All very fish-I

>My attitude to online dating is very much in tune with Karl Lagerfeld's view on social media; ' I am not interested in looking for unknown friends. I know enough people already.' There's no substitute for chemistry upon meeting, either, as I found when my new gardener called round to be paid. Strapping, in a utility pant. Yum. I am also agin the idea of producing a 'profile' for the purpose of hawking myself on the internet. I already can't stand most of the personas people create for themselves on Facebook - ' Aw, hon, you go, girl!', 'Just returned from a lovely walk', ' Baking day!' (always buns or rather, obligatory new name: 'cupcakes'). Menopausal symptoms are making me extra grumpy and hard to please so the idea of conceiving a self portrait designed to appeal to what Uncle Matthew in The Pursuit Of Love would likely have called 'Hogs, Hun and sewers' repelled me.
However I was starting to develop a worrying attraction to the likes of Tim Henman, Christopher Dean ( yes, him, as in' Torvill and') and the patronising fella who takes our school iPad training in a V-neck. So I wrote myself an only slightly tongue-in-cheek profile, uploaded a couple of smiling photos to fool them into thinking I was nice and put myself, as they say in When Harry Met Sally, 'out there'. That was when I learned the meaning of true repulsion.
The site I used is non-subscribing. I only hope this accounts for some of its, er, patrons. The photos alone would put you in mind of Paranormal Activity. Men seem to be secretive about online dating -they clearly haven't asked a mate to take a nice clear friendly-looking shot. Their distorted features loom terrifyingly towards the screen of their mobile in a botched selfie (I heard if you moon, it's known as a 'belfie', by the way) or they're on a boat, in the distance. Or on a bike, in what must be easily the least flattering sports gear. In the distance. Or up a mountain in full ski suit and goggles. In the distance.
Some haven't really found their way into the millennium and can be seen reflected in a mirror, holding a non -smartphone - a thick phone? Also in the distance. And in more than one case, wearing dark glasses. They seem intent on being utterly unrecognisable, should you nail down a meeting. There seem to be quite a few with no picture and therefore a peculiar lilac and white silhouette of dubious gender, the type of man who used to attach an image to a personal message, I bet, instead having a profile picture, before this practice was blocked. Too many sending pelfies, presumably.

Which leads me to the first of my rather broad criteria for screening potential contacts. No dirt. Any sexy talk on the profile and I'm off. There are plenty of people whose profiles state 'isn't looking for any kind of relationship or commitment'- don't they know to at least pretend to be interested in your mind, in time-honoured fashion? There was one guy whose tag line was actually 'Theholeisthegoal'-you'll think I've made this up. Or people whose third ever message asks for more photos;' I'm a leg man lol'. A lelfie? I think not.
At least those ones are obvious early on. I had a prolonged exchange with someone who made what I took to be little Victoria Wood type jokes about his love of women in neck-scarves and floral aprons. 'How funny and original' I thought, ' Makes such an amusing change from ' How's u lol'' There's a lot of lol-ing. Not a lot of question marks though, sadly. Anyway, I was delighted with this dryly amusing individual until he mentioned feeling 'all tingly' as I was bringing out his 'sub side'. I was Presbyterian-baffled by this abbreviation, I'm proud to say. Turned out to be 'submissive', for anyone else who skimmed through Fifty Shades, trying to keep their Finest Fish Fillets down. A tolerant friend suggested he was harmlessly flirting but I rather thought he wanted to be put in a nappy and smacked. The latter I could manage. Imagine if he'd met menopausal me: multiple orgasms.
As well as liking a man to act 'daysent', I'm fussy about height too. There's a powerful amount of teeny tiny men online and I'm not dating Mr Pepperpot. I also have literacy criteria which is worryingly, the sort of guff my boss comes off with. However, many would-be onliners are disturbingly incoherent, which lends a whole Charles Manson type veneer to proceedings. No punctuation at all, appalling spelling and no notion of suitable content. I've read long rants about bad experiences 'on here' , animal rights ,a love of Country and Western, a preference for cats/motorbikes over people or chillingly, 'my child is my life'. No one normal feels the need to come off with that one.

