Open Writing

I was a young man once. Good physique, plenty of dark hair, played football for the town second eleven, had nice ears, good hands, and was full of beans.

Now I’m 74 and will be 75 this year. My feet have grown, my ears are bigger – and I’m missing more than half of one, thanks to a conscientious surgeon who wouldn’t let me leave his operating theatre until he’d removed every bit of a basal cell carcinoma.

I’m an old fart, what’s known as OFFAL – meaning old fart finding another love –and I’m not very good at it. In fact, I was never good at it.

When I was born, even my mother didn’t like me. She wanted a girl. Her father said to her, “Nonsense. He’s fine. Congratulations. I’ve brought you a bottle of three star brandy.”

My mother believed she had earned it, and took a big swig at it as soon as her father left. That’s why to this day I can never resist a brandy and have difficulty taking my eyes off large breasts.

My first love was a girl called Beryl. She was a year older than me, wore spectacles and used to board the old Whitbank bus at Whitton Gilbert on her way to school in Durham City. I was about eight at the time and had this crush on her. I never told her.

When my parents left Lanchester, I lost touch with her forever to begin a new life in Prudhoe, in South Northumberland.

I lost my heart at about 14 to a girl called Valerie Wilkinson at Northallerton Grammar School. She had an older sister who worked in a bank. Valerie was a shy girl with a passion for cricket. That was not my sport.

From Valerie I developed a crush on a girl called Catherine Wood. She had a younger sister Rachel, who I admired dearly but could never get close to her because she had another admirer who never let her out of his sight. I settled for Catherine.

Catherine was the senior athletics champion at school and had a gift for languages. I can remember kissing her once and putting my hand over her chest.

“You are very bold, sir,” she told me.

Being with Catherine was like dating one of the Bronte sisters.

One day a friend called Jim McGurk asked me if I was still keen on Catherine. I said yes. He said I should go to the Prefects’ Room and see what was happening there. I went up to the room and there was Catherine sitting on the knee of another boy and snogging away with fervent enthusiasm.

I ran away from the room. I thought my heart would break. I went to the cinema that night and saw a movie “Blowing Wild,” with the theme song by Frankie Laine.

I was never the same after that. I felt I would never trust love again.

When I left school and worked as a journalist on the Thirsk, Bedale and Northallerton Times, for recreation I joined the Northallerton Operatic Society and sang in the men’s chorus as a second tenor. There I met a girl called Angela, whose father was the producer of the opera, The Mikado.
One of my friends drew my attention to the fact that Angela was also seeing another young man at the same time. This was quite devastating to me. I had no idea I was “the other man.”

I went to work in Darlington but found myself working night duty as a sub editor on The Northern Echo. I met a really stunning girl, Barbara, and found after a few months that she also was seeing somebody else.

I reviewed my life, didn’t like the look of things, so I went to Australia for a fresh start.

Working for the Daily Telegraph in Sydney, I met a really stylish woman called Alex Garner, who was great company. I camped in her flat a few times, then we got married and came to Perth to make a new life in the West.

Alex was great company, never a boring moment with her. We had a son, Leon, and planned our lives ahead until one day, her family doctor came to see us to tell her that she didn’t have an appendix problem, as she had thought, but an ovarian tumour, from which she had a 30 per cent chance of survival.” I’ll take it,” she said, squeezing my hand.

I was 52 at the time. She died 14 months later.

Shortly before she died she said, “My darling man, what have I done to you?”

I replied she had done nothing, that I had been delighted with her.

“I shouldn’t have been so snitchy,” she said. In truth, she could be a tartar. I replied that I wouldn’t have had her any different. She had been a good wife to me, a wonderful mother, and my best friend always. She died absolved.

I had a lot of problems coping. People would offer their sympathy and I’d want to weep. I couldn’t go to funerals without weeping. I couldn’t bear freemasonry after this, and dropped out.

I took a course with the University of WA Summer School on how to be single.

The lecturer told me not to pin labels on myself, that it was fine to be single, and that life was a series of relationships.

About four months after Alex died, it was my birthday, and I asked myself what would I really like for today? I considered this carefully and decided I’d like to do a 10 km run, have a grilled squid with salad lunch at a favourite place in Subiaco, and then I’d like a leg massage.

I looked through the morning newspaper after the lunch and saw an advertisement offering massage, and went to the listed address.

The receptionist told me to go up the stairs, take a shower, and lie naked on the table, covered by a towel. A young Asian woman entered the room, wearing a bikini and boots. She talked to me, told me about her boyfriend and his mother, then whisked the towel off me. I had not been aroused by her and the woman fled.

“What did you expect,? the receptionist asked? I told her about being alone, that it was my birthday and I was treating myself. “You need to join the Dinner Club,” she said, and pointed to an advertisement among the classifieds. “Ring this number,” she said.

I went home, phoned the number, and was invited to a house party that night. I joined the Dinner Club and at a subsequent event, met Liz, a divorcée, with three adult daughters.

Liz and I got on really well. She bought a bicycle and we cycled together. We had some really good times. She told me I was the love of her life then one day it all went sour.

“We need a break,” she said.

Shortly afterwards, my house burnt down and I lost all my possessions.
I shared a flat with a friend until I could have my house rebuilt, then moved back in with a sleeping bag, a second hand fridge, a radio, a second hand washing machine, and an electric jug.

Slowly and steadily, I rebuilt a comfortable home. I was very involved in distance running and used this to get me through the days. I mentored people on how to run, threw myself into my work, then one day found I was 60 years old and still single and my employer wanted 1000 people to volunteer for redundancy. I volunteered. I got the redundancy.

I had some wonderful relationships with some beautiful women but nothing ever came of them. If you are a beautiful woman, with a successful business, and a promising future ahead of you, what would you need with a 60 year old man?

You certainly wouldn’t need me, an alpha male, with a modest income based on dividends from equity investments.

So what does a gentleman do? He doesn’t need to start a new family.
But where does he fit in?

I advertised myself on a computing dating site. About 24 ladies applied, four of them I dismissed immediately because they were 23 years old, or younger.

I interviewed some of the others at a café in South Perth, and committed myself to one, a really nice woman, who was good company and a good cook.

One day, she mentioned to me that I was a little too uptight and should try some pot with her – and maybe find enlightenment.

At the time, I was the state marathon champion – in my age group – and realised I’d got it wrong again. I’m the problem, not the ladies.

I wore my hip out with running and now have a hip replacement. I stayed in the athletics culture through walking but I’m not a fast walker. My age graded performance, measured recently, was a little over 61 per cent. I’m no world beater.

I play bridge moderately well and attend the gym at the Riverton Leisureplex Centre. Also, I’ve been learning to dance.

I teach creative writing at the University of the Third Age, where I also ran a short course on Sudoku for dummies.

What lies ahead of me? I can probably handle more heartbreak. After all, I’ve had plenty of practice at it.