Shingles Club

Strange to tell but after the downfall of a bad marriage the natural reaction is to try to fit again in an equally damaging relationship. Any damaging relationship will suffice. Such is the way of the world. To justify this conformity to expectation is the primary purpose of the singles club.

When the singularity of my sofa became too painful and the Kleenex box was empty it was time to swallow my pride and throw myself on an unsuspecting public. On a Saturday night where else could a middle aged man head for a face to face confrontation? I donned my best bib and tucker and made ready for the fray.

Unfortunately the mainstay of clientele bore a degree of similarity to an audition line for the Addams Family. There was the ‘odd’ cub looking for a lioness but the majority showed definite signs of decay. On closer inspection the congregation seemed to sort themselves in order of desperation. I did know that balding lounge lizards didn’t pose much competition. While most of the faces could have benefited from severe ironing if I wasn’t too picky there was plenty of yellow sticker meat on offer. But I would have to change my game plan and recalibrate my expectation as well. A successful ongoing relationship would definitely not be the outcome of any tryst.

Being the new kid on the block it wasn’t long before I was approached. It’s amazing what you can catch in one of these places. The common cold to herpes is almost guaranteed. She had probably in the past been someone’s trophy. A little tarnished but her silverware was clean enough to be on show. Suffice to say this ‘silver tongued devil’ became her polishing cloth for the night.

I gave it a couple of weeks and returned. I had a similar escapade with a different partner. In fact it was only after four or five months of this repetitive behaviour I noticed that all my ‘conquests’ not only shared the same sophistication but sat at the same table for their weekly constitutional. It seemed I was being passed around. Not one to quibble I took to my duty like the man I am. Foul weather protection meant any potential storm in the port could be kept at bay. Every other weekend my sofa got a breather as I became the notch on the middle aged woman’s bedpost.

Somewhere along the way I realised that while most men 'think' they are the hunter it is in reality the other way around. Believe me in the battle of the sexes there is only one winner. The trick however, no matter how deceptive, is to make sure you appear as a prize.