Over 50s Singles’ Night

May 12, 2025 Webmaster

by Paula Kora

The energy in the room was almost enough to send the bottles of spirits vibrating on their shelves. When we ordered drinks we were invited to pick a numbered ping-pong ball from a tall glass jar at one end of the bar.

“Is this like the Easter Show?” Melanie asked as she hand-picked number 13. “We get to shove this into the gob of the clown we fancy?”

“No,” the barman chuckled. “At the end of the night you’ll be paired with a male who’s got the same number. If you arrange a date for tomorrow at Café Zero next door, you’ll get free coffees and muffins.

“What’s you’re lucky number girl?” Melanie asked.

“One,” I lied. There wasn’t a number in the world that had ever been lucky for me.

The air in the room was an assault on my olfactory…perfumes so heavy that I was in danger, despite the buzz, of falling into an involuntary coma, and spicy colognes that reminded me of the souks of Oman. Some men stood in groups, soldier straight, stomachs sucked in, flashing veneers that would make a horse envious, and thick necks vulgar with gold chains. Some of the women were just as ostentatious… nails that could rake a lawn, shades of red lipstick smudging their teeth, lips bloated from a recent botox overdose, and dangly earrings that dragged their earlobes south.

Melanie led the way. She introduced us to a couple of men at a table by the bar. They weren’t participating in the matchmaking, preferring instead to be silent observers. I found them to be polite and humorous and I stayed with them all night. Melanie on the other hand, being the serial dater she was, periodically excused herself to work the room. Later on we met up in the toilets.

“Have you seen that dickhead that looks like Trump?” she asked.

I had. He glowed Halloween orange in the darkened room.

“Hope like hell I don’t get him at the end of the night,” she added.

At 11pm the lights went down and under a spotlight the compere lined up the men. One by one they were being paired off with their counterparts. Melanie gave me the thumbs up. She was pleased with her number 13 guy. Sweat prickled my armpits as it got down to the last two men. One was so drunk he could hardly stand and the other was the ‘Trump’ lookalike. One of these was to be my match. Suddenly the drunk lurched forward tearing his shirt open exposing a carpet of tight curly grey hair.

“Numero Uno,” he shouted. “Come to Papa baby!”

Every muscle in my body seized. The drunk shaded his eyes and peered into the darkness.

“She left early mate, family emergency.” Melanie’s voice. Oh Thank God!

I shrank into my chair. It was the first time I’d been to one of these events and I vowed it would be the last because yet again, and true to form, I had picked a wrong number.