Matchmaking your mind up.....

I knew immediately that Len Blake wasn't my type. He had cold grey/blue eyes (the exact shade of frosty puddles in winter) and the haircut of a psychopath....

Within two minutes of sitting down for afternoon tea, my mother disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Len and me sitting alone, in excruciating silence.

After what seemed like a week, he turned his arctic gaze on me.

'Tart.' he said.

'I beg your pardon?' (Had he already heard about the awful Jamie?)

'Apple tart.' He nodded towards the laden table. 'Would you like some?'

I was immediately irritated. 'Look, I don't mean to be rude, but this is ridiculous. I'm sure you're a lovely man, and that you're just trying to indulge your mother, but I really don't need this. I'm perfectly capable of finding my own friends.'

His expression seemed even colder than before.

'Your mother seems to think I sell trusses,' he said 'and that I'm Jewish. I wonder why?'

I could feel my skin flushing.

'No idea' I muttered. 'She gets a bit confused at times.'

'Fruitcake?' he asked, offering a plate.

'Yes.' I nodded sadly. 'Completely barking.'

He suddenly smiled, and his eyes seemed less glacial. 'Mine too. She worries about me being single, so she keeps introducing me to all her friends' daughters. Old, young, fat, thin, thick as porridge, or sharp as a surgeon's scalpel; I've met them all. It's hilarious really.'

He looked at me again and I knew immediately that Len Blake was my type. He had warm grey/blue eyes, the exact shade of rock pools in the summer sun.



He still had a psychopathic haircut though......