Blind Date.

It’s a long, long time since my last blind date, but I just unearthed this anecdote from my memoirs, so thought I’d share my smiles. (with apologies to the nice little unknown man) Names changed to protect……….

BLIND DATE.

Over a cup of tea, she said, “Henry’s a really nice chap. He’s been on his own for a while and would love some good company. Nothing serious, just someone to take out for a meal, or walk, just some company”.

What harm could there be. I’m a widow. My daughter- in -law has recommended him, and I too would like some company.

So we decided a game of golf would be a good place to start.

We were to meet at the golf club, so when I arrived, I unpacked my golf clubs and waited for him on the verandah, wondering what he’d look like.

My girlfriend was just about to leave, but her curiosity was too strong, so she waited with me. Suddenly, a dreadful rusty little Mini Minor came pelting up the driveway, and a funny little man sort of scuttled over to the Pro Shop, but then hurried back and got into his car.

I breathed a sigh of relief, and we were still giggling about the awful possibility, when to my horror, and my friend’s delighted disbelief, he emerged again and made his way towards us. Oh no, it WAS him!

He had no golf balls so I found half a dozen old ones, which he dropped into the deep recesses of his tiny little golf bag, slung it over his shoulder and followed me to the first tee. He sort of scuttled along, and for the rest of the 9 holes, seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time rummaging in his golf bag.

I sensed his absence at one stage, and looked back to see him miles behind me, in the middle of a fairway, looking bewildered, with the contents of his upturned golf bag strewn all over the grass.

On the greens he would watch me putt my ball into the hole, and then either pick his ball up and put it in his pocket, or else take putt after putt, back and forth, over, alongside, beyond, behind, anywhere but in the hole.

There was no conversation, and he seemed too timid to even squeak. As we neared the Clubhouse, relief that it was nearly over turned into a new anxiety. Courtesy demanded that I take him in for a drink and to introduce him to other members. I couldn’t do it. No one could ask me to do it. Much too difficult.

Thinking desperately for a way out of this, as we neared the parking lot, I got an idea.

A startled male club member, quietly packing his car, backed away in shock as I threw myself at him, pretending to apologize for being so late.

The fact that this poor chap had never seen me before in his life, rendered him speechless, so we stood together for a moment while I waved goodbye to my “date”, who quickly disappeared down the driveway, in the little Mini Minor like a puff of smoke.

It was impossible to try to explain to my bewildered car park “saviour”. So I didn’t try.

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Toby.

Another dog story but in a very different vein from my Bonnie story. I hope it brings a smile.

Let me introduce myself. My name is Toby, and I am the four footed aristocrat who owns the two humans living opposite Meg in her cul de sac.

Anne and Bill (that is their names), have decided to go off to Europe for some unknown reason. They, the aforesaid Anne and Bill, seem to think Meg can’t manage without them, so I have been commissioned to do the honours while they are away gallivanting.

Each day I have to attach Meg to my lead and walk her across the road from my house to hers. She can’t be trusted even for this small journey, and I have to continually tug her back from chatting to the neighbours or pulling a weed.

I have several complaints about the way I have to spend the days while my humans are away.I hasten to add that I insist on returning to my own bed at night. Aristocrats like me are quite unable to adapt to strange beds.

But I digress. On complaint that I have is that at my own home, I have a proper canine entrance as is befitting for the rightful owner of my palatial corner block dwelling. (There is a sort of stained glass contraption that allows the human entrance at the front.)

Meg. however, has no such provision, and I am forced to stand patiently waiting at her back door, with the occasional and very polite”Woof”, whenever Nature calls me into her backyard. Meg frequently ignores my polite request until I need to raise the volume slightly, and her impatience astonishes me.

Another complaint is that when I do venture forth, the two yappy and rather undisciplined little creatures (of a very inferior breed I might add) who live next door, go quite hysterical with joy at my appearance.

I attempt to suppress their enthusiasm with my deep baritone reprimands, but usually to no avail.

My humans keep sending Meg photos galore on her tablet, of churches, museums, stately homes, their ceilings (I ask you!), and paintings and not a Shih Tzu in sight. What possible interest is it to me when I could just as easily look at one of their coffee table books.

Meg needs exercise so I make sure I distribute my royal bundles at different locations in her back yard each day. She finds the bending. scooping and disposing far more beneficial than Pilates classes I am sure. and a lot cheaper.

In the evening when I take Meg back, again attached to my lead, she rather offends me, when I baulk at consuming the little white pill she attempts to hide under the rather boring meal she provides each night. I inform her that one day, when she reaches my age, she too may be forced to rely on a little medication for the occasional aches and pain, and then who’ll be laughing!

Five more weeks for me to be carrying out these responsibilities . I have a good mind to tell my humans when they eventually do return, that I am quite over my Meg sitting days for life!