Foot in mouth disease.

Petri, Ciggy, Fay and I arrived at Speed dating and were deployed by the speed dating facilitator, who resembled a drill sergeant running a boot camp, to different corners of the restaurant. The first guy seated in front of me sported a Hawaiian shirt and the first word to come out of his mouth was ‘aloha’ which kinda didn’t work for me. A first-morning-in-Vietnam whistle blast signaled to the men that it was time to move to the next table. The whistle sounded again and the din of people speed-talking commenced. I really stuffed up candidate number two. He was perfect in so many ways: good looking, studied law, but now works with an environmental NGO. I blurted out ‘so you’re doing your thing for the planet. If there is one left for our kids?’ He looked visibly shaken and I’m still trying to get my foot out of my mouth. 

Still, this is speed dating and if he is going to make an accurate assessment of me in my half of the two minutes, he might as well know that I want kids, adventure, Nancy Friday sex into my seventies, a large house in the suburbs, a smaller one in the Transkei for holidays, two Golden Retrievers, funding for two movies, private school education for my children and a few less retreating glaciers. That’s all really. Just a little list. ‘I imagine it sounds intimidating to even a man like you but it’s much more palatable when spaced over twenty years to allow for a little psychological digestion. Call me.’

Petri came over to deconstruct the evening and with her list of potential donors from the AI clinic. Apparently Fay hit it off with my NGO guy, and he has already contacted her. I didn’t mention my faux pas – Ciggy would not be able to resist the temptation of ragging me for the next 6 months.

I’m not sure how Fay does it. Without fail the men flock to her. She is an aspiring poet and barely makes ends meet working in a sex shop during the day. It must be the images of Fay demonstrating various sex toys to customers that make men weak at the knees. But moving right along from the picture I now have in my head, Petri and I studied the AI list.

W52 – 5’ 8”.

Dark hair, average build, loves rugby and all contact sports – he sounds a bit of a Neanderthal. Either that or he is a complete coward who gets all his sense of power through vicarious violence.

W75 – 6’2”

Slim, blond, blue eyes, likes classical music. - He would be good, Petri needs a bit of height in her family.

W86 – 5’9”

Brown hair and eyes, loves reading, chess and computer games - sounds nerdy but could be very intelligent which is a plus.

W89 – 6’1”

Sporty; cricket, skiing and diving, enjoys theatre and film, camping and plays guitar.

Petri and I agree, after much deliberation and casting aside of our rather silly skepticism, that W89 sounds great, an all rounder who is also intelligent and can add considerable height to the family tree. With that accomplished, we took Nikki for a walk on Camps Bay beach. C joined us and we were all sitting in a row watching the sun set when a motorized paraglider flew past and C said ‘There’s flying Pete’. Petri and I looked at each other.

‘What do you mean flying Pete?’

‘Just that. It’s Pete flying up there’.

And so Flying Pete’s identity has been revealed. C says he’s a very nice bloke; at least I haven’t given my number to a psychopath.