Miss You Mr. Blacknwhite

I know that most people call their dogs friends and, indeed, they are. I like dogs and have had them but they are rather needy creatures. Now, a cat is something else. A cat is not needy and it's very choosy. You might become its friend - or not. It does the deciding. I know this because I once had a cat friend, Mr. Blacknwhite. I lived in a coastal town that didn't favour too many street lights at night and although I lived in the village centre, was able to sit on my back porch and star gaze. I just liked to sit there and look up, not being a whole lot into knowing much about stars and planets, but I did love star gazing. One summer night, I noticed that I had a fellow stargazer. A somewhat frowzy looking black and white, long-haired cat was sitting also looking up. Each night I went outside, there was my cat friend about five or six feet away, also gazing upward. I began to whisper at him knowing that cats have sensitive ears and hate loud voices, even normal ones. He looked at me, sizing me up. I knew I had already passed the star gazing requirement. I invited him over and he came nearer, but didn't hop up onto the bench beside me. A few nights later with some rain in between, he did, in fact hop up on the bench and day by by day sat closer and closer. There were no purrs or rubbings up against; just the fellowship we had in loving the night sky. I began whispering his name, Mr. Blacknwhite, and he rather liked it. I think. You have to do a lot of guessing with cats. I could see companionship in his big eyes. He leaned on me sometimes. I decided to befriend him and got some little packets of cat treats, offering him one or two on the bench. He didn't stoop low by taking them out of my hand. Cats do have great dignity. Night after night, we sat together and often had conversations in our ways. When winter came, he sat out on the front lawn in rain and snow looking at my house. He just stared, that's all. It was cold, bitterly cold, so I fashioned a box near the back porch, one that was against a window thinking of its warmth. The box was cosy inside with a woolen blanket. He wasn't always in it, but he seemed to like it. When Spring came again we had become friends and I left food out on the back porch for him. Summer happened and again we both enjoyed stars, but this time, Mr. Blacknwhite allowed me to brush his fur coat. He purred and sometimes, rubbed up against my arm. One day he seemed very down. When he became ill, I took him to the vet who said that there was a tattoo in his ear and that the number showed it belonged to my neighbour across the street. Mr. Blacknwhite had scammed me. But well done. I called the neighbour who told me that it was the cat of his daughter but that it wasn't liked by their other four cats, one each owned by his kids. I told him the cat was very ill and at the vets. "She's yours," he said, "She doesn't like it here, anyway." The vet okayed that I was the new owner, and told me that someone in the neighbourhood must have put out rat poison and it was unlikely Mr. Blacknwhite would survive. He, who was really a spayed she, didn't survive. She is not forgotten, however,  especially on warm summer nights when I look up at the dark sky and almost believe I can feel my cat beside me, my star gazing friend Mr. Blacknwhite.

Welcome To The Hive

We all like to think we are original thinkers and doers. Sometimes it looks like that's not true when taking a gander at the pages of ads for new condos that spring up everywhere and are fodder for realtors and developers who make more than three doctors put together and line the burgeoning pockets of banks. We see on line and newspapers, pictures of rooms meant to tempt us into buying something that is actually very small, for something in dollars, that is very large. But. You are usually buying into a "hive". All the ads for the new-to-view,  look exactly alike, as though there is a giant stamp whopping down on the pages with the same floor plans and amenities in every single high rise ad. Only the elegant names are different. Bee hives have cells that all look alike. They house the tiny ambitious insects who all look  alike, live in the same kinds of places and go to work putting their lives  into making everything nice for all the rest of the bees. They all work to the ends of their little lives seeing that it stays stable and gives their hive world a reason to continue. Seems kind of gloomy when you think of how little we differ. And it's not all bad. For example, who really cares if each and every condo looks just like each and every other, and that we furnish them with the same old bland pastel nursery colour schemes as everyone else. After all, we don't want not to fit into what is considered fashionable or that may differ from all the other bees-er-people. We want to blend in, to look like and do much the same things as every other person. If there is an innovation such as a new hairstyle or outfit or car or trend, we are right there ready to spend to be sure, as quickly as possible, to get it. As to relationships, never mind. If they don't work out, simply move on to another one. One is pretty much like any other, taking out pheromones, if they count at all. Seems cynical, but cynical is usually a truth we want to avoid looking at even though it is truth.  So what's the answer? Ideas, your own ideas, are what make you human. You alone, have the possibility of creation, invention and variety. You are not a bee. If you choose so. Paint that wall red. Grow a tree on your little balcony or drive an old beater of a car that is reliable, if you please. And thus, revel in your uniqueness. You are not a bee. The fear of being bullied because you are different is actually praise that others understand you have special gifts that are yours alone, your way of life, your art of living the possibilities. When I enter an apartment (who in their twenties can own a house these days?), I love to see colour other than white on white or grey or pale baby room shades such as pink and peach and turquoise. Yuk. I enjoy a bit of mess and clutter. Go ahead and have too many things in your closet if you want to and do it without guilt. Eat and enjoy what you wish. Hey, it's your place and not a hospital ward. Wear what you like and do what, and go where, you need to. You get one life. It's completely all your own. There is joy in this one thing you own completely, and all of it is yours to do with as you please, within reason and law. That gives you all the scope you need to be happy. Bees buzz along doing what they do all making that hive as sweet as honey. "Bee" you Honey; you're one-of-a-kind perfect.

