How I met my match
"A lonely heart who got the lot"
I’ve read some highly entertaining stories of blind dates on Substack in the past week (links included further down), and
, who is recounting some of hers at the moment, prompted me to tell my own story.I was whooshed back to the mid-1980s, pre-internet and mobile phones, when personal ads involved a wait of at least a week before you could sift through the handwritten responses forwarded to you from the magazine’s PO Box.
For that is how I met the love of my life and father of my children (after a couple of false starts replying to other people’s ads). I was invited by Wendy Bristow, the launch editor of More! magazine, to write about it at the time.
Here it is, as it appeared in the 15 June 1988 issue of More! It was headlined:
“A lonely heart who got the lot”
For my birthday in 1985 my best friend Elaine sent me a card she’d made herself. She’d stuck on it a line cut from a newspaper that said, “Where have all the good men gone?”
It was our joke. We’d spent countless evenings together that year, lamenting the fact that we, two attractive, intelligent women living in London, had never met our male equivalents. We’d met sexy men with sub-zero IQs, we’d met achievers who didn’t arouse enough electricity to run a digital watch, but unattached men who were attractive, bright, and had a smattering of sensitivity were extremely thin on the ground.
It didn’t seem unreasonable to want a man who’d discuss what was in the Sunday papers, give me a run for my money at Trivial Pursuit, laugh at Patrick Moore’s suits and take his turn with the dishes. Someone who my mother might not approve of, but my friends would. But my previous boyfriends had fallen short on almost every point, and I’d been on my own for a year.
In a city it can be very difficult to meet anyone new, male or female. You tend to mix only with colleagues at work, or with well-established friends. You don’t constantly come across the same faces, as you would in a small town. In fact, you’re surrounded by so many new and changing faces, so many potential relationships, that you don’t know where to start.
I’d tried going to films, theatres, exhibitions, on my own, just to make my position clear: look, here I am, just me. No boyfriend or girlfriend to confuse the issue. Unfortunately, sitting there, self-consciously trying not to appear self-conscious, I still couldn’t see anyone who looked right.
When I eventually found the elusive character I’d been searching for, I discovered he’d been there, at those cinemas, theatres, exhibitions, on his own, looking for me, as it happened. It was just that our paths hadn’t crossed. And they probably never would have crossed if I hadn’t, in a moment of recklessness, advertised for him.
I’d often glossed through the Lonely Hearts columns of London magazines. Sometimes just for a laugh, sometimes wondering what would happen if…
Now I realised I had nothing to lose. It might lead nowhere, but at least it was an adventure. My social life couldn’t get any duller than it already was. Before placing an ad of my own I decided to reply to one as a test run.
The ad I replied to was nestling between a solvent businessman and a lonely gay. “Sartre type seeks Simone de Beauvoir,” it said.
I was nearing the end of De Beauvoir’s book, The Mandarins at the time, and wistfully dreaming of brilliant minds pondering the meaning of life and freedom and politics, and having Affairs with a capital A.
Was this him, then? My Sartre of the Eighties? I put pen to paper. “Dear Sartre,” I began, “Does this mean you’re ugly with a gammy eye?”
His phone call, when it came, was surprising. He sounded older, more middle-aged, than his alleged 28 years. But, ever the positive thinker, I set this thought aside.
“So,” I asked, “are you a brilliant French intellectual, or what?”
“I’m a physics teacher,” he replied, in a dull, brown voice, and I sadly realised that I’d never met a physics teacher I liked.1
I told him that I was a journalist and he – perhaps rightly, since I’m telling you this – sounded suspicious. I said that I was a huge fan of Simone de Beauvoir. He told me that he was more of a Sartre fan himself.
We agreed to meet.
“By the way, what do you look like?” I asked as an afterthought. (After all, what does physical appearance really matter to brilliant minds?)
“Well, I wouldn’t say I’m ugly…”
He hesitated, and I became more apprehensive.
“I’m five foot four…”
My heart sank – I’m five feet six and Dustin Hoffman leaves me cold.
“I’ve got red hair and a beard – erm, I’m slightly balding, too.”
I started sweating.
“I wear glasses,” he went on.
“What sort?” I asked.
“Well, wire-rimmed, round ones,”
“Ah.”
“I’m a little overweight,” he continued. “Not fat, but, well, portly.”
“And what will you be wearing?” I asked, scarcely breathing.
