My Type

 I'm back watching MAFS (Married at First Sight), for better or worse. 

It's a bit of a national obsession this should. You either love it or hate it. Me, I enjoy watching how they cut it all, weaving together the narrative, personalities and a lot of dreadful people. It's one of my guilty pleasures. 

I've got a posse who I watch it with. My two friends and I provide commentary. 

"No!"

"Get in the bin!"

"What are those shoes about?"

"Awww, he looks nice."

Those sort of comments.

We've made lots of grumbles about Incel-iot (this daft pretty boy with unmanageble standards). 

But the biggest See You Next Tuesday on the show is this fellow named Tim. 

Why is it always the Tim? (Sorry, I do know a couple of nice Tims who haven't lead their partners down the garden path. 

In my Ultimate Book of Names by Patrick Cook (Angus and Robertson, 1983) according to this book the name Timothy means the following:

Greek, meaning "adorable little feet', Timothys endure mothers nibbling their toes more often than any other name. The sheer embarrassment of this experience makes it difficult for them to get on with any other humans ever after. Their principal contribution to any conversation is a light laugh like a broken string of pearls dropping down a sink, and awkward attempts to prevent their underwear riding up, which everybody notices. They usually become assistants. Timothy the Great or The Mighty Tim was a Sardinian warrior prince of whom much was expected before the measles got him. St Timothy is the figure responsible for dropped contact lenses.

Patrick Cook is excoriating. 

At the moment, many MAFS viewers want to go after this guy with a pitchfork. 

He's truly heinous. A nearly 40 something PE Teacher with a nose stud and an obvious dad bod that's never really looked in a mirror, even though he's a self-proclaimed nice guy who's done a lot of work on himself.  

What he's done to his lovely bride, a gloriously quirky, age-appropriate, gentle, caring woman is just hateful. 

And yes, I am fully aware that this has all been edited and produced within an inch of it's tabloid life, but still. 

Get in the bin, Tim. 

I also feel for Katie, because I know exactly what she's feeling. The inadequacy. The wondering just when it will be your turn. The body image stuff. For me, it's a bit like looking in a mirror. And it's hard to look away. 

Tim's biggest complaint is that Katie isn't his type. Tim, it appears goes for petite blondes or brunettes. he didn't get what he ordered. 

Tim can go jump off a cliff. 

Why is it always the Tim's that cause trouble. 

Anyway, it got me thinking. Do I have a type?

Ah, thinking back, yes, I do, though I hate to admit it. 

Of course, on my laundry list of characteristics, kind, intelligent and funny top the list. Enquiring, arty, left-leaning and calm also helps. 

But you can get these traits in all sorts of shapes and sizes. 

What do I go for physically?

If you're going to catch my eye, what gets me?

Here's my list: 

• Clean cut grey or dark hair. 
• Long and wiry
• Over 175 cms (5'9") is a bonus. 
• Can I put an order in for a hairy chest?  (I like men to feel like men - none of this manscaping malarkey)
• Soft, gentle hands
• Their own style. 
• Must smell good. This does not mean over-perfumed, but they smell good when clean.

And I'm looking at this list and thinking I might have set my standards too high. 

Today's Song: