Don’t you just love them?
One of the good things about getting to middle age, ie anything over 40 as far as I am concerned, is that one no longer expects to have total idiots hitting on you.
That’s not the case of course though. I must have had more idiots hitting on me after 40 than I did in the previous 40 years put together. Instead of being stand-offish and snooty I unwisely chatted and smiled at people as I gaily went about my solo travels.
I met a nice chap on Brittany Ferries and we booked into the same hotel together and agreed to go out for a drink that night. As ever, I ran out of money to buy drinks so he happily continued to pay.
As we went back to the hotel and I commented on being short of money, he quickly said that I could have shared his room. Bit late when I had already booked into mine, but honestly, why would I want to? I did give him my email/mobile number the following morning but as both are long since gone, I’ve no idea if he tried to get in touch. Sorry Roger.
There were a couple I met on the bus from Málaga to La Linea. One was an RAF bandsman. I went for a drink with him and another bus passenger in La Linea, but then left them to dash home to see my dog. Oh and Partner too.
But we arranged to meet later that week for a drink with me and Partner. He never turned up. Nor did he ring to cancel. I may have sent him a snotty text.
Worse was the man who had returned from somewhere in the East faffing with computers. He was staying Marbella way for a while with some company prior to another job. He asked me nosy questions about my married life. He was married but told me he thought it was pretty much over. It would be if I’d been his wife, as he recounted his sexual exploits while he was working away from home. Surprised he had time to work.
He really got up my nose though when he asked in a strange Scottish accent, slightly whiney, ‘Haven’t you ever been naughty then?’
What a stupid euphemism. He meant had I ever committed adultery, ie cheated on my husband for the benefit of some tosser like him. I don’t think so. I can think of very little that would be seedier than going back to a hotel room with a total arsehole like him for a quick shag. I mean, just why? It wasn’t even as though he was exuding megavoltage sex appeal. And what business of his was it anyway?
In Spanish exile recently, on puppyminding duties, I had a similar experience. Obviously I was alone at the finca most of the time as Partner was working in Gib.
I stopped to talk one day to a man who lives in a van with a tiny plot of ground. He’s made an extremely tidy job of it, and is a typical example of how Spaniards are so good at making something out of nothing.
He often listens to British music, so Snowy and I stopped to listen to Tainted Love, or something similar.
We got chatting, and he invited me in for a glass of red wine. Oh no, I thought quickly. It may be harmless, but married women in my village do NOT go for a drink with another man in their home when their husband is working away.
A little later, on yet another Snowy walk, I saw him down the beach bar having a drink one evening. Did I want a drink? No thank you, got to get home before it’s dark.
Meanwhile, I met another single man. A Brit who walked past our house most days and we eventually got talking too. He was renting a basement just up the road from a woman we have known ever since we arrived. She’s Spanish but speaks superb English and
has had an English boyfriend, who it seemed, cleared off to England 18 months ago and hasn’t been seen since.
Walking the dog as usual, I turned the corner of our street, and waved at this man who was sitting outside one of our village bars. He stood up, pointed to his glass and invited me for a drink.
What the hell, I thought, and wandered across with Snowy. At least it’s a bar and one drink in the afternoon isn’t going to brand me as the scarlet woman of the village. Maybe easier to do with someone of your own nationality/language.
As ever, I didn’t have any money on me, you don’t need money when you walk the dog, so I couldn’t buy one back.
He offered another drink. I said it was up to him, as he would be paying again, his choice if he wanted to. He did, so I settled back with another red wine. He mentioned one of the local gays and launched into a tedious story about how there were no gays where he came from, and he hadn’t realised when the bloke had asked him in for coffee. Idiot. Vast scarcity (can one have a vast scarcity?) of women asked into the gay home and lots of men seen going in, not too difficult to put two and two together. So my Brit host then emphasised he was only interested in women. I countered by saying how nice it was to just be able to chat to someone whether male or female without worrying about all that.
I met him a few days later. Did I want a coffee in his dungeon? Or port? Or water? Pretty crappy choice of drinks there, but no anyway.
One night he was getting money out of the bank and asked me over the road for something to eat. I could take the dog home and then join him. No, why would I want to leave my dog who was better company anyway?
We saw him this last week, and I introduced him and Partner. We agreed to meet him at the bar for a drink when we had taken Pippa home, we would take Snowy to the bar. After all, I still owed him a couple of drinks, and at least I would have Partner with me, they could talk endlessly about Wales and rugby with any luck.
But when we approached the bar, he was leaving with a British woman. Oh well, that saved us a couple of beers, so we turned around and went happily home. Duty and obligation fulfilled in the sense that we had offered.
The next couple of times he walked past our house, he never looked up or spoke. In fact the last time, he skulked past on our side of the road – we are elevated above the pavement so can’t see who is on our side unless we peer over the garden wall – hoping we wouldn’t see him. Sadly Partner was sitting right at the top of our steps with a clear view down through the gate. He gave him a brief wave of acknowledgement but our acquaintance chose to see nothing.
Compare this childish behaviour with that of Paco the Spaniard however. He’s obviously realised I’m not available after all, and that my talk about having a husband working away wasn’t idle rubbish. He still speaks to us both, whether we are together or on separate dog walks. He’s probably not quite as friendly and chatty as he was to me on my own, but at least he isn’t churlish enough to suddenly ignore us both.
So all I can conclude from that, is that middle aged and older single men are incapable of relating to women on a sensible level, they are so desperate they don’t care who they pick up, so long as it is a woman, and preferably better off financially than them, and that I am just as naive now as I was 30 or 40 years ago.