Im a bachelor, 45 years old, and possibly Englands most experienced tea drinker. I was once married to a rather resplendent lady for fifteen years. I use the term lady deliberately, because she certainly looked the part. Immaculate, polished nails, her signature lily-of-the-valley scent trailing behind, and skin so radiant she had every department store attendant baffled. Her figure was practically sculpted and, frankly, faultless. She seemed younger than her yearsleaving people guessing and me feeling rather smug. There was a touch of royalty about my ex-wife, if you ask me. Her wardrobe was always impeccable, stylish to a tee. And her walkoh, her walkwas a ballet in slow motion, her hips swaying with the grace of a Windsor.
So whats the moral here? Throughout our marriage, I became accustomed to a certain calibre of woman: proud, aristocratic lionesses, in the wilds of Surrey. Yes, we parted ways thanks to a spectacular clash of personalities. What can you do? Lifes funny like that. Post-divorce, I kept clear of serious relationships. I saw women here and therehotels, flatspurely for my health, as the expression goes. I wasnt keen on another melodrama, after spending years in the spotlight.
But as fate enjoys tossing peculiarities our way, it lobbed one at me: a woman named Harriet. I hadnt planned on anything romantic, but she appeared as if pulled from a hat at a gallery opening. Harriet was not a replicate of my exthe living portrait of gracebut she possessed her own brand of magic. There was an air of nobility about her, paired with a sharp wit and dry humour. She could draw you in, not just with her looks, but with her brainwork; which, lets be honest, is the most attractive feature in a woman.
We dated for a couple of months, mostly at mine. Eventually, though, I suggested we meet at her place. I went all out: calla lilies (her favourite, apparently), a dashing bottle of chardonnay, candleseven an attempt at poetry, if memory serves. When I arrived, her flat was stylish and inviting. Then, nature called. Off to the bathroom I went and was instantly gobsmacked.
Her bathroom was astonishingly barenot a single fancy jar or posh cream, no shampoo bearing a French name, barely any perfume. Just a bargain-bin shower gel and shampoo. That was it. For a woman like Harriet, it seemed shed rather not fuss over herself. You see, when a woman cares for herself, it shows. Thats when you know shes the sort you want to get to know beyond the wine and lilies.
But Harriet simply didnt measure up to my expectations. At that moment, I realised she wasnt the right fit. I quietly slipped away. Now, I know Ill likely never find another proud lioness like my ex-wife. So, its back to solitary cups of tea for me. What can you do? Such is life.
