old jeans with, say, a margarita in your hand? Why are they pathologically unable to drink anything other than ‘a glass of red’?  And why does it always have to be by a log fire? And why are they all 47, looking for a female aged 28-38. What is wrong with them? More to the point, what is wrong with a female aged 50? Or 43?

A shrill warble. Lily grabs the phone before I can.

‘Yes! No! Yes!’ She responds chirpily, with lots of chummy laughter, pointing all the while at the phone and shaking her head to indicate that she has not a clue who she’s talking to. I take over.

‘Hello?’

‘Liza, sweetheart! It’s me! It’s me! I’m back!’

‘Cousin Claude!’ I cry. Honestly, Lily. It’s Cousin Claude! Back from her Late-Onset Gap Year in my old stomping ground, South-East Asia. Claude is short for Claudette, which isn’t actually her name at all. She used to be called Jane, but at drama school restyled herself after Claudette Colbert. (Her best friends are Marlene and Clark.) ‘How are you?’ I gush. ‘How was it?’

‘I loved it to pieces! Didn’t you get any of my emails, because I sent hundreds and loads and you told me to take my laptop and of course I didn’t, so I spent my whole time going in and out of internet cafes and it’s so pigging hot, especially in Cambodia, not so bad in Hanoi…’

I squeeze the phone between my shoulder and ear while I attempt to make myself another coffee. The phone promptly jumps out and does a double-flip onto the floor. 

‘…and you’d write these long enormous emails and you’d go ping and you’d lose them,’ it’s saying as I pick it up. ‘...So you’d just think well, I’ll have to go and have a swim. Now I want to hear all about you. How is Lilybell enjoying school?’

‘She’s loving it, to the extent that she never wants to come.’

‘Well, sweetheart, that’s sort of fabulous, it means you’re free and you can get on with your own thing.’

‘Yes, well, speaking of which,  I’m trying to write my profile for this horrible online dating thing.’

‘Thank God I’m back! The time is right!’

‘But I cannot work out what to say.’

‘May I say, all these multiple choice things are sort of hopeless. It’s like we all put on our CVs for Spotlight, I can skydive, I can fence, I can ride, when we’ve all got vertigo and never been near a horse in our lives.’  

‘Exactly – I’ve ticked motor-racing and all sorts of interests I’m not interested in. But it wants me to write an essay about myself for my profile…’

‘Which website are you using? Because the best one I found was Meetmymate.com. A very nice class of man on that site, if I may say. And what’s sort of fabulous about it is, you don’t have to do your own write-up – your mate does it. I’ll do yours, sweetheart! Then I can tell everybody how fabulous you are. So much better having somebody else blowing your trumpet, I always feel.’

While Claude is talking, I email her my shortlisted profile photos for her approval.

‘You can add your own bit at the bottom,’ she’s saying. ‘Marlene did mine, and then I’d look to see who I liked and I’d rewrite my bit at the bottom to suit them. I was changing it all the time. Oh and I said I like people who are spur of the moment. Ritz one day, fish and chips the next. Fun, entertainment. Otherwise I get too bored. And that’s the same for you too.’

Yes it is! No wonder I’m drifting around. I’m bored. No travel. No fun. No entertainment. Straitened on the cocktail front. ‘OK, Ritz, fish and chips,’ I’m scribbling furiously with a pencil stub on the back of a Saga envelope. ‘What about Lily? Should I confess to having her?’

‘Of course, and say you’re absolutely devoted to her.’

‘I thought men wanted you to be absolutely devoted to them.’  

‘Well that’s true, but you can say she’s happily ensconsed at school. The cardinal rule is don’t be needy. Read your bit with a fine toothcomb for any shred of neediness.  Right, sweetheart, I’m off to write you a fabulous recommendation. Thank God I’m back!’

She calls back within minutes. ‘No, no, no, no! The first photo, you look like a hippy, far too ethnic. And the second! Rich bitch. Everyone can see that’s The Peak in the background. No, Liza, you want to have one done specially with a nice blank background. Get Lily to take it.’

Match

16:10

Right. I’ve removed myself from Otherhalf.com. Clearly casting my pearls before swine. OK, let’s give Meredith’s Match.com a go. Urgh. Start your love story. This doesn’t bode well. What kind of man is going to sign up to something with that tagline? Still. Small action steps. I am a woman seeking a man aged… OK, let’s be realistic about this. 43 to 53. That’s a good broad sweep, and I’m not dismissing the 50-plus-year-olds out of hand. I was born on … 03/03/1968.

Oh my God. We’ve now clicked through to a nine-page profile to be completed. I’m already losing the will.  No. Keep going.

You are: ready for a new relationship.

Your marital status: divorced.

You live: with kids. Kid! I live with kid, not kids. No option for that though.