Slice, Dice and Mince

There are sayings like "how many angels fit on the head of a pin?", "he's busy navel gazing" or "gathering stars". It means the slicing and dicing and searching for molecules of matters, rather than taking it all as one sees it, simply and without over-analysis. These days of rampant leisure time available and higher health, wealth, education and world-wide communication,  the average person avoids digging deeply into detail on every available aspect, introspect and speculation in general, they pick up on the Media.  Journalists were once the purveyors of the questioning Ws. Today we rush to our various  devices to confirm our thoughts, desires and curiosities, the ones we already intuitively know the answers to. The information we find on-line ranges from the sublime to the ridiculous. To trust a site and know that it's safe and honest is a gamble. Furthermore, we honor our opinions as valuable. Dabblers in the on-line world, think they matter. It seems everyone simply must add his/her own comment or a thumbs up or down. And all for what? Are we so lonely and lacking of work, to think that our one out of millions of opinions matter to the chosen heroes of our times? Do we really think that the Royals or the Hollywoods or latest song birds care a whiff about the comments made? Of course not. Why on earth would, our fabulously wealthy idols,  bother to riffle around in the miasma of inane wordheaps we, the public tap out on our home keyboards? The rich and famous have other things to do. They don't read them or shouldn't, to bother their  lives with such nonsense. Why do we do it, then? We love to think that our opinions count even among those who make their money on us. It's that simple; we just like to give our opinions. Period. The issue is, that our world is so much a behemoth that all we have left that is real, is our one vote that we can sprinkle here and there, when asked for, and even then, we can't be sure it counts. Most of what we see and trust is laden under small print that no one reads or can. When was the last time you checked the little box that gets you quickly where you wanted to go because you knew that you'd have to be a Supreme Court judge to figure out the nuances of the fine print you are told you have access to?  It's only when you need to collect an insurance, for example, and find out that what you thought you had safely under control, you didn't. Contracts and information on your rights, like the proverbial needle, are so imbedded into haystacks of verbiage, that is largely impossible to fathom. Most of us just give up and go along. Most of us can't be bothered. But in this slice and dice world of hierarchies that employ those specifically hired to protect them behind reams of words, seas of their waves of  fine light grey print, we, the users, float along as usual, trusting we are safe. Are we?

