Ahhhhh the 40+ year old bachelor that’s never been married or been in a serious relationship. That breed of male that has not had to think about anyone else; other than themselves. Ever.
I must have had rocks in my head when I agreed to go out on a date with ‘The Mockney Lawyer’. If you read my earlier posts you will remember that the ‘Mockney Lawyer’ had been on the scene for a while now. He’d been overseas for about six months ‘finding himself’ and came back to Sydney for three weeks for a quick change of underpants before dashing off to the USA last week for his final ‘personal discovery’.
My sane mind should have told me that any man that needs to go on a ‘self-discovery tour’, at nearly 43, was a bit of a red flag.
Furthermore, his last e-mail before boarding the plane, and turning left, was;
‘I’m one of life’s lucky people’.
Errrrrrrrrm OK?……….Does your band of merry followers carry your ego and hand you chicken voluvants in the first class lounge?
This, coupled with the fact that most of his overseas trip seemed to have been in Ibiza staying at Ushuaia; an adults only hotel with a day and evening nightclub in the grounds that offers it’s guests on arrival bottled oxygen and an erotic kit, consisting of vibrator and lubricant, meant that I really should have told him to go ‘be lucky’ elsewhere.
I actually have no problem with places like Ushuaia, but at 43? I went to places like that when I was in my 20’s and early 30’s.
I’m also still not sure what he was doing with his male friend in a room that looked like this.
Sucking up only oxygen one would hope?
I was, however, quite taken by his e-mails, we had been in regular contact for over three months and he was handsome, witty, humorous and intelligent and he also seemed to ‘get me’. I was curious as to why he hadn’t been snatched up by some other shrewd female.
So, he lands back in Sydney, with, I calculated, possibly four ‘erotic kits’ on his person and I was excited with the prospect of meeting this Mockney fellow and finding out what made him tick. I had actually grown quite fond of him.
And so…….I waited to hear from him…………..and I waited…………..and I waited…………
…………and I waited a little bit more.
……and then even more….
(another red flag one thinks?).
(Maybe he was preoccupied with his multiple erotic kit after having spent 24 hours cooped up at the front of the plane with them?)
Finally he contacted me on FB to simply say ‘hello’. Me, being the sort of straight forward common sense person thought, ‘OK, let’s take this to the next stage and talk’, so I suggested that he called me. The message was ‘seen’; and to my surprise there was no response and again I was waiting, waiting, waiting……..
So………..in a moment of frustration, and I would like to think clarity, I wrote ‘chickenshit’, blocked him on FB and turned my phone off – Humph!
Apparently that vexed him. He was angry at being called a chicken shit. So what did he do? Nothing. He sat on his bachelor couch watching his beloved Arsenal play while eating the Walnut Whips I’d politely requested he bring back from the UK.
Anyway, we cleared the air and not wanting to get into the finer details, we did eventually catch up when he wasn’t ‘seeing a man about a dog’.
(He was ALWAYS seeing a man about a dog).
Our two dinner dates were surprisingly pleasant; although he did spend a disproportionate amount of time looking at other women and he most certainly enjoyed flashing his Rolex and black Amex. By the second date he felt comfortable enough to tell me that he found me ‘passive aggressive’ and that it jarred his ‘sensitivity’.
I’ve been called a few things in my life, but never ‘passive aggressive’. To be honest I had to tipsily wobble to the posh restaurant toilets to Google the meaning and find out that it meant I was hostile, stubborn and sullen with possible ‘daddy issues’. What a kick in the teeth that was. I always thought I was side splittingly funny with a steak of sarcasm.
It was, however, a pleasant evening, marred only by my supposed aggression.
So, mindful of my new mental illness I agreed on a third date and this time at his home. I considered a snoop around his residence would at least uncover a few mysteries of this totally puzzling bachelor.
This is what I saw:
- The Morrissey Autobiography. He had apparently spent two days in bed reading it. At university I had always found that anyone keen on Morrissey, or The Smiths, was typically a posh leftie student whose idea of being a rebel was to be late to mum’s Sunday dinner.
- Photographs on his fridge of Mr Mockney in his late 20’s partying and I quote; ‘time of my life that was, Ibiza, September 1997 with Dave, Mark and Andy etc.’.
- Nothing in the fridge; unless a bottle of champagne counts as nutrition.
- A dusty guitar in the bedroom that needed tuning.
- And, the pièce de résistance, some wheels of steel or the ‘one and twos’ twin mixing decks in his front room. These monsters were positioned on a stage and took over a very large section of the room. It was a mini disco.
Me, nervously, ‘shall we have a cup of tea?’, as I sat there anxiously waiting for the four vibrators to make an entrance. At one point I even asked if he could DJ for me. Ha!
Anyway, off he popped to America and I still naively thought there would be ‘some’ communication. He sent one e-mail saying he was thinking of relocating to Austin, Texas to open a record shop. A week later I received a picture of him firing a small gun at a range with the singular comment ‘innit’.
You can imagine I’d had enough by then.
I’m not going to publish the whole e-mail that I sent in reply to his gun photo, but it started like this:
‘This went to my junk mail.
Not sure what you want me to say.
Maybe next time you can aim at your head?
Anyway, I’ve just checked my “things to do” list. Wallpapering the inside of my fridge was right at the top of the list, unfortunately giving a toss about you isn’t there. You want to find yourself? I can tell you exactly where you are; Right up your own arse.’
I then finished it as follows:
‘I’ve attached a little Venn diagram just in case any other the above is unclear, or, if your hangover/ego means that comprehension of the above is impossible.
I do so like using the word Sayonara.
In the aftermath I’ve tried defining that he actually was. He was a complete oxymoron. Mr Mockney was ‘Libman’, a well-read middle class leftie that was well intentioned at times, although rather intense, and this was polarised by his ‘Man Child’ tendances where he was clearly rooted in a particular stage of his life; Still ‘the lad’, up for a pint and permanently engaged in holding middle age at bay.
Anyway, I’m going to call him ‘LibManChild’………….
I’m just gutted that he stuffed his face with my Walnut Whips.