Whilst I am perching laptop-on-lap on my immaculately presented eighteenth-century-mahogany-framed French chaise longue whitening my teeth with a funny tasting gel, I wonder at the awe of
modern (don’t want to piss off the theorists) contemporary love and romance. More pointedly, I am supremely flabbergasted at the bewilderment by which modern (sorry) contemporary love and romance fails crashes and burns in the most dramatic of fashions.
For in an age where communication is at its highest peak since the history of the universe, I find myself more than capable to find a Louis XVI (16th darlings, come sweets keep up) pristine piece of delightfully restored and re-upholstered furniture for the local stage production of Hamlet. I contact an Antiques Dealer, I give him the description, he sources the item.
*HIGH FIVE* Done deal. I shall probably keep it for myself after the final show, there’s a perfect position for it in my Kensington apartment which concertedly hoards a number of stolen artefacts, relics and memories from recent amateur dramatics of the personal kind.
I know I am not the only one who has this question flickering around her head every so often, lurking in the darkness to seal fate at the most inopportune emotional moment, the thought is as good as a lead balloon.
At a time when I have a more-than-adequate ensemble of communications at my neat french-manicured fingertips: landline; Wi-Fi; laptop; smartphone; SMS; MSN; (tempted to add WTF solely for comedy value); WhatsApp; E-mail; Facebook; Twitter; WordPress… And (forgive the conjunction), these are only the ones I use – the list does not even attempt to quantify the remaining billion (I exaggerate but the picture paints itself) social platforms that I choose not to plague my house.
I am quite literally the most turned on I have ever been in my life, I am connected to all the connectables of MANkind across the entire globe. Observe: the sparks of technology are flying off my Champneys moisturised portal hands like water off a duck’s back.
The lead balloon question is thus, if communication is so easily available (when dying governments are not blocking networks due to revolutions) why is it so difficult to find you? My Merlin AND Knight of the Round Table…my comicbook hero without the double life thing, my Spiderman without the spider thing (scared of them but my vacuum is always peckish) or my Superman without the kryptonite thing (can’t have someone else being in control of your weakness), so I’m really not asking for the moon on a stick with ice and hot chocolate fudge sauce(!)
And so my attention turns to online dating websites, judging my life partner on a picture of a question mark or a silhouette is by no means an effective beginning to the rest of my life. The question mark remains, on account of truth from a very close friend that said life partner remains mysterious and skeletons are just waiting to outgrabe and relinquish the living daylights from your green Eden grass least expectedly.
These sites are the perfect hiding places for men (it’s a perfect hiding place for women too but that’s another story) who mount their high-horses bidding Good Day and Good Morning and Good Night ensuring you they are the pinnacle of moral godliness and ready to whip you into shape if your past is a shade darker than white.
Good Grief! Even the Daily Telegraph has jumped on to the bandwagon! How many more ridiculous usernames and secret passwords must one concoct in order to cordon a courting-courteous-cavalieresque-dashing-dapper-Darcy-type-amusingly-humorous dude? Golly gosh! and Tally ho! Bring back arranged marriages from the Victorian era and everyone will be as dandy and sweet as sweet potato pie!
I hasten to add that this online adventure of mine came to an abrupt halt last summer when alas, a boy racer (yes I know) turned up in an orange (yes, b.r.i.g.h.t o.r.a.n.g.e in the vein of You’ve Been Tango’d googly-eye-man apparently it’s a limited edition colour don’t you know) ORANGE (just in case you forgot) bodykitted Ford Focus (See post You’ve been tango’d for comprehensive details).
I seem to recall using three letters I frittered away in an earlier paragraph, the first was W, the second T and finally F when I realised he was wearing a bright green n.e.o.n. – nay, illuminous (I may as well have been wearing him on my wrist at a music concert) t-shirt. I kid thee not. Needless to say I did not quite catch sight of the label that must have been attached to the chest area and how angry I was at taking my Fendis out of my handbag prior to this alien invasion of my peripheral and surrounding vision.
Demographers and anthropologists would have me believe a ratio of 105 (see Wikipedia), but I would happily gander a guess this figure has not been updated since, well, the dawn of civilisation as every man I seem to come across is a Hero of Zero: a SUM kind of man. Stupid, Ugly or Married (clearly not one to mince my words).
This depletes the figure somewhat, so we’re already down to a ratio(n) of 102. Having intently studied a world map that failed to list country names (how useful is that!), I have concluded I am on the wrong continent: men are outnumbering women in Saudi Arabia, UAE and Oman.
Cynical dry humour babble sets in here and I wonder this statistic might perhaps be slightly skewed, perchance the women were relentlessly murdered in birth-honour killings or they are not permitted to even register their existence, either way, that’s where the men are at. Huzzah! Hmm, yes, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.
It is terrifying that
mutual feeling, understanding and respect love is not so easily found these days in this part of the world, both love of a friendship nature and of course superhero love. I do rather declare (and I would proclaim it from the rooftops would that my Jimmy Choos and Prada handbag could assist me pirouette across the trusses) it is quite undeniably the uttermost defective time to find the man of my dreams, or a man with at least a recognisable social standard of decency and etiquette who does not have any issues with the past commitment the lifecycle of a meaningful and fulfilling relationship which could potentially lead to marriage living happily ever after spending the rest of our lives together.
On a parallel stream of thought, it is additionally devastatingly perfidious when one cannot even maintain genuine friendships with the opposite sex because SUM man rears his caveman head from behind the small rubble of rocks from which it was (stupidly) attempting to camouflage.
Hark! Fakery is no fool and friendship is no tomfoolery. Pretend Friend or Joe Foe, Little Boy or Mannequin Man – Depart! Leave! Scatter! I do not wish to have any inclination for your Judas time, Judas affection or your Judas kisses. Shoo!