However, to the Irish, little surpasses the terrifying 'I do not drink'. We are extremely suspicious of this, most especially in a bloke. I met one of those ones, hoping he was, you know, all healthy or something and would be perfectly willing to drive little ol' wine-swillin' me around for the rest of his natural. The date was so brief, I nearly phoned Norris McWhirter as I sprinted to the car. The guy was all twitchy and highly immature; I half expected mittens on a string to appear from the sleeves of his anorak. He used my name at the end of every sentence too, I hate that-as creepy as Terry Thomas, though this character wouldn't have been capable of growing the 'tache. No wonder he didn't drink. Medicated by a full time carer, I shouldn't wonder.
Hormone imbalance is clearly not helping me become the Polyanna of Plenty Of Fish, although I'm frankly unclear as to whether I ever experienced a First Spring,leave alone a second. I seem to have always veered rather violently between summer and winter. No wonder I'm single. At least the arrival of actual spring will require the gardener. In shorts and not in the distance.

Hello HenrI

I always think Christmas is a time of intense small talk- the work do, the shopping, the spectacular illness; boke is all around. People are allowed to ask you all about these and in public but no one listens to the answers. You must get it over quickly by replying 'Lovely' or 'Quiet', when everyone knows this is made up. No-one I want to know experiences lovely quiet at Christmas. The truth is thinly disguised rage, gluttonous ennui and, if accounts of the Norovirus are to be believed, projectile diarrhoea.You sometimes find yourself idly hoping it will strike,to halt your transformation into Henry VIII on his sofa. Thank God it's all over and the Mini Eggs are out.
Mind you, Funny Robert from my tennis 'set' I believe I will call them,always has a decent story, my own Fun Bobby,whose argyle twinsets alone distinguish him, never mind the Bentley and the Mrs Rochester style ex-wife. Funny Robert 'does Santa' and this year reports that when he asked one wee boy his name, the child replied indignantly;'Sure, I told you last week in Castle Court!' I laughed somewhat grimly,fearing I might one day feel the need to crush such spirit in my classroom.
There are fantastic names at tennis, the sort you just don't get any more: Hill, Wilson, Cavan and an actual Maris. Frasier fans will appreciate the thrill of this. This Maris is spectacularly thin, grand and immaculate, much like Niles'. I was transfixed the first time I played her in a festive tournament. I'd never seen anyone play in tights under shorts,with a chignon tucked into a visor and a waist-height ball holder. I've always longed for a chignon after a childhood spent admiring Margot Fonteyn. But no, my christmas haircolour was tweaked to be what is, in hairdressing terms, 'warm' but to the naked eye ( full of tears) 'orange'. Maris was regally bejewelled and smiling winningly throughout. She did bloody win too,kicked my ass all over the court without ever running or sweating through her Toasted Bisque base. I realised my hair wasn't up to snuff, leave alone my game and limped off,purple- faced with ginger frizz, very much like the younger Henry, come to think of it.

The born stupid identitI

I've no idea how Jason Bourne could possibly have managed to acquire all those passports and him full of bullet holes and having amnesia and all.I'd an awful job getting just one. I mean, I've always known I'd make a rotten spy, too seasick, too loud, too cowardly on a motorbike, can't ski and don't own adventurous clothing of any sort. But I thought I might be able to get an acceptable photograph taken and maybe go on holiday as, you know, myself and all. But no.


I repaired to the local chemist, acquired about their passport photograph facility and was beckoned into a ramshackle ante room by a dour teenager, brandishing a 1970's instamatic camera. She could hardly lift the thing, leave alone operate it and that was before she got started on The Regulations. She mournfully inspected my face and shook her head-I assumed the lack of make up and hangover were bothering her, but she wearily diagnosed 'too much hair'. Any more than 70%, she claimed darkly, and the UK Border boys would send the form and photo back.

I bet this sort of thing wouldn't happen to Jerry Hall. She doesn't even have to put up that blond swathe for Strictly but I, of course, was subjected to prolonged attempts at smoothing back. At one point I thought we might raid the shelves for emergency Frizz Ease but she settled for rolling lumps of hair up in a pencil. Test shots revealed forbidden hair-touching-eyebrow activity so we went for peculiar middle-parted locks with cow's lick, most reminiscent of that image of Hugh Grant, on the occasion of his arrest after the Divine Brown escapade. My facial expression at this point was no less hunted.

As for getting one's upstanding professional friends to vouch for your likeness-I would have had more luck getting the back of the photos signed by p.1s who'd been reared by wolves. For which read; teachers at the edge of reason i.e drunk on a Friday night towards the end of term. I had cheerfully paid for the grandiosely named 'Check and Test Service' at my local Post Office but I reckon the woman dealing with what became my 'case' would have refunded me if she could;the craic alone was well worth her while. She would take a quick look, snigger and get out more new forms. I went back to her so many times, I would just bellow 'Put the kettle on, it's me!',as I walked in the door.

