I bumped into an old acquaintance at the Waterfront last night. We’ve been out of contact since last year, so we spent a bit of time catching up and I gave her my usual sixty-second trouble in paradise > separation > divorce > poverty sound bite+ to bring her up to speed on the happenings of the past twelve months or so. Then things took a turn for the worse:
SHE: So, are you seeing anyone at the moment?
ME: [putting on stupid accent] Yes, I am seeing you. You are not being invisible yet.
SHE: You know what I mean.
ME: Yes. Unfortunately I do. ”So, are you seeing anyone?”, is usually the opening gambit in a depressingly predictable attempt to set me up with your first-cousin-with-brain-removed or whatever. Please tell me I’m wrong.
ME: Nnnnnngh. I bloody knew it!
I am convinced that there is a matchmaking gene lurking somewhere in our DNA. Experience suggests that it is mainly dominant in women and is usually activated whenever a woman who is in a relationship comes into contact with someone who is not. It seems that the discomfort caused by the awful prospect of an unattached individual can only be relieved by the sound of wedding bells.
I suppose I should be less of an ungrateful bastard when people make an effort, but I really wish they would try and “fix” my (apparently) broken, hopeless, utterly desolate and joyless existence with packages marked “Lindt” or preferably, colourful paper rectangles autographed by Tito Mboweni.
+ this is the short version which specifically excludes exciting embellishments such as alien abductions, disembodied voices, exploding heads and the like – i.e. it’s almost true.