My Tiny House

I lived in a tiny house that was 35 feet long and ten feet wide, for three years. It was safety wired and plumbed for use in the places we lived and cost under fifty thousand. It was on wheels and the interior was designer decorated inside. All of the fixtures were scaled down but just as useful as regular. It had a three piece bath with tub (did my laundry in it) and shower, a vanity sink, ample storage, a split level living room with sleeper couch, casual club chair, TV, end table,  coffee table, desk and book shelves. The upper level living room had surround windows with drapery and venetian blinds and on the desk, was our electric keyboard and CD player. All ceilings accommodated six footers. The kitchen sported an ell-shaped counter, double stainless sink, a four burner gas stove and oven, a fridge/freezer, a roll out pantry, a four person eating nook that doubled as a bed unit with storage under. We enjoyed hot water for the unit and power of course throughout. On stopping, we had to wait a bit for hot water while we settled in.  In the double bedroom, the bed lifted for storage under, there were two larger closets and two smaller ones on either side. There was tasteful carpeting and lino on the floors throughout, the double windows all around, had entone drapery and screens. Everything was winterized. Air conditioning was available, but we didn't favour it. The patio when needed was a fold down awning that covered most of the side and draping from it, was a privacy screen. The whole unit was truck ready to haul with a few unhookings and hookings up. The metal sided unit had storage under it for large items as well as the big propane tanks, heating and sewage and water equipment. All the appliances were a choice of electric with hook-ups or gas at the turn of a dial. If you haven't already guessed, yes, it was a fifth wheel trailer RV. These days people are going to huge expense, building "tiny houses" and attempting to find where to put them, what with restrictions and safety requirements. Having lived in the RV that continued to be used as a home when sold, were the best years of our lives. We worked for decades and then sold out and went "on the road". We bought the brand new RV fully furnished other than linens and dishes to take, stored all else and overnight, hit the road. We loved every minute of the gypsy life and met fine folks and visited amazing places. We even had a computer on board. The vehicle to haul us and our cat, Abby, was a diesel crew cab truck and it took us all over North America from top to bottom and side to side, in complete comfort and driving ease. We found lots of accommodation for RVs everywhere with short or long term rental pads and services.  Not only were these locations great visual spots to live in for a few weeks, but they also offered swimming pools and other recreation areas and plans. If you wanted more luxury you could find it in joining clubs. Those who are out there struggling to DIY might look into these sorts of units designed for living in semi permanently. Nothing is ever quite "permanent", and these units do have  quality if paid for, that meet all of the standards necessary . Sure they are made of metal not wood, but come now, which is more carefree and durable? Check good RVs out if you don't want all the headaches of building from scratch. A second hand one can be updated quite easily. Our home on wheels was very attractive inside and worked perfectly, too.  Or - do it the hard way.

No Ads Add Peace

On screen one day, there was a picture of a vast hall with a ceiling high above. In its lofty upper spaces, there were cupolas ringed with decorative borders and lighting that spread a gentle aura of quiet peace. Below, the marble flooring was great circular rings in shades of cream laced with pale green. Pillars lined endless halls that disappeared into a dim perspective beyond. The walls were large silver shingle tiles spilling down to what were rails. Aha, I thought,  a railroad station! It could have been a royal ballroom for all of its glowing creamy beauty. Why did I love this elegant sweep of marble hall? What made it appealing?  And then I realized there was not a single sign. You and I have seen spacious stations in the world that, even when filled with hoards of people passing and crossing their large venues, they seem to absorb footsteps and voices and the general clatter of travel in their palatial expanses. But what if all the people were gone, would they still inspire in us,  their artistic genius? Not if, as in most major stations, they have a myriad of signage everywhere spotting the walls and spoiling the visual peace. Not the signs that inform travelers of times and locations, but of silly matters such as where to dine and who is starring and what kind of thing to eat or drink or wear. This miasma of trivial print and picture ruins one's right to enjoy a building that was carefully engineered to welcome visitors and offer memorable farewell to those leaving. We plaster the walls with inane advertising for things we aren't at all interested in as we go rapidly along. We read the clutter of ads out of a natural reaction to become informed. But this heap of signage trash that comes at us from every public place and transportation vehicle, not only invades our eyes but also our psyches and we seem to have no sense to try and end it. Think how fine it would be if all advertisements in public places were banned. Think that we could actually see what we pay for. And yes, we all pay for the stations and buses and trains and streets in tickets and passes and taxes. It's ours and yet we ignore how ugly signs are. Unless they are specifically for your safety or useful information, they are simply a visual nuisance. I hear you say, but we are a free enterprise society and this is how commerce makes it. I say, no thanks. Keep your ads where ads should be, not shouting at me from the architecture. I want to see structures in their entirety, what the designers want us to enjoy. There are now entire high rise buildings covered with see-through netting that plasters our eye sweep with the faces of actors and chocolate bars and politicians. I experienced this first, in Eastern Europe travelling down main streets and boulevards with  horrendously large netted ads that completely hid buildings that lay behind. Where were the historical monumental building fronts we all came to experience? They were hidden behind chocolate bars five stories high and mugs of actors ten stories tall. Think of the peace and silent joy in a world without ads assaulting our visual landscape? We deserve to know the verticals, horizontals and scope of our visual man-made views as they were created for us to appreciate. When will we get that purity back? Or do we care?

