Dear Giles (alias The Napper)
Felicity Withern was a collector of bad dates. Much like banks buy bad debt and coolers place bad bets, Felicity had a knack for collecting bad dates.
Yet whilst luck’s scales can tip in favour of a hapless gambler, and banks sell bad debt for good money, poor Felicity’s romantic endeavours only ever yielded disappointing returns.
But like most gamblers, Felicity couldn’t resist a flutter. So, when her childhood friend Octavia announced that her middle-aged brother, Giles was freshly divorced and back on the market, Felicity convinced Octavia to fast-track her to the front of the queue of spinsters, windows, divorcees and other hopefuls.
The gentleman in question? Well-educated, well-bred, well-paid, well-fed; all of which should have triggered alarm bells, but it was Felicity’s firm belief that “too good to be true” was an idiom bandied about by embittered people who blamed homespun nonsense for their poor life choices.
And here, as the inimitable Bertie Wooster would put it, “is where she made her bloomer.”
Dear Giles (alias The Napper),
There is a myriad of ways into a woman’s heart. Leaving her in front of a half-eaten Crème Brulé to take a post-dinner nap, on a romantic getaway, is not one of them.
When you excused yourself from the table, I drew the only obvious conclusion that an attractive woman such as myself, would draw and promptly followed you to your suite.
Imagine my surprise at finding you sprawled on your bed, shoes on, and snoring heavily. When my disrobement failed to arouse you, I nudged you awake only to be given terse instructions to switch off the light and see myself out.
Granted it was a tediously long drive and I’ll give you that my podcast on the mating crisis leading the Mediterranean monk seal to extinction was perhaps not the ideal segue way into an evening of romance but in my defence, it could have been led to robust discussion, if only you had grasped the subtext.
Fool Me Once
Citing nerves, yours, not mine, for our lacklustre first rendez-vous I gave you another chance, but our subsequent encounter was no better.
Having now conducted a survey of single women aged 25-60, across three continents, I can confirm that without exception there is unanimous agreement that an invitation to a private villa for a lite bite and a cheeky dip is code for an illicit tête-à-tête.
So, when I arrived and was handed a glass of lukewarm rose and a takeaway salad-pot from the scowling help whilst you fielded unplanned, but urgent calls that left you so drained that you had to retire for a siesta, I could only imagine this was the risqué invitation you were too nervous to deliver over dinner.
This time your bedroom door was locked. I know because I checked it three times. I even knocked until the help, annoyingly sporting a sunnier countenance than earlier, ushered me out.
Have You Met Me?
If I was a less confident woman, I might surmise that you found my company tiresome; that you only asked me out because you felt duty-bound to your pestering sister, Tavy, and the naps were merely a ruse to avoid spending time with me.
Anyone who has met me, will obviously reject this theory outright and rightly conclude, as I have done, that you suffer from a fear of intimacy and quite possibly severe performance anxiety. This leads to sudden bouts of narcolepsy, and it is clear you are in need of medical attention.
I have taken it upon myself to sign you up for a six-week sleep disorders programme and refer you to my good friend, Dr. Hanson who runs an andrology clinic specialising in these sensitive matters. Fear not, he is very discreet. Expect a call from his office, directly.
To spare you further embarrassment, I’ve also taken the liberty to inform Tavy and the other ladies of your delicate condition. There’s no need to feel awkward or to thank me, it was the least I could do to express my gratitude for such two delightful dates.