“Erm, a brown overcoat I expect – dun-coloured – and I’ll be carrying a dark brown briefcase.”
I inhaled deeply and stifled the urge to laugh hysterically as images of Paddington Bear filled my head. I changed my mind about looks not counting.
“How about you?” he asked.
“Me? Oh, yes. Well, I’m five foot six, brown shoulder length hair, average build. I’ll be wearing a long, shiny black mac and purple suede shoes.”
He sounded surprised.
In the days running up to our meeting I thought frequently about standing him up, but when it came to it, I hadn’t the heart. I headed for Leicester Square tube station, where we’d agreed to meet, checking out every balding, bearded, bespectacled shorty along the way – it’s amazing how many there are – and hoping he would somehow look more exciting. Perhaps he’d have a twinkle in his eyes, I thought, as I rounded the corner and caught sight of him standing by the ticket barrier.
Then again, perhaps not.
He looked downright ordinary, downright dull in his dun-coloured overcoat, clutching his briefcase and looking a little nervous.
He hadn’t seen me, and the urge to run for it was overwhelming. But a mixture of sympathy and nobility overtook and I faced up to my dilemma, deciding that I would and could see it through. I conquered my nerves in the same way I conquer them when I’m off to interview someone important, and marched up to him with a smile on my face.
He looked surprised.
Five minutes and one nervously gulped Martini later and we’d just about exhausted the topic of Simone de Beauvoir. I kicked myself for assuming that people who happen to like the same book will have anything else in common. We spun out another excruciating hour having a meal. When he asked me what I’d like to do next I already had my answer ready.
“I’m going home,” I said, trying to sound kind but firm. “I don’t really feel comfortable. Do you?”
“Well, no, to be honest,” he confessed. “I think we’re really very different kinds of people. I expect you think I’m a bit of a square.”
“No, no,” I said, going a deep shade of fibber’s pink.
The experience did get me thinking though: maybe I should take this initiative and write an ad of my own. One which would, hopefully, ward off desperadoes and attract those people who wouldn’t really want to admit they were looking.
Knowing a bit about magazines, I knew there was no point going for a short and shy little ad tucked away in the corner. Make it big, make it bold. Above all, avoid clichés.
My ad read:
“ENDANGERED SPECIES?
Creative, intelligent, unattached men close to extinction, or so I’m beginning to think. I’m 25, female, interested in the arts, pop music, dancing, food. I’ve got a brain, two eyes, a nose a mouth etc, all very nice. I can’t believe that’s unique. Come on chaps, give me a sign!”
I placed it in the London listings magazine, City Limits (read by right-on, non-materialist, non-sexist, non-racist types) and waited for an avalanche.
After a week and a half, I had 30 letters in all, and I sorted them out into piles according to how much I liked the envelope and the handwriting (I think that can reveal a lot).
Top of the pile was a pleasant grey envelope with a cheerful, handwritten address. The style was uncluttered, but slightly odd; the letters weren’t joined up, which gave it a child-like quality. Straightforward, no-nonsense envelopes went to the middle of the pile; anything severe, official-looking or illegible was relegated to the bottom.
I was immediately excited when my favourite grey envelope contained a lively, witty and optimistic letter from a 22-year old journalist. His name was Ian, he’d recently arrived in London and he was replying to my ad because “what the hell is always the best decision to make” (I found out later that he’d cribbed that line from a film2).
He described himself as tall, blondish, with hair and a nose that he didn’t like, and an interesting neck scar.
Even while I was reading his letter I felt, to risk sounding corny, that he was the one for me.
A few of the other replies were interesting, but none extracted from me the same delicious sense of anticipation. I was surprised how few “hopeless case” letters there were, though. The worst was a badly photocopied missive from someone called Roger. He mentioned his “fully functioning parts” and asked if the prospect of bedding down on a rug in front of a blazing fire appealed. He also enclosed a truly awful poem.
The first few times I rang Ian he wasn’t in. It was a good sign, I thought. Eventually I left my number with his flatmate. When he rang me back, I felt that I was speaking to an old friend. We talked happily for an hour and arranged to meet by the Nat West cash dispenser in Leicester Square that Friday. I forget why we chose that venue, but I can never walk past it now without remembering that night.
As I approached, Ian was talking to a girl, so for a moment I thought this tall, casually dressed figure I so liked the look of might not be him. I’ve never registered such disappointment. It turned out she’d just approached him to ask the time.
