Six months on and Muddy Farmer and I are rubbing along well. He is good fun, smart, witty and nice to me. We are, though, from totally different worlds. His is rural and tight. Mine worldly and expansive. But it doesn’t seem to matter.
We are having a lot of fun and different experiences. Some very different.
I loan him a ball gown and my footballers’ wives shoes for his forthcoming appearance in his local panto as a fairy. He has small feet, I have big ones and this is the first time I have lent a man my shoes.
High heels, two shoestring diamante straps. Gorgeous, but if I wear them, I have to be driven to a restaurant and sit by the toilets. He manages to walk in them without any trouble.
So I find myself sitting in a village hall on a Saturday night, and my bloke, all six foot five of him, minces out in a blonde wig and is wearing my clothes. Dear God, I am dating Grayson Perry. How the hell did I get here? Well, it’s different. An experience. Part of life’s rich tapestry.
We share our sexual fantasies. I discover he has a thing about red lippy. So I book a sexy hotel in Oxford and ask him to meet me in the bar. Black leather, red high heels, vermillion lipstick. And very very hot sex later. One down, four to go.
He has a Mick Jagger and Jane Asher confectionery fantasy. For Valentine’s Day I get a pretty pot of hyacinths and an invitation to start small with a Twirl (and I’ll let you guess where he wants that to go). I can’t stop laughing. But because we cannot agree on the appropriate bar, this one stays unfulfilled.
Life with a new boyfriend
He deals well with an emergency trip to hospital that involved me projectile vomiting and losing control of my bowels. I was mortified; he was gallant. I suppose being a farmer, he is used to biohazards. Just as well, really.
We do normal stuff too. Walk our dogs, go to pubs, watch telly. We meet friends and family. We party at a hunt ball that he arranged and my pals’ birthday bash in a West End nightclub. He’s a great dancer. My husband never danced at all, and I wish I had danced more in my life.
We go on holiday to Turkey, which is the first time we have spent several days together. We have sex morning, noon and night. On day three, he describes the Turks as foreigners. I remind him that we are the foreigners as we are in Turkey. The sex is fab.
Day four: his conversation is entirely made up of negative pronouncements on other people’s shortcomings. Great sex. Day five: says he wants to marry a women with money. He then starts to sing me love songs. And calls me a dirty bitch in bed. Bang. I go off him so fast I have whiplash. No sex.
Should I keep him as a lover?
I consider whether to keep him just as a lover. But decide that it isn’t fair to him and not my style at all. He has to go.
But what the hell do I do? His car is at my house in England. We are going to a wedding breakfast the day we get home.
So, tough it out, do the breakfast and dump him the minute he is reunited with his car. What to say? I haven’t dumped a man in 30 years. I am terrified.
We finally get home after a frosty three days. I tell him kindly, but firmly, that I don’t want to continue the relationship because of our very different perspective on life.
“Bugger. My feelings are going in the opposite direction,” he says. He takes it like a man and leaves.
He calls me and texts quite a lot over the next week. But it is clear I am not going back, so after a rather arsey call where he refuses to be just friends, that’s that.
Actually, I shed a few tears. i will have a month off, and get back on the horse just like my mummy taught me. But I am determined to find a more compatible mount next time.
The Muddy Farmer was just what the doctor ordered at the time. It’s important to find someone who will restore your self-worth and sexuality. But seeing someone outside their comfort zone is very telling.
I am sure these transitional relationships are inevitable, but the risk is that it’s hard to see them for what they are: a bridge to Mr Right. Mr Right Now rather than Mr Right.