PERSONAL AD

Disgraceful!

And a man of my stature too, whittled down to a mere three dozen words. This, and after a lifetime of experience, is all I boil down to.

Reduced and reduced like some French sauce, to be pawed over by lonely, half disinterested females, all of whom are strangers to me.

For the love of life, I’m 51 years old. Nevertheless I have been mulling over the idea of placing a personal advert all summer break. All I’ve seen so far for inspiration is graffiti, scrawled messages on that toilet wall offering sex, seeking same.

Maybe youth doesn’t need to present itself well in order to be seen as alluring. Youth is it’s own best advert. I’m assuming these missives hail from some of the gay student population of London. I might be wrong. But I use the student toilets. They are right next to my office. And there they are: these epithets shouting out at me. They mock me with there big cocks and ungracious offers of anal sex. Beautiful youth.

But see here. What could I write? How about: “Balding, ugly, lonely bean pole of a man in the death throws of his mid life crisis, seeks glamorous young female for nights of passion, days of happiness, a life of joy and mutual understanding.” Yes! That about sums it up. Fits the word limit. But somehow it needs more.

The Professor gazed disconsolately at his irony. Loneliness was not a word he would use to describe himself. But alone he was. Sure, he was married once, like most, back in the ‘70’s when being tall wasn’t deemed to be a social handicap. At 6’ 4” and as thin as a rake he was now viewed as something of an oddity.

Yes, it was true. Youth was it’s own beauty balm, an idyllic beachscape in which to frolic. But with the ebbing of the tide the wrecks and rocks of impending age are soon revealed. Mud and seaweed. His spindly height was noted more and more with times recession.

What really niggled was that even his mother had come to view him as a family aberration. A giant amongst dwarves.

His eyes had locked onto a capital “B” for “But” and now the ink seemed to shift slightly on the page. He wondered why the beautiful phrase “And yet” so beloved of Shakespeare had come to be replaced by the abrupt and unforgiving “But”. He resolved to employ “And yet” a little more in his everyday speech. Language revolution by degrees.

He had not been in a solid relationship for over 12 years and had consequently come to carry his work around with him wherever he went. It was his greatest passion. And yet art history was not to everyone’s liking. Sometimes the passion was too great. He suspected that it could even frighten prospective partners away. A pleasant stroll in the woods could morph itself into an aggressive art rant. And the louder he ranted the less they were inclined to listen.

He had self awareness and yet it did not seem to help him. He still did it. In his darker moments Felicity’s words came rushing back to haunt him from the swirled black and orange of the serious seventies.

“Baldwin” she had almost whispered, “you are the most utter and complete bore.”

And yet that was not him at all. It was untrue. He was kind, honest, someone to be trusted and loved. Kind and honest, someone to be trusted, someone worthy of love.

By this time the Professor had become so wrapped up in his reverie, he had not noticed Evelyn standing in front of him. He looked up to catch her, head cocked, reading the scrawl on his pad. In her job, no handwriting was beyond decryption, upside down, sideways, however it came.

“Professor” she said. “That, I suppose, is some kind of joke.”

When in doubt, he thought to himself, say nothing. He did not speak. “Right” she said. “Here are the papers to mark. There’s a 48 hour turn round.” Evelyn turned round and left the room.

Baldwin scrunched up his nose. “Time for a coffee” he thought to himself and cantilevered his long length up to a standing position. The caffeine might inspire him. And yet it did not. Moreover he had 13 papers to mark and the best part of the day was gone already.

On leaving the building prompt at five he had a quick rummage in his pigeon hole to see what he might find. And there it was. Only visible to touch, a lone scrap of paper. A memo from Evelyn.

Some half forgotten feeling jolted awake inside of him. It was only then he realised how he’d half expecting something from her. After the fact, it seemed the most obvious thing in the world. He stopped on the steps outside. A warm light from the late afternoon sun bathed him in a flattering glow. He read the memo:

“Kind, honest male, 51, tall, slim,
looking for female 35-55 to
share similar interests.
Visiting art galleries and
museums, walks in the countryside
and cosy nights indoors.
Interested?”