Richard

Richard 

 

Bravo!  He writes to me.  What a well written and witty profile!

 

I had practised my right to artistic license, and had changed my written profile in its entirety.  Instead of the tedious list of interests and beguiling character traits, the lads were treated to my ‘Window Dressing’ (March) essay in this blog, which details my photograph-choosing process.  Lesser men would be daunted to attempt a run at this literary gauntlet.  Those that persevered through the first couple of paragraphs would be justly rewarded with a dousing of my humour in full flight.  I am referring, of course, to the deliberations over the image of yours truly cycling, helmet facing backwards.  This filter, I thought, was well conceived.  Individuals who emerged through the reading intact would be worth a second look.  The undesirables, the ones hankering after the bodily delights of women, would be overwhelmed at my wordiness, and flee to less challenging waters.  Those shallow waters being awash with buxom women in bikinis who liked sunsets, backrubs and fireside chats. 

Richard clearly had no problem digesting my essay, and we wrote back and forth on the intricacies of my wardrobe (my penchant for scoop neck tops)  and the delights of both Istanbul and the beach at Dallas Road. 

The images on his profile page were nothing short of beautiful. Richard himself is pretty easy on the eye, with his trim physique, tousled,  variegated hair, olive skin and dark brown eyes.  Clearly he’d hired a professional to take the shots- one showed him walking in the street in Victoria (I recognized Market Square behind him, so could verify the authenticity of the locale) wearing a suit and striding forward with purpose.  A second showed him in a well-appointed kitchen.  He’d donned an apron and was busy stirring a pan of simmering mushrooms on a stove.   The third image was more of a holiday snapshot.  In it he’s on a beach somewhere tropical, but clearly not too remote, has he’s fortifying himself with a yummy looking fruit-bedecked cocktail. 

My guard is generally alerted with very good looking men as I suspect they’ve a proclivity to be vain and preening characters.  All too often, aware of their good looks, they can be more interested in themselves than their superficial personalities would warrant.  However, who am I to discriminate against a man on the basis of handsomeness?  His email exchanges were literate and engaging, and my interest was sharpened when I noticed his profession was listed as ‘law.’  I did feel some mixed emotions regarding that profession, as I know so little about any legal matters, I wondered what line of conversation we might safely follow where I would not present as a complete idiot.

In keeping with the current trend, he too was looking for an athletic woman who took good care of herself.  This, by now, is such a familiar refrain, it barely caused me a moment’s panic.  It’s my thought that if I can wedge into an economy class aeroplane seat and fasten the seatbelt over my tummy, I am in reasonable shape physically. 

It was with joy I received the news that Richard would happily drive the Malahat to meet me for lunch one Saturday.  He’d always wanted to check out the acclaimed Duncan Farmer’s market, and I provided the perfect pretext.  He summoned me to lunch, to be followed by a visit the market together.  Being well aware that my son-in-law would be in attendance at his stall in the market, selling fresh eggs and his beautiful herbs and veggies,  I pre-emptively phoned James to alert him to the fact that should he see me walking round the market with an unfamiliar man hovering attendance, he’s not to call the RCMP.

I made the mistake of arriving somewhat early for our meeting, so it was annoying to have to wait a good 15 minutes for Richard.  Though I know as well as any how troublesome the Malahat highway can be - if there is some kind of an accident, it can mean a delay of hours. 

When he walked in, I recognized him immediately, though his presentation differed from what I’d anticipated.  Having spent considerable time scrutinizing my wardrobe, as presented in my picture gallery, one would have expected he’d have taken better care with is own.  He was in a baby-poo shirt, jeans and brown shoes which had echoes of Martins’, as described in April.   These items would have been passable, but the ensemble was completed with a most peculiar sleeveless over-vest.  One could almost believe it was a man’s navy blazer, with the sleeves and lapels cut off.  It seemed to be made of a wool-blend fabric and had a very useful amount of pockets included on its front facade.  His wardrobe was verging on fraudulent, I felt, given his online image of suave urbanity.  Oh well, perhaps over the weekends he liked to be casual to the point of extreme comfort.  Lawyers have to dress formally all week, so I permit him this lapse. I've heard it said that often men of substantial means, having nothing to prove, dress down when given the chance.