His greeting was warm and familiar and I felt totally relaxed in his company. I’ve heard people talk about love at first sight being like a homecoming, and that’s exactly the description I’d use myself. I was home.
The details of that evening blur with time. I remember that we went to a cheap Italian restaurant we both knew (immediately we began to find that we shared common ground), and I remember being impressed with the way he paid the bill without me even noticing. When I offered to pay half, he casually suggested I pay “next time”, so promising a future that I already instinctively knew we had.
We lived at opposite ends of London, and I bravely asked if he’d like to go on to see a band on my side of the river3. He agreed, and we were in such high spirits that the music seemed to be playing especially for us. In the early hours of Saturday morning we walked back to my flat. Ian didn’t leave until Sunday night.
Although I’d been curious enough about one or two of the other replies to write back, I now cancelled all other appointments and didn’t even open the other 30 letters that arrived the next week. I’d found who I was looking for.
The intensity of the next few weeks was exhausting. Practically every evening we saw a film or went for a meal. We spent the weekends in Ian’s room or more often at my flat. We met (and liked) each other’s friends, we devoured newspapers, magazines and books, we talked and laughed a lot. In fact we’d taken the relationship at such a pace that if we hadn’t been stopped in our tracks, as we were, I think perhaps it might have fizzled out.
In May we went on holiday to Greece, and I began to feel ill. Food began to smell rancid, and then I started to be physically sick. Looking back on it the signs were obvious, but as I was using contraception (a coil), I simply didn’t believe that I could be pregnant. Back in London, and feeling worse than ever, a test confirmed my fears.
I was 25 and loved my job. Ian, still 22, felt that his own life was only just beginning. The decision to go ahead wasn’t easy, but I was sure that, though we’d only known each other a matter of weeks, the bond between us was strong enough to see us through.
Feeling ill and exhausted, I wasn’t good company in the weeks that followed. I couldn’t understand why some women sail through pregnancy but I found it such a physical, psychological and emotional burden.
Ian and I turned up for my first scan and were amazed to find the monitor picking up no fewer than three little shapes kicking around. If I hadn’t already been lying down I think I would have fainted.
It didn’t sink in for quite some time that we were having not just a baby, but a large, instant family. I began to feel quite bold carrying my huge bump before me; after all, I was more of a crowd than a person now.
The babies, three girls, were born exactly ten months after Ian and I first met, which must be some sort of record. Neither of us knew a thing about babies, but being flung into parenthood so suddenly, we had no choice but to learn fast. Mostly it’s lovely, always it’s hard work, sometimes it’s hell, but I won’t spoil a potentially ‘happy ever after’ story with tales of sleepless nights.
Our own relationship has proved to be very strong and special. Whenever the inevitable strains of our situation bring out extremes of bad temper in one of us, the other instinctively knows how to right the balance. Throughout everything, the laughter, love and mutual respect has remained.
I’m usually too busy to dwell on the way it all began, but it’s satisfying to know that I found Ian by such an unlikely route. Even I didn’t believe that it could bring about quite such dramatic results.
Our “girls” are now 37 and the most wonderful women in my life4. And Ian remains the love of my life. I realise how lucky we are. I’m glad not to be “out there” in the modern age of online dating. I far prefer a handwritten letter!
I hope companionship finds those of you who are seeking it.
© Wendy Varley 2024
The inspiration to share my More! article came from reading the following dating stories on Substack this week, all of which I loved:
- of Dating Dinosaurs
Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire, part II
You don’t get a new dick. I’m sorry.
Please feel free to like, comment and/or share this. Have you had online dating disasters or successes?
Retrospective apology to physicists. I know some lovely ones. (Hello, son.)
Nicolas Roeg’s 1985 film, Insignificance.
Topper Headon at Goldsmith’s Student Union.
Shout out to my sister, too!
I gulped this down in one huge swallow - and I was right back then with the feel of More! - consuming the problem pages but more, living another's true life. I have a sense I must have read this then, when my one daughter was born, my one son three. And what a lovely story - truly. Thank you Wendy
and thank you for including fab links to dating stories - you're a great substacker to know.
An incredible story Wendy, beautifully written. It had me gripped. I knew you’d had triplets young, but 10 months after you met- that’s incredible. I doubt it has been easy, but it’s a wonderful thing to know that you’re approaching 40 years together. Congratulations.