By the time I got the 4th set of photos done, my expression was positively murderous;I was beginning to doubt I'd be let in anywhere abroad, I was making Myra Hindley look approachable and trustworthy. My mate in the Post Office managed to maintain her bureaucratic nonchalance, produced the official stamp without a flourish, and two weeks later,the passport arrived. It was like that scene in The Shawshank Redemption when Tim Robbins emerges from the river of sewage. The photo is so underexposed, I appear as indeed, a swamp person. No need to work on my disguises, then.

Paranormal ActivitI

What a time we have been having-what can it all mean? The freak weather would put you over the edge, for a start. Heat lamp effect one minute, tropical monsoon the next.It's not at all good for my hair and complexion; I'm starting to look like David Dickinson. I went in to Caffe Nero the other day, out of the blazing sunshine, for an innocent take-out cappucino and came out ,five minutes later, to a flooded, darkened street, like something out of Blade Runner. I saw a woman pass me in a trench coat and flip flops and I actually understood the point of her outfit , rather than wanting to exclaim and point. People's cars have been found submerged and/or floating away. Mind you, we are still expected at school even if we outnumber the pupils. The new boss is such an eager Belvoir, the woman would get to school in a kayak, if necessary. She's been coming in, in the middle of the night near enough, to inspect the flood damage, put buckets all about and do a spot of mopping. The atmosphere has been quite surreal. You arrive, at a civilised hour, with the pupils, feeling like Morecambe and Wise are about to appear in sailor outfits and do that Anchors Aweigh dance routine in which they rotate, with their feet stuck in the buckets. A number of wood lice have tried to move in with me or been borne in to the conservatory on a wave, much like Cuban refugees. In such times of need,I,the well-known nature-lover, tolerate their presence and allow them to bring their slug and earwig friends to my camp. It's most unrewarding when, after a hot spell, I come home to Death Valley; crispy little corpses strewn around the floor. My computer and broadband have also been behaving very oddly. The broadband is intermittent but it bucks up its ideas when I take the phone off the hook. I keep ringing up Sky and giving off about this-it's most annoying having to repeat your personal details and secret bloody password. Why would anyone in their right mind try to impersonate you in this situation? You don't get your kicks being patronised about your tupperware microfilter, by a person you can clearly hear rifling through Robert Murdoch's manual during the call. I did enjoy a brief spell of broadband connection after a visit from an 'engineer'; a jovial individual in utility pants, who enjoyed tea and Ginger Snaps with David Dickinson, said 'Ooh,here we go!' every time his phone rang and had a good laugh at my wiring. Later,I got A Chorus Line going on Spotify ,as I like a bit of Broadway when I'm pretending to clean the house. I was just in the middle of a number, with hoover nozzle microphone, when off went the broadband, so I shut the page down and got on with watching the football with my mum and Middle Sister. This was both enjoyable and comforting as they kept saying what I was thinking, eg; 'He's lovely in that red, isn't he?' or 'I'm just cut to the bone for him after that missed penalty'. I went to bed, alarm set,prepared to surf to school, rainmate on head, and I swear I set the alarm. It did not go off , however, but I was jolted awake and indeed bolt upright at 8am, as the broadband connection activated itself and 'Tits and Ass' from A Chorus Line came blasting up the stairs at full volume. The song was in my head all day as a consequence and I kept wanting to sing bits of it, in front of the kids. I'm probably under investigation now by the Mulder-and-Scully-for-perverts people.

