silvernaughties.com
Many imagine online dating is the preserve of the
young—this lady blows that theory right out of
the water.
young—this lady blows that theory right out of
the water.
It was a Wednesday, I remember, but only because Wednesday invariably follows Tuesday when I get the organic veg delivered. On reflection, it was a mistake to have signed up so eagerly. There’s only so much roughage a woman of my age can cope with.
I was out-front innocently polishing my knocker when Imran appeared, a lovely boy who was wandering the neighbourhood touting for business, so I signed up for veg boxes to be delivered every Tuesday. Well, I thought it would be something to look forward to. A lovely boxed surprise once a week, and he was such a pretty boy too.
Basically, every Tuesday, I’m housebound now because I never know what time the box will arrive. I was hoping it would be the lovely Imran who made the deliveries. Apparently, and I did call the help desk, he’s only employed as a Customer Service Operative, unfortunately. Is this what they call door-to-door salesman these days?
Five-a-day is an important thing now. When I was young, everything came with a side order of vegetables. Even a man’s genitals were referred to as his meat and two veg. Granted, the veg we ate as kids were unrecognisable as anything that had once lived, but we were always ‘regular’. I was born to a generation obsessed with constipation.
I’ve never been a frilly apron kind of gal, nor was my mother. You know the type, churning out perfect Victoria Sponges as if their lives depended on it. I worked in Fleet Street as a Press Co-Ordinator for The Times. Travel was an essential part of the job. Journalism, especially for The Times, had very stringent rules back then. There was no phone hacking or fake news. I often thought about absconding to the Daily Mirror to get my hands dirty on a scurrilous headline like Hitler Was A Woman.
Am I the same person I was back then? Categorically yes. The image I see in the mirror might argue to the contrary, but I’m the same inwardly. School teachers would be far better employed at nailing home the concept of optimism rather than cramming children’s minds with the life of Jesus and his cohorts. As children grow and realise the lies they’ve been dealt, pessimism sets in and they’re lost.
Travelling meant I experienced quite a varied diet—I like to experiment. Not like kids these days, so lacking in imagination. I see them in the shop where I buy my papers, hordes of them buying energy drinks and bags of what looks like deep-fried lumps of polystyrene. Little wonder they’re all so hyperactive.
Kale has never been a vegetable I’d ever choose to buy. The veg box company do provide recipes, but then you find you don’t have any caraway seeds in the larder, so you’re stumped. I just steam it and serve it with a lamb chop. Kale is a sort of sour-faced version of cabbage.
The mangos are interesting, except they’re a lot of effort for very little in return. Very sticky too, but they smell lovely. In my opinion, mangos are best left to a professional. I do look forward to the avocados. There isn’t a better beauty treatment on the market. You make a pulp with the flesh, add a bit of olive oil to emulsify and then smear it all over your face as a mask. Be warned, the avocado will turn rather an alarming colour once dried, but it’s nothing to worry about. Just don’t answer the door.
So, Wednesday.
I’d been shopping, and Eleanor came around for a chat and a cup of tea. She lives in Raynes Park with Patrick, her son, who’s a pharmacist. She’s not been well recently since she slipped off her doorstep and broke her leg. But it’s handy having Patrick there. With the drugs on hand, she doesn’t feel too isolated.
She’s been worrying about Patrick; well, he is forty-two, and it’s time he left home. He has a friend called Michael, who he goes to the theatre with, but there’s no sign of any grandchildren on the horizon. Eleanor thinks Patrick may be homosexual.
There is no doubt whatsoever that Patrick is homosexual. He’s lucky enough to live in a relatively liberal society. It’s not as if he’s likely to be publicly stoned to death outside St Paul’s. Who gives a shit? All families have skeletons in their… Closets? It’s those rattling bones that make us all unique.
