Matchmaker, matchmaker

Given how much I whinge about being single, you’d think I’d be pleased when friends try setting me up with potential suitors. The thing is, by and large, such attempts are utterly disastrous.

For some reason, weddings provide a wonderful opportunity for such matchings – the seating plan could be second only to online dating as a means for blind dates. A couple of years ago, my dear wise friend used her own wedding as an opportunity to place me next to a guy who was interested. I could simply leave it at the fact that his name was Fabio, but that would be unfair (he didn’t choose his name, he did however, choose the white suit he was wearing). The most interesting topic of conversation was the fact that he’d recently read a new translation of the Bible from the Hebrew to Spanish. Thrilling.

On Saturday, we had a family wedding. It was a rather posh affair – the wedding list was held at Fortnum & Mason, if you please – and we were greatly intrigued by the family our relation was marrying into. Conversations with my mother (regarding my outfit, which many people seemed over-concerned with) in the run up to the event seemed to suggest that she was hoping I’d find my own fabulously wealthy spouse. Imagine her and my sister’s glee when they consulted the table lists and discovered I’d been sat alone (as in the only member of my family) on a table next to the bride’s younger, single brother…

Oh dear, he was a dullard. I played along and was a gracious guest engaging with those around me. He made the mistake of asking random, closed questions:
“Do you read?”
“Have you travelled?”
“Do you watch films?”

In the spirit of communication, I didn’t simply answer “yes” to the above, but conversation dragged, just a little. All the while, my parents at the next table kept an eye on my adventures, sporadically checking for updates. In between courses I worked the room – maintaining the illusion of social butterfly, all the while delaying the moment I’d have to return to my seat. Thank goodness for waiters who refill wine glasses before they’re empty!

Fast forward a couple of days to the conference (still going – yesterday I had all of an hour’s free time between 6.30am & 10pm) and I was greeted by a contemporary of my parents who I see fairly regularly through work. Our conversations always begin with the same two questions:
1. How are you?
2. Have you got a man yet?

I don’t mind, but he is a terrible matchmaker – terrible in the sense that he never gives up, not necessarily that he chooses bad people – I have a lot of sympathy for his recently single daughter, as she must get it a lot worse than me! Fortunately he doesn’t know many men in my locality/context and the one person he’s tried out (a one-time colleague – how embarrassing) was as uninterested as I was.

Wise friend recently told me she was getting back into the matchmaking game, which concerns me. Even though we have frequent conversations about men, she has a very shaky grasp of what I’m looking for, yet whenever I complain, she calls me picky – I am not picky, I just have standards. We’ll see what she comes up with…

[Oh, and if you were wondering about my wedding outfit – I’m sure you were – I rather think I got it spot on. My father decided I’d morphed into a young Emma Thompson, which I’m going to take as a compliment. Bless him.]