Speed- I Gonzalez

I was made attend the Speed Awareness course lately, by someone who didn't agree that it was secretly cool to have points on your Driving Licence. Imagine the depression; an Easter Bank holiday, four hours at an overhead projector and the vending machine was out of order. We were registered by a man with two first names, Gary Gordon, and while we waited,everyone actually sat about comparing how far over the speed limit they were when they were caught, as if that was in any way helpful or interesting. However things looked up rapidly when Gary Gordon Got Going (possible new Porn film title)as there was a funny wee man at the front who didn't seem to follow the instructions and so shouted out answers when he was meant to be voting with his interactive remote device thing, or made hearty grunts of agreement at Gary Gordon's more shocking anecdotes, thus making himself look both swotty and guilty. We were asked to write down why we speed and your man just wrote 'happy'. Mind you,Gary Gordon says people often blame the song they were listening to. God, you'd get done all the time if Benny Hill's 'Ernie' was still number one. Then we had to draw a Stop sign and a Give Way sign which hardly anyone could. The wee man went for a triangle with 'Slow Down'written outside it rather shakily, presumably he hoped this would do the job for both. I only hope he learned the difference, as I saw him depart, in a navy blue corduroy Casey Jones cap and an enormous Jag. Turned out I'd underestimated him-he got the vending machine going in the break and for a while it looked like he might be borne aloft in triumph by an ecstatic crowd of 'doing 37 in a 30 mile zone' rakers on a sugar high. I learned to drive in a nearby town I still hate to visit. According to my instructor's mantra, it was exclusively populated by sight-impaired individuals who cared not a jot for a pavement;'LOOK BEHIND YOU, LADY WITH A PRAM/EMERGENCY STOP, WEE BOY WITH A FOOTBALL'would be intoned deadpan in every lesson, soon after he'd eyed my feet disapprovingly since I didn't seem to have 'driving shoes'. I shudder to think what these might be. Best I don't dwell on it. Stuart tried very hard to maintain the grand facade of a thriving, long-established business; he was very dapper and the cheques had to made out to S.D.A. I presumed these were his initials until loftily informed it stood for 'Safe Driving Academy'.He implied he had assistants and the like and was right and cagey about his domestic circumstances. The by-appointment-to her-majesty veneer was tarnished somewhat when I would ring up and be told, clearly by the wife, that he was 'at his tea' or 'in the bathroom'.Working on his comb-over, I can only hope. I might become a Driving Instructor later in life. People could do with my insights on how to put mascara on in speed bump areas and pluck their eyebrows during rush hour. Better still, follow in the footsteps of Harry the singing taxi driver, who used to pick up me and my sisters on nights out, belting out a bit of Tom Jones or Angry Anderson; 'SUDDENLEEEEEE..LIFE HAS NO MEANING FOR MEEEEEE'.You used to have to tell him to open his eyes.

Save my soul with soul, say I

I have been considering my funeral in the aftermath of a Bridesmaids-type stomach bug. Let's face it, if you throw up enough; you definitely start hearing the heavenly choir. I'd have one of those if I could but I'd have to shuffle off this mortal coil in Hollywood.
I was most affected in my youth by a magnificent melodrama called Imitation of Life, featuring a beleaguered black maid, who lived a blameless, selfless existence, much like my own, nursing the pain of rejection by her mixed-race daughter, while cleaning up after Sandra Dee and Lana Turner. She took ill in MGM style,in which the sufferer is merely more beautiful (Love Story,Sweet November)or terribly lucid and capable of long speeches, with a faraway expression(Forrest Gump's ma, Frank Sinatra in From Here To Eternity).In my maid's case, she clearly subscribed to the Katherine-from-The-English-Patient school of thought; 'I've always had rather an elaborate funeral in mind. Particular hymns.'
I do like the idea of focusing on these rather than that old first dance at your wedding palaver. Every time some soap star released a ballad, Middle Sister used to declare; 'I'm definitely ditching 'We have all the time in the world' for Martine McCutcheon's 'Perfect Moment'. What does it matter when the result is an awkward prolonged shuffle ringed by embarrassed spectators, who have to invade the dance floor like Millwall fans, just to get to the end of the song? I decided years ago to make Middle Sister sing 'You were the wind beneath my wings'at my funeral, just for having such poor taste.
Back to Imitation of Life; Annie,the maid, had saved up all her life for a large funeral procession with plumed horse-drawn hearse;'I want the lawd to see me comin 'she breathed fervently on her death-bed; this I remember, it isn't in the memorable quotes section of IMDB. How is this oversight possible? Anyway, the daughter appeared, in floods, of course and threw herself onto the coffin, which is the type of thing that would never happen in real life. Or was. Until Whitney.
Whitney Houston's funeral was hands down the most entertaining show I've seen all year, including the Oscars, starring Angelina's sticky-out leg. When first I laid eyes on the Gospel choir, dressed in white and wearing sunglasses indoors, I was hopeful. I knew also that Aretha was in some way connected (there has always been confusion as to who exactly was Whitney's Godmother;Aretha, Dionne, Diana?) and was likely to sing. Sadly she was declared 'too ill' to attend but later picked herself up, dusted herself down etc. in order to appear on stage elsewhere that night, in a glittery kaftan.
No matter, as we had instead a magnificent-looking female, the Reverend Kim, an actual minister, who sang 'A Change is Gonna Come' with the lyrics all altered to include Whitney's name and demise, at regular intervals. At this point, hope turned to delight and the desire to cancel the plans for that Saturday night. I mean, we were only 45 minutes in, two numbers down(gospel songs have seemingly unlimited choruses)and we knew Kevin Costner was due on to do a eulogy.
Next came Alicia Keys with a blow dry, seated at the joanna, rambling about how Whitney used to phone her up just to ask how she was. I felt the need to start heckling; 'Everyone does that, you know! Is there nothin' else you can come up with about Whitney at a time like this?'but Alicia appeared most moved and there was frequent dabbing of eyes until, my favourite moment, a nurse in full white uniform, appeared and passed her a giant hanky.
I have found all this extremely inspiring. I am not sure if the Reverend Baillie of West Church has, as such, got soul, so I will be putting money aside for some sort of Mahalia Jackson tribute artist to lay low the attendees at me own funeral, with an excruciatingly long anthem referring to me as a 'chile of God' and whatnot.
I figure I can get Older Sister and a couple of nurse friends to go in their uniforms and supply not only hankies but also oxygen to those prostrate with grief. I will also have to make friends immediately with Rory McElroy, as he seems the most famous local person who will still be alive to do my eulogy.
Only later, on the day after Whitney's funeral, did I learn of Bobby Brown throwing a strop and stomping off, on account of not being allowed to sit up at the front with Bobbi Christina. You don't hear much about a good row at a funeral but with my family, I reckon,no problem!

