‘Glad-eye’ gives me some tips about being in the market for love
‘‘Phew, that could have been awkward. I was getting a bit of the old glad-eye there.’’
The woman beside me at the fleamarket, selling home-baking, had just provisioned an elderly gent with a tray of Anzac biscuits for $10.
‘‘Glad-eye?’’ I asked, although the meaning was already percolating from my brain cellar.
‘‘I think he was about to ask for my phone number.’’
She was middle-aged, bubbly, and dressed in hippyish garb that advertised either ‘flake’ or grounded sensibilities. We’d already established that she made all her produce, and the tantalising display attested to her skill.
I was flogging off my surplus crap. Such markets are rife with skinflints who perform the most outrageous pantomimes trying to knock a dollar off an already dirtcheap bargain. I’d keep them honest, but anything left over was going straight to the op shops.
For all her new-age patina, Baker-Lady had spine. We’d begun our cohabitation with terse words about a ‘‘scarcity of real estate’’ because she felt my site was crowding her space. I shuffled sideways, enough to be reasonable without conceding my own property rights.
The dealers swoop in first at these markets. When I’d flicked away their risible offers I sat customer-less while Baker-Lady charmed ‘Glad-Eye’.
‘‘I like them any age,’’ she winked afterwards. ‘‘Heart conditions no object.’’
Our initial frostiness burned off quickly amid such cheek. ‘‘Ah, so you are shopping?’’ No, she shrugged. Her partner had perched at her kitchen table for years now. They’d argued the previous night.
‘‘He was out drinking with his mates and he drove home. It’s only a short way but that’s not on, don’t you think? I said to him, ‘Okay you could kill yourself – that’s your business. But you might kill some other innocent soul. How would you feel about that?’’’
Glad-Eye was back and chatting. He’s no Bill-bait. He squinted through thick specs, and his ‘shorts’ might belong to his older brother, stopping just short of a giant pair of agricultural boots.
I realised glumly that he was probably my age. When I looked to confirm, he’d gone.
‘‘Told you,’’ said Neighbour. ‘‘He asked for my number.
‘‘He’s got property down south,’’ she added with a mischievous glint. ‘‘He said, ‘Assets don’t matter to me’. I felt like saying, ‘Well, they matter to me’.’’
This courtship business is a minefield laid in quicksand over a honeycomb of tomos. Yet we all step across the ‘Danger’ tape, ignoring historic stabs of pain.
On its fringes, picking the path between compliment and harassment was never more fraught.
‘Hidden’ signals are obvious to the expert practitioners – which all women have to be. They need 20-20 vision from an early age to fend off the wolves.
Fleamarket business was slow, so I tried to redeem my less-thansparkling grade in Relationships 101.
‘‘Do you find that offensive, him asking? He’s only just met you.’’
‘‘What!’’ she laughed. ‘‘I haven’t been asked for my phone number in a decade.’’
The flattery was harmless, politely rebuffed. Her partner faced no threat aside from another bollocking when she got home about his behaviour.
We established I was happily single – almost oxymoronic when you say it aloud. And no, I wasn’t gay.
‘‘You can’t chase love,’’ she offered, with new-found authority. ‘‘You have to let it find you.’’
‘‘Maybe,’’ I mused, wondering whether Cupid wore thick specs.
‘‘It’s certainly a couples world,’’ I added.
‘‘That’s for real.’’
Travel alone and you pay double for your accommodation. Any social invitation is addressed to yourself and partner. Walk in alone and you have no conversational backstop; no buddy to ease the social tremors.
Ironically, for those truly blessed with solo serenity, it’s an attractive trait. I mean, an accessorised bloke doesn’t have to be scintillating. He smiles, he hovers and he helps himself to another free vol au vent.
The market was a wasted morning. Sales lived down to my low expectations. Baker-Lady had done slightly better – and $6 of my ‘profit’ vanished on a jar of her lemon-and-orange marmalade. (Delicious.)
We packed up. She marvelled how I could squeeze so much junk into a small hatchback. Practice.
‘‘See you around, Mr MixN-Mingle.’’
I snorted.
‘‘It’s definitely a buyers’ market,’’ she grinned. I’m not sure what she was referring to.