epsiode 27

Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside

I've never claimed to be the most intelligent person around, but at the same time I would strongly deny that I'm stupid (even with mounting evidence), but I have just done something which could spell the death of my (already withering) romantic life. I've moved to Brighton. Technically I've moved to a village outside Brighton.
Don't get me wrong I love it here. I have a sea view and as I'm typing this I'm looking at the angry waves crashing into the rocks. And of course there are single men in Brighton, maybe even in the village. Aren't there?
Everyone I told about my move attributed it to my disappointment that gay/straight man turned out to be straight. Why? I asked. Because Brighton is the gay capital of the UK, and finding a straight man here will take my challenge to a whole new level. It'll be like a cross between Blind Date and The Krypton Factor. Apparently.
Anyway, I am still happy. I needed a change of scene and there is something about the sea that makes me feel peaceful. Brighton is a great place and there is always something going on. For example our first weekend here, coincided with Gay Pride. And, a group of us went and had loads of fun. And, what were my friends talking about, there were loads of men. There were, but in fairness they were either gay or part of a couple. But then what kind of idiot would think they would find single straight guys at Gay Pride? Not me, that's for sure.
And, you know they say that love will find you wherever you are, and it's normally where you least expect it, (but even that doesn't stretch to Pride I don't think). Although it might stretch to my village!
In my village there have been plenty of sightings of men alone. One of my first mornings here I woke with a start, and because the windows are being replaced in the apartment block we don't yet have blinds, so I sat up and came face to face with window man. Luckily I was wearing pajamas but only just. It's not that comfortable thinking the man who replaced your window has also seen your boobs.
And, on a daily basis, nearly naked swimming man can be seen going down to the sea for his morning exercise. His swimming trunks are either so small they're practically invisible, or they are, actually invisible. He's about seventy. Very fit for his age though. And, there is also topless ballroom dancing boy, who dances, on his own, on the sea front three days a week. He has his arms poised as if he has a partner, but like nearly naked swimming man's trunks, his partner is invisible. When wetsuit man with net, made up the hat trick of men I see regularly in the village, I did start to worry. You see I saw him walking through the actual village in his wetsuit, holding an empty fishing net and a fishing rod. Was he going swimming? No, he entered the pub.
I met my new friend from the apartment block, (she's about eighty and wanted to show me her mini-tumble dryer). As we chatted, I told her I wrote a dating column.
'Oh my dear, I have a son,' she announced and I felt a touch of hope. 'He's been with his third wife a while now so I 'spect he'll be on the market soon.'
I later bumped into another gentleman in the lobby.
'Hello there,' he gushed, in a way which made me feel slightly nauseous. 'I'm Walter.' He again, was about seventy, but very keen as he took my hand and licked it. I had to lock myself in a darkened bedroom for a few hours after that encounter. I mean, he had just taken hand stroking to a whole new level!
So far I love village life, men or no men, and having the sea so close with the beach is divine. It's better than nearly all the dates I've been on this year. I hope that this column isn't suddenly going to turn into 'nana's world,' but I can't promise that it won't (there's a knitting group at the local library every Monday).
I went back to London for work, and weirdly the men did look far more normal, anyway, when I returned my friend proudly announced that she had found me a single man under the age of fifty.
'Where did you find him?'
'He was on his own in the pub.'
'What's he like?'
'Well, he's just moved here, a bit like us, and he's a surveyor or something. Anyway, I asked him if he was single, and he said he was, and he seemed a bit confused to find himself living here.'
Sounds perfect.
'Oh and he wasn't that cute.'
Even better. So, while I concentrated on unpacking, my helpful friend took it upon herself to go on a man hunt. I don't think it was anything more than her need to be convinced there were some sane men in the village.
There was the guy who ran the pizza restaurant. He said that making pizza wasn't what he wanted to do, and he'd been offered jobs in top hotels/restaurants. In London, my friend asked, no in the next village. The pizza wasn't great either. There was the lovely boy in the organic shop, who told her how he sat out too long in the sun, and his back is as red as a lobster, oh and how he must have had sunstroke because he was sick. It then transpired this was his summer job from school. Finally she met another man from our block who was definitely creepy and, she was sure, an alcoholic.
So, despite trying to pimp me out to the entire village (how long before I am forced to move by my jezebel reputation?), she failed, and as I was unpacking and blissfully unaware I didn't get a chance to stop her until she ran out of steam, (and men), declared I would never date again, before pouring me a glass of wine. Still, I'm not worried. Maybe my village isn't ideal for a wrong side of thirty single girl, but then, again, it's ideal for this one.

So, now the boxes have been mainly unpacked, then my social life is once again in focus. This weekend I've got a fortieth birthday party to go to and also a village fete. So, hopefully I won't have time to join the knitting group, and I will try to keep myself away from coffee mornings. I can't promise though.

Next Week: The village fete