A Real Housewife's life for I

Been too upset to write. It's Seal and Heidi breaking up. I mean all that vow-renewing and public kissing in elaborate Halloween costumes-check them out online,quite marvellous, and for what? 'Grown apart' indeed, not a bit original or scandalous and he's still giving us all hope 'cos he won't take his ring off. This was a celebrity marriage we could believe in as opposed to say, Russell and Katy or, as it turns out, Denise Welch and that funny wee Tim person. The former truly of the 'I'll give them six months' ilk and the latter very solid-looking until Denise revealed her true bold self on Celeb BB.

Not that I have time to watch that, oh no, far too busy with the Real Housewives. Beverley Hills is my choice though once I started talking about them, it turned out everyone was at it, Orange County, New York, Miami whatever but I'm committed to Beverley Hills. It might be the exclusive wearing of Louboutins or that they have properly interesting personalities developped, I feel, to compensate for their frozen faces. They really don't have facial expressions at all any more, on account of the surgery/botox/filler but are forever becoming irate or grief-stricken,in the course of their very many rows. This involves eye-widening,head-shaking,intoning 'I am so mad at you right naow' and then tears pour from their eyes without any sort of face-crumpling.This is always happening at dinner so they have to hold a huge linen napkin up to their faces and dab, they don't do Scotties tissues in Holywood, it would appear. I don't know how they get by when not in a restaurant as their lives are beset by impending divorces, threats of lawsuits over repeating confidences and sinister clairvoyants who aren't a bit shy about hinting when they will die/get a divorce/lose all their money in a lawsuit.They are always somehow able to cheer themselves up with a mani-pedi and some hair extensions in preparation for a theme party-there's one every other week. They already have inappropriately long manes for women-of-a-certain-age this side of the pond; yet out they come of the stretch limos like something out of Tangled. Is it any wonder I'm dying to become one? I just require a particularly rich husband to shell out for all the legal bother I'd get into for talking about people.

I think there's two Real Housewives of a Norn Iron type in my gym class though one definitely looks like the sort of blade who always has a tissue up the sleeve of her cardigan. You don't do that if you're under 60, I reckon. Mind you, her arse is like a peanut, she's never away from Exercise Studio One. She and her mate are the types who appear at the gym fully made up-a full face of Flawless Finish each and no stinting on the Elnett either. They looked magnificent the other day next to my naked face and albino eyelashes and the teacher, who was slim and toned but managed not to be attractive with it. She had no Microphone pack so mouthed her instructions very exaggeratedly with frantic gestures, nodding and sign language. All she needed was a cloche hat and a wee dog and you'd have thought you were watching The Artist. We all fell off our steps apart from The Real Housewives of the Holywood Road, who know all the routines backwards and the instructors by name so that they can boss them about over the room temperature. One is ridiculously fit and the other scarily flexible-together they'd make one Madonna. She'd make a dreadful Housewife; terribly keen on hard work and you never see any decent jewellery, what with those stupid studded driving gloves. It'd be the other way round with me. I figure I'll go for an eye lift or something good and scary-looking, then run off with the surgeon.