Looking for a lively and energetic woman, not someone my own age. At fifty, its just not the same A 55-year-old bachelor knocked seven years off his age and tried to suck in his stomach, but was terribly offended when he realised how old the woman was
I need a woman no older than forty-two. Thats absolutely the maximum. Actually only if she looks about thirty-five. By fifty, well, Tony, its just not the same. I want someone energetic and spirited, not a contemporary.
Personally, I may not be Paul Newman, but inside, I feel twenty-eight. And anyway, a man only appreciates in value with age while a woman well, you get it.
I was sat with my friend Sally at a neighbouring table, and wed unintentionally become spectators to this one-man performance. Wed just popped in for a quick bite after the gym, chatting through the new nutrition plan when our conversation was rudely hijacked by this grand male soliloquy.
Did you hear that? Sally sniggered under her breath. Hes talking himself up theyll be doing a buy-one-get-one-free on blokes like him any day now!
Shh, I grinned. Lets listen in. Its nearly as good as the National Theatre.
Meanwhile, the self-proclaimed orator was laying it on thick:
Me, for example. I never eat yesterdays leftovers. I have my principles. A woman should cook fresh every day. Of course, when Im on my own, Ill make do with a tin of baked beans Im not fussy. But once youre in a proper relationship, I expect decent dinners: stew, roast, baking. And she needs to be slim. I want a contrast: Im substantial, shes petite.
And kids? his mate asked, sizing up the substantial figure before him with a sceptical look. Yours are grown up, arent they? Arent grandkids on the way?
No more heirs required, thanks, got enough. I need a companion someone for the soul and the body. Active, you know? Must want rambles in the woods, a hike or two Or at least a nice weekend at the seaside.
I almost choked on my juice. Rambles? He doesnt look like hes walked further than the local off-licence.
Sal, bet you hell try to chat me up? I whispered, winking.
Are you serious? Sallys eyes widened. Vera, youre not under forty!
Shhh, I signalled for silence. Its a social experiment. I want to test just how deep the well of male self-delusion goes.
The introduction happened with remarkable ease. We swapped numbers and by evening, we were messaging as if wed known each other for ages.
Online, his handle was Macho48.
Profile photo: at least ten years out of date, stomach sucked in, flashy car in the background, eyes brimming with manly self-assurance.
After a few messages, George suggested meeting up.
He arrived in his best suit. The buttons on his jacket looked about ready to pop off from the strain of his belly, which he displayed proudly in front of him.
Veronica, he beamed, flashing a slightly wonky smile. You look absolutely lovely today.
Thank you, George, I replied, keeping my eyes polite and mild. Youre certainly quite dashing yourself.
We met up a couple more times.
For me, it was great acting practice. I listened dutifully to his tales of his business empire (a stall in the market), how hed almost bought a new car (but then reinvested the funds, apparently), and how essential a comfortable home is to a man.
Wed stroll through the park after a hundred yards, hed start huffing and puffing, but claimed it was his special breathing exercise.
And then, the big moment came.
George, happily mellow after dinner and awash with my polite compliments, decided it was time to push things along.
Veronica, he intoned, taking my hand. Youre perfect: slim, efficient, youthful. But I must confess Im not actually forty-eight.
Is that so? I lifted an eyebrow in pretend surprise. So, how old?
Fifty-five, he exhaled, watching my face anxiously. But Ive kept myself in good nick, havent I?
Of course, George! I chirped. You look no more than fifty-four, honestly! I love a man with experience proper wisdom, you know.
He lit up like Trafalgar Square at Christmas.
Oh, good. I was worried. I have a rule: I only date women under forty-two. Its all about the energy, you understand. But you youre dynamite, a proper young lady.
Thank you, darling, I said softly, running a hand over his balding head. By the way, Ive got a little secret too.
Oh? he stiffened. Children? Debts?
No, nothing like that. My age.
George tensed up, the cogs almost visible behind his eyes.
What do you mean? Youre not forty?
Nearly.
Thirty-eight? he tried, hopefully.
I pulled my driving licence from my bag and handed it to him.
Have a look, George. Check for yourself.
He took the card with trembling fingers, squinted closely at the date of birth, lips moving as he calculated.
1975.
Fifty he whispered, going deathly pale. Youre fifty?
Spot on, George. I had my fiftieth just two months ago.
My licence slipped from his hands. He stared at me in absolute horror, as if Id suddenly transformed into the Wicked Witch before his very eyes.
But how? You look
Like a woman who takes care of herself, George. And not one for pasties and sausage rolls.
But thats deceitful! he wailed. I was clear: under forty-two. Thats my principle. I cant date someone my own age.
Actually, Im not your exact peer and you were quite happy before, werent you? Or did I start shedding dust the moment you saw the number?
Colour rose in his face.
No, but it’s the number Fifty. Thats nearly pensioner territory.
Old age, George, is when your head refuses to accept reality, I said calmly, standing up. As it happens, Im a woman at my peak. And, you know, Ive realised something too.
Whats that? he asked, eyes faded.
That at fifty, I need a partner. Not a bundle of complexes, a paunch, and a market stall. You wouldnt survive my dynamite. Youd burn up at the first attempt to keep up.
I picked up my licence and headed to the door.
Veronica! he called after me. Wait! What about us?
What us, George? I replied, turning back. By your logic, were the same age, arent we? And you need someone young, dont you? Off you go, best of luck finding a woman whose eyesight is as dodgy as your principles.
I left his doily-covered granny den and took a huge, satisfying gulp of London air.
Down in the car was Sally, waiting with the engine running.
Well? she asked as I collapsed into the seat. Did he show his true colours?
Absolutely, I laughed. You should have seen his face when I whipped out my licence. Like hed just found out the world isnt flat after all.
And how did it finish?
Hell carry on searching for young and lively, torturing himself. Meanwhile, were off to celebrate. Ive got a date tonight with a decent chap, forty-five, and he doesnt care a jot whats on my licence.
As for George, hes still on the dating sites. His profiles been updated: Looking for a woman strictly under 40. Must be honest! The photo? Still the same from a decade ago.
You know, after all that, Im left wondering: why are some men so frightened of their peers? And should we ever hide our age for the sake of a relationship, or is it always best to tell the truth straight away?
If theres one thing Ive learnt, its this: nothings more flattering than self-respect and neither love nor years need to be faked.
