Today I went into town to get some bird food. Not very exciting, I know, but buying bird food passes for a big trill round these parts. Anyhow, I went into the ‘Everything Cheap Sold in Big Buckets’ shop and said to the man, ‘Have you got fat balls?’ He looked confused and somewhat repulsed, and then I realised that he wasn’t actually serving, but was helping himself to a bag of misshapen dog biscuits. Well, how was I to know? He looked just like the kind of man who sells fat balls in a bucket shop, and not the kind of man who owns a misshapen dog.

I have heard that shopping is a great way to meet a potential partner, but I don’t think I want Mr. Fat balls in my life right now. I do like to engage people in conversation whilst I’m shopping, because I think most shop assistants need a bit of cheering up. I remember once strolling into an electronics hut at Calgary airport, and being approached by a most attractive young man. He said, ‘Are there any questions that you’d like me to answer?’ and I said, ‘Yes, can you tell me the capital of Bulgaria?’ He looked about as confused and repulsed as the fat balls man, and edged away from me as fast as his crimplene slacks would allow. Well, I thought geography might make an interesting change from mega pixels and watts per channel, but he didn’t seem to agree. I wanted him to see me as a witty, wry Englishwoman, but I’m afraid all he saw was an obtuse oddball.

I often look out for potential dinner dates when I’m shopping in Tesco’s. I have to look in a man’s trolley first, to gauge what kind of person he’s likely to be. If I see cat food, tinned potatoes and athlete’s foot powder then I tend to stay clear, but if there’s fresh fruit, a decent claret and steak, then I know I might be onto a winner. Women can now view grocery baskets and use their contents to weigh up a potential mate - it’s a bit like the cave girl instinct of looking at loin cloth length, but is much less likely to get you arrested for lewd behaviour. The most bizarre basket I ever saw being carried by a single man contained only two items: Head and Shoulders and K-Y Jelly. I don’t know exactly which part of him was dry and itchy, but I didn’t wait to find out.

It occurred to me today, as I was wiping the fatty residue of the seed balls from my hands, that perhaps the most dispiriting thing about being a widow is knowing that there isn’t anybody who is thinking lovely thoughts about you. Friends give you an occasional call and relatives keep in touch, but the joyous thing about being married woman is the knowledge that there is one man who has you on his mind all day long. You know that he’s thinking about you whilst he’s at work, and can’t wait to get home to you each evening. That contact, both spoken and unspoken is something to be cherished, and when you lose it, the silence becomes almost unbearable.

I used to get so overwhelmed by feelings of love for Charlie that I had to ring him up and sing to him down the ‘phone. The choice of song was, perhaps a little cheesy, but ‘Andieeeeei Will Always Love Yoooooooouououou’ was what I wanted to say more than anything. When the screeching became a little too hard to bear, he used to hand the received over to his PA, with the words, ‘Whitney Houston - we have a problem…’ But I think he was touched by the sentiment.

Charlie would call me several times each day for a chat, or just to see how I was, and I long for that kind of intimacy again. Nowadays, I’m pretty certain to spend my time at home in silence. I may get one or maybe two ‘phonecalls, but more often than not I’ll spend the whole day without speaking to a soul. This may account for my need to engage total strangers in conversation - admittedly I don’t ask that many people if they have fat balls, but generally my opening line is something unusual. Perhaps I’m losing my mind. Perhaps all this enforced solitude has affected my precarious mental state and I’m turning into the strange eccentric that everyone expects me to be. But they just don’t understand what it’s like. They just don’t have any idea how I long for a ‘phone call that starts with the line, ‘You’ve been on my mind all day.’ Even a single, sexy text message would make giddy with delight. I’m not expecting David Beckham’s thumb to suddenly start throbbing with desire, but it would be nice to find myself standing in the queue at the post office someday, gazing adoringly at my mobile whilst absent-mindedly stroking a pair of rubber shoes, and then walking out, wondering why I’ve just purchased a box of Mr. Kipling’s exceedingly old cakes and a birthday card with a donkey on the front.

You can’t buy that kind of attention. It doesn’t come easily. It can’t be found in a bargain bucket, or a supermarket aisle. So where is it? Everyone’s always telling me, ‘It’ll happen when you least expect it.’ It is a phrase that’s so easy to utter, and yet so terribly hard to hear. It’s like being told that eternal happiness is just out of reach, but that if you screw up your eyes and pretend not to be waiting, it’ll suddenly fall right into your lap. My lap is waiting; I’m relaxed and completely free of any expectation. So where’s the fucking joy-bringer? Maybe I missed him. Maybe he was the guy at Calgary airport that I frightened with my geographical brain-tease. Maybe he was the man with the itchy scalp and lubrication problem, or maybe he was the fat-balls man. Maybe Mr. Right is loitering just around the corner - but which cockadoodie corner?

I’m not expecting it. I’m really not expecting it. In fact, I’ve been not expecting it for the past four years. I’ve been not expecting a man to gently brush my hand as we both reach for the same mushroom bag in Tescos; not expecting a love-lorn fan to write to me saying how much he admires my creative talents, and how he’s spent the last year trying to decipher the secret messages hidden in the typos that litter my text. I’m not fucking expecting it, already. Are we clear? I’m ready now. My text thumb is poised; my husky ‘phone voice is resonating deep within my chest.
Bring it on.


© Kate Boydell 2004. All rights reserved. e-mail: [email protected]. Close window.