Last week I had a nibble. A woman on the dating website sent an email saying she thought I looked nice and what did I think of her photo? Cow Girl’s headshot was blurred and I think she might have been wearing a wig. She was looking over her shoulder at the camera and looking saucy. The wig, if a wig it was, was very black and full and lustrous, like a Halloween party wig. I said I thought she looked very nice too. Sexy. Then I read her profile, at the end of which was a categorical statement, amounting almost to a warning, that she was looking for a walking and hiking partner only, male or female, and she would rather keep that relationship platonic.
I emailed back saying that, although women farm-workers wearing Halloween wigs were a particular fantasy of mine, north Wales was a hell of a long way to go just for a platonic walk across the fields, too far really, and I didn’t have a car at the moment, so if it was all the same to her I’d leave it. Thanks for getting in touch and good luck. And I thought that was the end of the correspondence.
But she emailed back. She was sorry about sounding strict about looking for a hiking partner only. That was just to keep the sex pests away. However, she really wasn’t sure if she actually did want any more so-called relationships with men. None of the ones she’d had so far had lasted long or been entirely enjoyable, and everybody that she knew who was in one was having a terrible time. Her two ‘boys’ — meaning her cats — were all she needed right now. However, she was willing to consider stretching a point if she came across anyone who sounded promising.
Bloody cats, I thought. I’d rather strangle myself than get involved with a cat lover. But I emailed back and dolefully agreed that she was probably right to be cautious and, yes, I couldn’t think of a single so-called relationship that wasn’t a living hell for everyone involved. If I was honest with her, I said, I didn’t really want one either.
She emailed back. My honesty was refreshing, she said. I must tell her more. Released from any obligation to sell myself as a worthwhile proposition, I replied candidly. Her replies were characterised by candour also. She loved to wear high heels, she said, and dress up. She’d recently bought some lovely six-inch heels that went well with her scullery maid’s uniform. Did I like high heels and dressing up? It was sad, really, not having anyone to wear them for. Sometimes she put them on just for her own benefit to do the housework. And in the next breath she was talking about feeding the hens, and how sodden the fields were, and how she needed a new pair of wellingtons, as though the scullery-maid business was nothing at all out of the ordinary for your average Welsh female agricultural worker.
So now I’m poring feverishly over a road map of Britain and looking for the quickest way to get to north Wales. Meanwhile I’ve emailed back. She asks do I like dressing up and six-inch high heels, I say. (I position the thrilling question among replies to and comments regarding the propensity of hens for bullying, and how cow’s feet will churn up a muddy field.) Well, seeing as she’s asking, I’m by no means against it, let’s put it that way, I say. And then this red box pops up on the screen. Cow Girl has invited me to chat with her in real time. Do I accept?
I’m probably the only person in Britain still new to instant messaging, but if anyone else out there has yet to use it, it’s pretty pointless. You type frenzied and necessarily short sentences towards a confused dialogue that appears immediately on the screen. So I accept the offer and begin typing faster than I’ve ever typed in my life before. It’s terrifying, and the spelling mistakes and typos are hideous. She seems adept at it, however, writing ‘yawn’ when I steal a few seconds to think before replying.
I cautiously raise the subject of the scullery-maid’s uniform. She withdraws instantly into her shell like a salted snail. She doesn’t want to talk about it, not on here, like this. Too public. Could we talk about something else? Chastened, I change the subject to waterproof trousers, one that I know enlivens her almost as much as scullery-maid’s outfits. And now she’s back in full flow, telling me how she can’t get any to fit her because they are always too tight ‘in the groinal area’. And she hates that sweaty groin that you always get with cheap waterproof trousers, don’t I agree?
I say I’ll think about it and let her know.
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