My husband was gay, but that was before it was an acceptable option. We never discussed it, but Geoffrey did like his underwear ironed, neatly folded and kept separate to mine. We had twin beds, too, divided by the iron curtain of chastity. They were a palaver, what with all the endless washing of sheets and blankets. Until we got duvets, that was nice.
Geoffrey used to like going swimming at the local pool, it’s a nightclub now, dreadful place it is. That’s where he was arrested for what they called ‘an act of gross indecency.’ He never really recovered from the embarrassment. I mean, had it been with a woman, the police would probably have patted him on the back.
It was all over the local scandal rag, Wimbledon Solicitor Pool Man Sex. It was soon forgotten the following week after someone found a cockroach in their fish supper. Geoffrey and I often bought our fish ‘n’ chips from the same shop on a Friday. It’s an Indian restaurant now. But you wonder whether you can ever truly eradicate vermin like cockroaches, don’t you?
Eleanor has decided she wants to get married again, so she’s signed up with an online dating agency. I took some photographs for her with a digital camera Patrick had bought her for Christmas. That’s why she turned up looking like a nineteenth-century Parisienne prostitute. Of course, she doesn’t want marriage—that decoy doesn’t fool me. She just fancies a bit of sex, except she’s too proud to admit to it.
When Geoffrey was up to no good at the swimming pool, I used to have regular sex with our neighbour. Well, to be fair, we all have our needs. He was a lovely man was Mark, he grew big Spanish tomatoes in his greenhouse. He used to give me one quite often. It was a civilised enough arrangement. He went to live in Worthing. I miss the sex and the tomatoes. I can’t get the same satisfaction nowadays. Supermarket tomatoes are no comparison.
Eleanor’s dating agency is called Silver Naughties—it’s a chatroom basically where you contact ‘like-minded people over fifty looking for fun and friendship’, roughly translated as old farts desperate for a shag.
She’s had some success except the man she was most interested in lives in Zagreb, so she’s saving up to have him flown over. The new photographs are intended as an incentive, but I’m hesitant about their efficacy. Off the shoulder is fine, but not when there’s that much shoulder on offer.
It’s never occurred to me to marry again, well there’s more room here now for a start, and I don’t miss pubic hair in the soap or smoked mackerel. I bless the day I received my Decree Nisi. You see those people on TV waving their cheques from The Postcode Lottery, don’t you? Well, let me tell you, I would have willingly given the postman a blowjob if he’d hung around long enough when that envelope arrived.
Anyway, I’d noted down the web address of Silver Naughties, and as soon as I’d got Eleanor out of the house, my profile was online before she reached her front door. I met Terry online almost immediately, and within the hour, we were at it upstairs like adolescent rabbits. That was Wednesday.
Melissa Harper was on there too—she’s a relative by marriage of Eleanor’s, I almost went into orbit. Not because Melissa was on the prowl, I couldn’t give a hoot, so was I, frankly. Melissa was on the hunt for a… like-minded woman. Discretion is my middle name, but, well, I’ll have to tell Eleanor. It’s complicated. You see, Melissa is married to Eleanor’s husband’s brother, which makes them sisters-in-law. Does it? It’s not that important, but you’d think Melissa could have had the decency to use a nom de plume. I certainly did.
Anyway, enough scandal. On Thursday afternoon, Anthony came around. I wasn’t impressed with the bouquet of petrol station carnations, but he was very accomplished. Friday was Eric, a complete disaster. Everything went perfectly. We did the deed, got dressed and as Eric was on his way downstairs, he slipped, broke his neck and died in the hallway.
Explaining to his wife and family why Eric was here proved complicated. I did point out to them that under the Terms and Conditions of the Silver Naughties site, clause ten; ‘Anyone who decides to meet in person does so at their own risk.’ So, since Eric and I had ticked the box and agreed to all the special arrangements, provisions, requirements, rules, specifications, and standards that form the agreement/contract with Silver Naughties, I could not legally be held responsible for Eric’s demise.
Having had a solicitor for a husband did have its benefits.