Bossy Bosses

Yup, we've all had them, the boss from below. After thirty years of work, I recall all two of my bossy bosses.  Both were newies hired to "clean up" their venues, and that they did. At the time, I was horrified, but with a little perspective, I realized that it wasn't their personal faults. When they were interviewed, I suspect their hirers, outlined the parameters of their possible positions. The positions were almost the corporation top, while at the same time, being the tops of their little king and queendoms with the attendant pay and privilege. ( I use a business metaphor.) When both these individuals in their times,  arrived on the scene, their first day of work, they lined us all up at a staff meeting and laid it on the line. One said, "I'm new here and I want to stay here. I want to look good and I expect you to make me look good." The other just smiled. Polar bears and crocodiles smile that  way, too. These tales are nothing new and we around the board room table, who had a load of experience doing what we did, understood. If the boss looks good at his or her work, no one is disillusioned, we, the peons, did it, not the seat warming individual in the corner office, and everyone knows it. Recently, a press story cited a boss who was reported by employees for questionable behaviors and thus was fired. What a rarity! In fact, while most workers have unions or associations, bosses have their strong support systems of protection, too. And that's not a bad thing. Anyone sitting on top is pretty vulnerable. Unfortunately, there are shocking tales of what disgruntled employees can do that is worse than on the job oppression. But not much. The real situation is what to do when you are unlucky enough to be stuck with a bad boss. First of all, document every unfair issue you suffer: times, dates, witnesses. It's called Know Thine Enemy. Second of all, take a look at yourself. If you love your job, give the new boss a chance to settle in, but still do the record keeping for your own edification if nothing else. Writing out your gripes in a journal is a much better plan that grouching around the coffee machine. Don't complain on the job.  Remember there are CCTV cameras around these days taking in all sorts of body language even if they don't have "ears". The novel, "1984" is with us. The first day of my new broom boss, named for what he was hired as, a broom to sweep out the old and make way for the new, ten people left the building. They had the seniority to shift to friendlier shores. I stayed. Why? First, I love a challenge. Second, I was intrigued. And third, I was almost retired anyway. What did I have to lose? I liked the job I had, and I knew that as soon as the New Broom did his job, he would be the next to go. How went the battle? After the chat and pain left the place, it began to sort itself out. The boss with a new staff was so busy trying to calm the waters after the storm, that he didn't have much time to be breathing down our necks. I had not wanted to change my locale, so I shifted into second gear and got the position I wanted, giving up the old one that others desired and that I didn't mind leaving since I was going anyway. I found contentment.  I made an effort to get to know this new boss upstart. There was no point in bitterness or anger. It only hurt me and I loved my job. It was more important than the bad stuff. As it turned out, sure enough, the bossy boss left about the same time I did.  Never heard from him again. Storms do pass.

New Dogs Old Tricks

The adage "you can't teach old dogs new tricks" is in obvious error. If young dogs knew all the "tricks" how come we send them to college where "old dogs" do the teaching? The condition of old age is something not one of us can avoid in spite of collagen injections, botox, blue pills or surgical procedures. We shall all become old if we are fortunate enough and healthy enough to attain it. The newest discrimination, age discrimination, includes all colours and cultures.  I hear some in their early fifties bemoaning the fact that they have been let go and can't find work because they are "too old".  Certain employers would rather hire youngsters who will work for nothing just to get a future position. On the other hand I see very young folks, who literally cut their teeth on computers, are hired at phenomenal salaries and spoiling techniques, by giant cyber companies who use them  as well-paid slaves. Those of an older generation previous or more, are let go with  "retirement packages" to get rid of them. The amount of money offered is always borderline and most people throw up their hands knowing that if they don't take it, they will be discriminated against on the job they've given their lives to, and will eventually retire in bitterness. It is true. It happens every day.  If the elder employees take the tempting package, they are obligated to train their younger apprentices who will work at lower money and dare not complain. Common, if unspoken,  knowledge. What is a mystery to me, is that the example of age discrimination, is neatly side stepped. A senior employee of great value can be mined by these forward moving companies, but  they choose to set it aside and call the culling of their most loyal employees, a "package". The "package" is soon depleted after the cruising and condo buying is finished.  Increasing  inflation and rising costs make a retiree's budget very thin. We all know how pathetic interest rates are.  Besides money matters, there are physical changes to deal with in an elder.  Growing old has no true measuring device. It's not about numbers but about condition of the body. Not all elders are stupid or forgetful or can't manage on their own but the aging body does need attention. But what happens to the physical body functions, doesn't necessarily affect the brain. If you look at history, it is the elders who made the great politicians, scientists and artists. We tend to think of cyber heroes as advancing society, but Hollywood is not life. You don't have to jive down the road in your jogging tights to do something great. Remember Marie Curie and Rosa Parks. Think of the recently departed, Stephen Hawking and his powers of thought that enter a world that sees itself wholly. Dr. Hawking was in his seventies and if his body had allowed it, he would have gone on amazing the world with his breathtaking ideas. Old doesn't mean stupid, or useless or non-productive. Tap into the mind and memories of someone old and find out.

