I received three new e-mails today. People are obviously starting to panic about spending the festive season alone, and are frantically clicking through Plenty of Fish photos in the desperate hope of finding Ms December. After all, anyone’s preferable to being alone at Christmas, right?
There was 19-year-old Robin (na-na-na-nineteen!) who says, ‘I’m ugly, and it feels great to be able to say it aloud! I like strange music and strange films, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s subtle innuendo and attacking snowmen in the dark… Oh, and I haven’t had a girlfriend since I was five…’
I politely declined. Apart from the fact he’s a freak, I’d quite like to date someone significantly older than my eldest son, someone who might remember Donny Osmond. The first time around.
Then there was Rodney aged 63 (sixty-friggin’-three!) who wants to be in my stockings this Christmas. Firstly, there’s no room for two of us and secondly, the sight of my muffin-topped thighs would most likely give the poor old bloke a heart attack. Probably best if he asks Santa for a cigar and a nice woolly jumper, instead.
(And yes, I know I wanted older, but not that old. I specifically asked for someone with memories of Donny Osmond, not the Crimean bloody War.)
The final e-mail came from a bloke called Bev. I’m sorry, but Bev is such a girl’s name. Anyway the message read, ‘You’re hot!’
Now, how are you supposed to reply to that? ‘Gee, thanks *simper, simper*‘? Or, ‘We could make beautiful babies – if only you weren’t so fugly’? Or simply, ‘Piss off, knobhead!’
But being the polite, mature woman I am, I settled for, ‘Thank-you for your message.’ And believe me, no reply is as cutting as this one; it says, ‘I have been brought up with manners, so I am forced to reply because it is polite, but quite honestly, love, I wouldn’t touch you with someone else’s wobbly bits.’
I know. I’ve been on the receiving end of that particular retort, and it stings.
But did Bev get the message? Oh no, of course not. Bev is obviously blessed with a rhino-arse, a hide so thick and protective, that nothing unpleasant can ever penetrate.
‘Is that all you have to say? Lol! If you asked me over, I could spend the night shagging your brains out.’
This is the point where I snapped. Big time. I was breathing fire and screaming obscenities at the computer screen as my fingers flew across the keyboard and hit the ‘send’ button:
Grow up! I’m not a teenager performing fellatio behind the bike-shed. I’m a mature woman looking for a meaningful relationship with a grown-up. You are obviously not that person! How dare you approach me in that offensive manner? If you are merely seeking sordid sex, try a brothel. Or your dog. Do not contact me again!’
Grrr! Bah humbug! Ho ho bleedin’ ho!