Katy takes the plunge.

When Katherine looked in the mirror,
She hated the image she saw.
All dowdy, and frumpy, and forty-ish.
Bad news when you're just thirty-four.

Now, most of her male friends were married,
but willing, if half-drunk, to slide
Back into bad habits, and give her
An extra wee bit on the side.

But this wasn't what Katy wanted:
A quick, messy fumble with friends.
Too soon, then, that fast breathless exit.
Who knew where such madness might end?

She'd peeked into "Bridget Jones' Diary"
But found it too racy to read.
The booze and the lashings of nookie!
Like "Mrs. Dales' Diary" on speed.

Cocooned with the fat Sunday papers,
She tossed aside Business and Sport
To find, at the end, discreet adverts.
Explicit, but teasingly short.

These promised the classiest escorts,
With style, education and looks.
No bald dwarf with galloping acne
Had ever appeared on their books!

At first, Katy found it quite puzzling -
No baldies - and nobody small?
If all of these blokes were so perfect,
Why go to an agent at all?

She reached for the phone, paused and dropped it.
No, this was mad, crazy, she smiled.
But finally, come Monday morning,
Kate screwed up her courage and dialled.

Some horsey-voiced girl took her number,
And promised to contact her soon
With dozens of suitable charmers.
Why, Katy was over the moon!

They'd promised her towering love gods,
Bronzed, muscular, clear-eyed and lean:
Men who never broke wind. (Well, not loudly)
And who kept all their crevices clean.

So Katy soon furnished her details,
Some slightly embellished. (So what?
Didn't everyone tell a few porkies?)
And was given a list on the spot.

She soon became used to limp flowers,
And keeping a smile on her face.
To "experts" who happily ordered
The cheapest old plonk in the place.

Poor Katy! She suffered in silence,
And tried to maintain a fixed grin
When faced with some glum, tattooed hopeful
With nasal hair down to his chin.

But worst of all - just - was the "playboy"
Who wore the most obvious toup.
This awful old rug slipped its moorings
And landed full-square in his soup.

A smaning waiter retrieved it,
And asked his stunned customer if
He wanted it dried in the oven?
"That's if, sir, it won't go all stiff?"

These minor disasters continued
Once, twice, maybe three times a week.
Not one looked a bit like their photo -
More like a collection of geeks.

So finally, all hope exhausted,
Kate entered the office to say:
She'd had quite enough, it was over.
It was time to just call it a day.

But nice Mister Thompson, the owner,
(Though portly and bald like the rest)
Sat her down with a nice mug of cocoa
And admitted how much he felt stressed.

He hated the fact that he'd failed her,
And her such a lovely girl too.
He'd fallen in love with her photo
And asked if she'd had any clue.

She'd not - not till then - but felt flattered
That here, just for once, was a man,
Who loved her for just being normal.
She smiled - and reached out for his hand.