Love Or Loving

To lose one's capacity to love, would be an indescribably cruel life event. Today, in an early morning thought ramble, the question was "What would be a person's greatest loss". I thought of things like people we love, things we have that mean something to us, freedoms and rights and came up with one answer. We can lose anything or everything and feel empty and lost and haunted but with time, we can become used to that loss even though we never forget what was lost.  But to lose being able to love would create in one, an inhuman void. Loving sustains us when all else is lost. Loving has endless forms and all of them are vital elements of what makes us human. Thinking of some great loves I knew of in the past, it became a certainty that to lose the ability to love must be much worse than to lose being loved. You can survive not being loved, but to be unable to love would destroy all that is good about people. Love of family has all sorts of complications and traditions and obligations, but loving is freer than even that kind of love. Loving can be impossible and secret and vast. Children love many things: toys, animals, stories, their play and even imaginary friends. Youth can love a peer hero or an older adult or an icon singer or film star with a passion that is wholly unrealistic, one that can never be openly expressed but that exists powerfully. Some love a dream of fame or great fortune and find it encouraging in purpose and very satisfying even though it may never be accomplished. Their loving guides them. Others love spiritual beings: angels and saints, gods and spirits allowing them to commit their entire lifetimes to those loves. A few people love places in the world and yearn for them even though they will never actually be able to go there. Or perhaps once they have been there and have never stopped the love they have for it. During stressful times, they reminisce about being back there once again. Their memories are lovingly vivid. Loving can be a great force for pleasure, crime, kindness, achievement, destruction, evil and sacrifice. Loving represents a whole gamut of  results that are not always positive and are often used as an excuse for the worst kind of negative action such as insurrection, wars, persecution and other destructive events. Love of country, doctrines, religion, political position, royalty, power can cause major destructive forces to be borne. Love of places that please us, on the other hand, can maintain our sanity, sense of being, artistic delight, stimulate our imaginations to create in our minds, our own lands and safe places. Those who suffer in all other ways, have the loving embodied that gives them peaceful havens:  love of family, children, those close to them. Loving can't be taken: it stays inside  when all else has gone. The lowliest human on earth can love as much as can the greatest and most powerful. Love creates us equal. We all know it naturally and intimately and it bonds us because we all understand what it is and how valuable it is. How easy it is - to love.

