There is a lid for every pot...

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I didn’t expect to be flooded with calls after placing my advert, but did end up getting 5 responses which wasn’t a bad hit rate I guess, given that print advertising is on its way out and I had been pretty specific about who I was trying to attract.

As always though with sales, it is about the conversion rate  of the advertisement, and while my hopes were high for a good conversion rate, It remained to be seen once my screening process had been completed.

I had set the voice mail option up on the burner phone number to greet potential applicants with cheer and encouragement, introducing myself as catch of the century and congratulating them for stepping outside their comfort zone.

The first message I cleared was from Ross. He sounded full of vim and vigour with a real purpose in his step but at 69 I thought he was really outside my age range , so I didn’t call him back immediately, preferring to wait and sift the oats from the chaff once the weekend was over. Ross is quite an impatient bugger it appears and a couple of hours later he phoned back again and I answered. He was on his way further north to check out a property he owned in Golden Bay that had been affected by the flooding up there and had stopped off in Blenheim to break the journey and read the paper when he had come across the ad.  He was a dual property owner, with land down closer to me he quickly imparted and was eager to meet. While he was selling himself to me there was a familiar ring to his voice and attitude that I couldn’t quite place it initially, but I was sure I had come across him somewhere prior. That  did annoy me as I pride myself on being a good networker and I am good with names and faces because I take a genuine interest in most folk when I’m talking to them. I hadn’t returned his call and  was on my way out when he  phoned  again.  I asked if he would mind scheduling  a call back later in the week, when I could give the chat my undivided attention to it , to which he duly agreed to – Tuesday at 7pm.

The next brave soul to leave a message was a 70-year-old bloke called Peter. Just hearing the name Peter sent me into a wave of terror and caused a few PTSD moments .  I don’t think I will ever recover from the last Peter that did a number on me, so I never even returned 70 year of Peters  call.

During all that, I got what I though was a really positive call. The bloke was 60, lived in North Canterbury and had been widowed for a few years and owned a business up there. He was chatty, rose for work at 430am every morning and sounded like a family man. I thought I had struck gold when he said he was a muso and played guitar and sung, and  my mind was already having visions of duets around the campfire and large family get togethers. Interesting enough, he had the name of my first husband who in hindsight was one of the nicest, kindest men I have ever met but I was too friggin stupid to realise it at the time!  He did talk a lot about himself on the phone, and I gave him the listening space he needed to feel comfortable chatting with a stranger, and we arranged to meet the next weekend.

Tuesday came and bugger me, there was another message on the phone. This time it was a farmer from South Canterbury who was returning to the farm after leaving it a decade ago following a marriage break up. By his own admission, he was shy and just getting back out there, and confessed to being a workaholic but sounded like he had a bit of potential. That was until he started going on how broken he was, and how his shoulder was crook and painful all the time.  He was away for a couple of weeks, so we tentatively made a loose appointment to meet yesterday for coffee.

In the fortnight that has passed since that call, I have given our conversations a lot of thought and done a bit of research. Generally, unless they take good care of themselves, the blokes in my experience don’t age as well as the women, and before you know it , many of them are old at 60 and would struggle to keep up with anyone with my energy levels. I don’t need a handbrake and don’t want to be a nurse, or a purse in my golden years to anybody! Call me selfish, but I’ve been a lifetime meeting the needs of others, and I know what I need, and its not some demanding prick that has got old before his time because he has worn out. I must be truthful and admit also in the course of my research, I had found out he was a poultry fancier in a previous life. I have been to enough hen auctions to know the type, and I just couldn’t bring myself to go through with the meeting and cancelled it the morning before it was all due to happen. Judgemental you might say, and you might well be right, but after 145 unsuccessful dates, I am not in the habit of collecting red flags.

That was the night that yappy Ross had agreed to phone and complete his interview. In the days that had passed since we had briefly spoken , I had remebered where I recognised his voice from. I’m nearly 100% sure that I met him in passing at the South Island Field Days back in March where he was mingling with what I teased him about then was a mail order bride. He had a lovely Philippino woman tagging along with him who had been out here for a couple of months and was due to return to the Philippines shortly to take care of her 10-year-old son that had been left there while she made the trip to NZ.

When Ross phoned, unfortunately, I was on my other phone and couldn’t pick the call up. He hung up and then phoned about 30 seconds later and left a message saying “It's Ross here, we had a deal to speak at 7pm, and I’m here waiting bang on time. Where are you?”. I thought fuck you Ross, and blocked his number.

A week after the add had been in the paper and the replies had dried up, I got a very enthusiastic text message. I assumed without talking to the gentleman that he was possibly a tulip muncher exported from Holland at some point when I read: “Well what a glorious notice, sorry almost a week late but I tick most boxes. Txt me back please. Greetings Kees.” I did text him back and he duly phoned, full of enthusiasm about how lonely he was, how much cycling he did and how he loved doing his volunteer work. He sounded 100 years old and somehow much older than the 64 years he told me he was. On further prompting,a I questioned him again on his age when he confessed he was actually 80 years old, but as fit as a trout. I said thanks but no thanks Kees, and I hope you find someone. He hung up disappointed and followed up with the following.

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To be honest, I had probably hung my hat on the early rising guitar player from North Canterbury whom I had planned to meet at Lake Hood for coffee. He was ticking boxes flat stick after he had agreed he would drive down and meet. When he pulled up beside me in the car park beside me with his head full of hair and welcoming smile, I thought to myself “this could be it”. He was friendly enough, but this was his first date since becoming a widow four years prior, and so I forgave him for continually talking about himself and not having taken the care to pull the collar is his polo shirt out of his crew neck jersey before he arrived. After all he had paid for the coffee. The date lasted 90 minutes and was pleasant enough, and before it got too late  we had said our good- byes and parted ways in the car park again.  That night, I sent him a text thanking him for buying the coffee and said if he was comfortable, perhaps we could do that again sometime to get to know each other? NO ANSWER WAS THE LOUD REPLY! , and two days later when he still hadn’t replied, I fired a parting shot across the bow and sent him a text before deleting his number as I didnt need to be told twice. I have learned also that they are either into you or they are not.

There is no excuse for bad manners and rudeness. If someone isn’t your cup of tea, just be polite and tell them for fucks sake! I've more of my life behind me than in front of me, and at 60 know what a dealbreaker is and haven’t got time to be shagging spiders as my adult son would say.

They say there is a lid for every pot. I think my lid must be at the back of the pot cupboard, buried somewhere and it's time the housekeeper came in.