After menu selections were settled on, and our drinks placed before us, his cross examination began in earnest.  When did I move to Canada?  Why did I move to Canada? Do I like it in Canada? How many children have I got?  Where are they? Where is your ex-husband (maybe he didn’t read my profile?)  Where in South Africa did you grow up?  And where is Durban? Where do you live now?  How long have you lived in this area? Do you like it here? What work do you do? And your children, what are they doing? What plans do you have for travel? And this, joltingly out of context, given the lack of admissible evidence, as I was sporting none: So do you think diamonds really are a girl’s best friend? Was that some kind of screen for materialistic tendencies?  It was relentless. The correct legal term, I believe, is Ad Infinitum, though my preference is Ad Nauseum.  I am surprised he wasn’t taking notes as I answered each of these questions, and many more.  It wasn’t unexpected when twinges heralding a stress headache encroached my brain. 

As he continued without pause, I became alive to my error in agreeing to a lunch date.  A coffee date could, if necessary, be concluded within the half hour, but a lunch date required at least twice that long, unless one was willing to impolitely go AWOL.  

Richard's questioning became more personal and probing as time progressed.  “Tell me about your exercise regime.”  And alarmingly, as I took a bite of Caesar salad, “You know that’s stuff is awfully fattening, don’t you?  It will go straight onto those thighs.”   At the sound of the word ‘thighs,’ I could feel my headache intensify with unwelcome strobed zig-zag arcs, and a maniacal twitch tug rhythmically at my eyelid.  Before I became a hostile witness, I plead permission for a washroom recess and hastened to the ladies’ room.  

I am never one to abandon a delicious plate of quesadilla half-way through the eating, so the obvious answer to enduring the meal to its conclusion was my trusty Grandpa Headache Powder.  My sisters are not permitted to visit from South Africa without bringing at least three boxes of the stuff.  I have found nothing comparable here in Canada when it comes to my stubborn and debilitating headaches.  The powder comes in a paper sachet, the idea being to tip it on the tongue, and swig it down with a lot of water, trying all the while to disregard the violently acrid taste and fizzing texture.  Being practiced, I have mastered the technique.  It can prove challenging, I realized, when there is no cup of water on hand to bring to the lips.  One has to bend over the tap, tongue curled upward resembling lapping cat’s, to prevent the powder from spilling out of one’s mouth.  Somehow I managed this skillful manouvre with success, and so returned to the witness bench secure in the knowledge that within minutes the pounding gavel in my head would ease.  

Unfortunately, such was my haste to self-medicate, I’d failed to notice the damning white powder dusting the front of my navy (scoop neck) top.  Prosecuting council spotted it and pointed an accusatory finger at Exhibit A.  “What’s that?” he asked.  Unaware of my medicinal malfunction, I almost said “My breast, what do you think it is?” but something told me to look down.  The incriminating evidence was clearly presented.  “Oh, that’s my headache powder!” I jauntily announced.  “Really?  I have never heard of headache powder. Sounds Victorian.”  He responded, eyes and lips narrowed with suspicion and judgement.  I explained about South Africa and the obliging sisters transporting my supply and the punishing headaches, but I could see he’d lost interest in me, in that instant.  Well, quite probably he’d been underwhelmed when he’d seen my thighs… Clearly his verdict had been reached, and I had been found wanting.  I was now encroaching on his time.  

We completed our meal with little more conversation.  Never has such delicious food stuck so uncomfortably in my throat.  Thankfully, the throbbing head was my alibi and reason why I should hasten home rather than stroll the market stalls with him.  Happily, he granted me absolute discharge with no further objection.

Headache or not, I’m never one to miss an opportunity to promote my son-in-law’s business.  “Do make sure you visit the Lockwood Farm Stall,” was my parting shot, “They have the finest free-range eggs on the Island.”  

Ha ha, I hear from James that he bought three dozen!