Your personality. Sociable, adventurous, enthusiastic…  I’m busy clicking away, yes, yes, yes to everything, and it only lets me choose one! How ridiculous! Well, I’ll go for adventurous. Better than sensitive or stubborn.

Your eyes: grey

Your height: 5’7”

Your hair colour: hmmm. No ‘mouse’ option. What can I get away with? Dark blonde? Once I’ve done my home highlights, I might even be light blonde!

I’m ploughing on, but really, this is designed to show people like me up. Clearly I’m a well educated woman, as far as it goes. But I have to tick high school or the ignominious school of life. Or lie. Yes, lie: graduate degree.

For goodness’ sake. What languages do I speak? English! Which isn’t even an option. Plus ‘hello’ and ‘thank you’ in about 20 languages. That’s probably what it means.  I start clicking away, but they only allow two choices. Honestly. It’s so limiting. So prescriptive. You are allowed a masters, but only one personality trait and two languages. OK, tick French and … who wrote this thing? Indian? Chinese? Well, tick Chinese.

Your occupation: I’d rather not say. Good option. Sounds as if I’m something intriguing and mysterious like a spy. Or a bunny girl.

Your income: the options start on less than £25,000 and go up to £100,001 to £150,000. Blimey. Well I’ll click £35,001 to £50,000. Don’t want to seem like a hopeless case or a golddigger.

Your style: click bohemian, sophisticated, cool… Damn! Only one option again. I’ll stick with sophisticated, otherwise I’ll end up with a load of hippies.

Sports you enjoy: Argh! Just when I need the cover of one option only, I’m allowed multiple choices, thus showing up my deficiency in the sporting arena. Oh well, let’s tick some adventurous-sounding things. Things that require money and sunshine. As Auntie Pam used to say, don’t go after money, just mix where money is. Rock climbing, motor racing, surfing, windsurfing, sailing, horseback riding, swimming. Oh and I’ll tick cricket too. I can see myself doing cricket teas on the lawn. 

16:55

Just had to stop for a coffee. This is exhausting. Right: your interests. Hallelujah! We’re allowed multiple interests! Oh yes. I’m motoring. Dining out, travel/sightseeing, cooking, the outdoors, movies/videos (how old is this site?),theatre, museums/exhibits, music, singing/playing instrument, camping… hmmm, better tick cars if I’m going to pull a man with a Lamborghini. On the other hand, maybe I’ll pull a grubby old mechanic. No. Untick cars. Drawing, photography, the arts. The arts. Hmmm. It’s stopped ticking. Maybe I have too many interests. I’ve been outed! Not a porridge-brained stayathome but a woman bursting with interests! OK, untick drawing, camping, although I quite like a man who can put up a tent. Tick wine tasting.

Favourite local hot spots or travel destinations. Ooh! I can fill in my own! Here goes. 

17:15

Had to get the atlas out. Have done exhaustive list of places I’d like to be taken on holiday by my £100,001 to £150,000 earner. Now, favourite book. I’ve gone blank. Favourite book. Favourite book... Bridget Jones’s Diary? Hmmm. Should go for something more highbrow. I know, Don’t Tell Alfred. One of Nancy Mitford’s more obscure works.

Oh God. I’m really losing the will. The kind of films you prefer. Musicals! Except no men like musicals. Except men born pre-war and queens. Not even Gitface liked musicals. Untick. Please don’t tell me I have to tick sci-fi and westerns, though? I settle for drama, comedy, and war. That’ll clinch it.

Three things you can’t live without: Cocktails. My eyes. My ears. Very existentialist. That’ll pull the intellectuals and sophisticates.

Oh God! Now I have to write an essay about myself. This is excruciating. Save and continue. I’ll come back to it.

Taking stock

Out with the old financial year, in with the new! Time to take stock. I can’t believe it. A whole month has gone by since my unfortunate change of circumstances and now the Easter hols are upon us, so I can’t spend all day job-hunting and inventing things. 

Blog posts written: 31 (yay!)

Blog followers: 4 (Meredith, Arthur, Phoebe, Lily)

Ads on blog: 3

Revenue from ads on blog: £0

Items sent for review: 0

Dogs sat: 1

Revenue from dogs sat: £0

Job ads responded to: 3

Job offers: 0

Ads offering services placed in local newspapers: 1

Services hired through local newspaper ad: 3

Revenue from rendering service: -£20

Expenses from rendering service: £300

Home-cooked dishes cooked for profit: 0

Money saved in supermarket swap: £6

TOTAL REVENUE: -£314

After all that effort! So much for Goal No 2. Have been neglecting Goal No 1. What was it again? Ah yes. I choose to be in a mutually loving relationship by 17^th September. Right. Bite the bullet.