New To The Neighbourhood

Few can afford to buy dirt these days. Neighbourhoods are now concrete towers. To own your own house and property unless you are in the higher earning brackets, is close to impossible. About the only way most families can own their own homes in  major cities, is to take on huge mortgages that are subject to, not only lifetime terms, but also, that are inclined to increase annually. The pattern is, when the kids are off on their own, Mom and Pop sell the inflation valued "golden egg" they are sitting on, and  buy into a condominium stowing the rest of the cash into some kind of "jam can" of their choice. And while banks grow profits,  investors struggle to meet ever-increasing costs that cause condo towers to become the best way to handle retirement market funds. It is a question of up  into the sky, rather than out in the back yard. When you take on ownership of a condo, neighbourhoods change from being a friendly stretch of green lawn and chatty driveway visits, to a series of hallway hellos, socials and Condo Council meetings. You are no longer the kings of your castle but merely the holder of a vote card with a number on it. Your key to the kingdom is a fob button. You elect a council and trust that they will act, as they are deemed to do, in your best interests so that you can hie off in a cruise ship or plane to warm drinky, dressy, foody vacations. As they say, lock and go. Neighbourhoods are no longer horizontal, they become vertical. Hierarchies develop in these tower neighbourhoods. And when that happens, so do factions that arise out of  discontent whether righteous or not. Most Councils in condos manage to step over their personal sensitivities and remain professional in their demeanor but some behave as children on school recess break and call names, gossip and don't speak to each other. I've been in six strata developments and have seen all kinds of silly behaviours. At the same time, I have seen perfectly diligent volunteers on councils, who are the best kinds of neighbours in any sense of the word. The latter inform their fellows or neighbours fully. They communicate with the people they have taken on as their responsibility. They opt for the most democratic means they can find to meet the needs of their electors. They are volunteers and give up huge parts of their own private lives to take on the job of directing the hired management as well as dealing with all of the massive issues that condos produce. It ain't easy folks! Condos are masses of owner residents, often well over hundreds in high towers, and each family in the units is unique. The whole key to peace is for every last one of these individuals who own the building together, to read and if possible, memorize The Strata Act. For some reason, very intelligent, well-educated people can become donkeys when it comes to the matter of power. Some can handle it and others simply cannot. Some Councils, because of the nature of the financial responsibility, forget that they are dealing with human beings and not coinage. What matters in condos is, of course, the building, but more so, the people. The Strata Act is logical and easy to understand, but often newcomers to condos just do not read the find print. Even some Councils don't, and it is imperative for them to be well-versed in the law, to keep peace in the condo sphere.  I congratulate all Council members in all condos. If they can keep the peace, and do it well, they have to be almost superhuman!

What Widows Don't Know

I am an experienced widow, meaning I've been at it awhile. Before you enter this alone state, there are no courses on how to do it. One of the reasons is, it can't be taught.  Unless you are a widow, you have no idea how it goes. And every widow is different. If you've been single all your life, that's your way of life so it's no example to follow. Widowhood, and I am speaking of women only, because from what I have heard, widowers have a different learning curve and style. They, being smaller in number, seem to have to fight off the older ladies lined up at their doors. But getting right into the matter, weekends  are the worst. When you had a mate, weekends were your "dating" times. During the week, there were lots of household and family events and tasks. When widowed, those habits of house and home, though lessened, continue. When there is no one to share the weekend with, it can feel pretty long. At least for some people. Joiners and groupies with a bevy of "friends" are better off, but those of us who aren't keen on that model, have to develop our own kinds of weekends. If you enjoy movies, books and games all of which can be done using various kinds of electronic equipment, it helps. But as in your mated past, there isn't the joy of anticipation: the planning and preparing as when you and your fella, dressed up and went out to parties and couples' evenings and off on dinners out. And the circle of your still married friends have long before, moved on in their twosome lives and  kindly sort of forget about you. It's the truth. They feel that you wouldn't be interested in joining them, but they politely do not ask. For example, the other night I was with a group and the women all of whom were married but a few of us, chatted merrily about what they "were taking" to the party the next evening.  The talk involved recipes and ingredients and how these were to be transported to where they were going. None of the married women gave a thought to the few of us widows, sitting in the same room, once part of the group, who evidently had not been invited. That is a reality you have to learn to live with. No one is trying deliberately to hurt your feelings but it does have an effect. Everyone who is coupled, simply doesn't think you are part of their world any more. And, in a way, you aren't. You have to develop a second skin to get through those times and try to forget you were part of that social company. Suggestions are made. "You should get out more." " I never see you any more." "Why don't you join ..." It's not that simple. First, who are you going to find to go out with? What group welcomes a single? What about driving around at night or taking public transport in the dark? It's just not safe even if you can abide sitting at a table for one. As to just wanting to chat with some mixed company, even going on the computer to find a site is a disaster. It would be rather pleasant to get on line and have a visit with people of an age, anywhere in the world. How lovely to visit and exchange thoughts. I tried to find a site that did such things, but all of them without exception, were about "dating". Dating is not something I have any interest in, but it seems I am one of the rare ones. Some older women I know, are passionate about it. They join dating clubs, and giggle and exchange tales of their dates. It all sounds ridiculous to me. Dating is too complicated. I tried it and didn't like it. It's like a teflon dart board. When you are a serious, sensible woman, flirtations and frills are too silly and anyway, the dream man I'd be interested in, does not exist. So what is one left with? A nice glass of red wine, a slice or two of fine cheese, feet up, a cosy robe and a vintage movie is the kind of Saturday night date that works for me.