HUNTER DAVIES: My dating adventures in my 80s (2024)

Hiya pet! Long time no see!

That is not just one of my typical bad-taste, thoughtless remarks. The sort you said I was always making when I thought I was being funny, but it came out as hurtful and silly. This one has an element of truth to it.

After you died in February 2016 I kept seeing you for a year. I would come home, letting myself in the back way, through the garage. And I was always seeing you.

I would walk across the lawn, then look through the dining-room window, and imagine you were there, on your sofa, your feet up, reading a novel. It was always a novel – you read one a day.

I would open the back door and say 'Hi', still half-believing you were there.

After 55 years of marriage, so many of them spent in this London house, it's not surprising that I had those thoughts. Now, six years later, I don't have these imagined sightings as often as I did. But traces of you, evidence of your taste and decisions, are all around me.

I scattered half your ashes in Loweswater, where you and I had such a lovely rural life for six months of every year in our Lake District cottage. The rest are under the new summerhouse I've put up at the bottom of the garden.

And, oh God, I have bought another house. I can't wait to tell you all the things I have done since you died – the places I have been, the ladies I have entertained. I am sure you will be appalled by some of my behaviour.

But I hope you will enjoy it, my darling, when I tell you every little detail of what has happened to me. You always loved it when I came home and told you what had happened on the bus.

'Guess what? Coming home on the C2 today – no, hold on, it is now the 88, or was it the 214...?' And you would shout at me: 'I don't care which bus it was! Just get on with the bloody story!'

I hope by writing about my life since you went, I'll be able to entertain and inform and amuse you. So, here goes. Please do concentrate.

Hi again, Marg

The biggest thing I have missed these past six years is having you to talk to, to tell things to, then listen to your reactions and opinions.

Most evenings when I am here in this house on my own, having my lonesome meal, I look down on myself from the ceiling and I think 'how did this happen?'. No one to talk to, walk with, cuddle in bed, moan to.

I am not lonely, but I am alone. And I still don't like it.

Around nine months after you died, I was beginning to think I wanted to find some sort of chum. I didn't want to be on my own for ever.

I wanted someone to do things with, go places with. She would be 65 to 75, single, widowed or divorced, with her own house, family and friends, and having had her own career. She should be fit and well, and up for enjoying life to the full.

I wrote about all this in a newspaper column I was doing at the time and it drew quite a few letters.

There was a Brighton woman who had written to me earlier, out of the blue, to say we had met many years ago when she was in publishing. Would I like to meet?

She sent her photo and looked quite attractive, but I could not actually remember her. I put her off, saying I was so busy, but might contact her in a few months. How kind.

But I was also telling myself I did not want to get married again or even live with a woman. Just to have a regular companion. I considered myself to be married to you.

And I still do. So why would I want to marry someone else? If I ever did, though, which I won't, I am sure you would not mind. You would consider it natural for a gregarious, social person like me.

Eventually, after about three months, I wrote back to the woman. I invited her for lunch when she next came to London.

We got on well and she invited me back to her house. Then she stayed with me. And that was it. We met every week from then on.

We had a lovely time together. For the next two years, I thought: 'That's it, sorted. I am settled with a companion for the rest of my life.'

Or was I? You are clever, and probably already making shrewd guesses.

Wotcha, Marg. I left you on a cliffhanger there.

I was the only one who ever called you Marg. Everyone always called you Margaret – at school, college, and everywhere else.

But back to my girlfriend. It had all seemed to be going so well. We had two weeks in the West Indies: club-class flights, five-star hotel, no expense spared. But then it all went wrong. Our relationship collapsed.

On our way home, at Gatwick railway station, we parted. I gave her a peck on the cheek and said thanks for the two years. Have a good life. Bye bye. And that was it.

Yes, I know, I do these impulsive things. Nothing has changed there. When I got home, I told our daughters Caitlin and Flora what had happened.

They thought I was totally potty. I seemed to have been happy with her, and we got on, had good times together, went to lots of places.

It was a bit awkward to explain all the details to my own daughters. I explained to the girls that I may be old, but I do expect a proper relationship.

The next day, without consulting me, Caitlin organised a subscription to Saga dating, for mature people, as a birthday present.

I had completely dismissed the idea of online dating. At my age? And I hate doing anything on the internet.

My little fingers are now so stiff I keep pressing the wrong key. The other day I ordered 100 tins of tuna in olive oil from Tesco online instead of ten.

Anyway, I filled in my Saga dating profile, told the truth about my age – which was then 84 – and used a fairly recent photo.

What happens on Saga is – are you listening? Please don't doze off – you have to answer a sequence of questions about yourself and send it to some central point. The system then analyses your details and sends you something called 'matches'.

I had several responses, and in the space of a week I arranged to see five ladies at the local bistro – not at the same time, of course.

One of them was a GP, which I thought would be brilliant: a new lady friend on tap to minister to all my needs. Over the meal we chatted away, and I heard her life story.

But after ten minutes' conversation I decided she was away with the fairies, if not totally potty. So I paid the bill, and that was that. I never heard from her again.

Another was a retired deputy headmistress who had been at Oxford. You know I always liked clever women, but she was a parody of a teacher, with a booming voice, and much too hearty and jolly hockey sticks.

I quite liked the other three. One of them turned out to have had a career in the media, like me, but on the advertising side. She was interesting and attractive.

Alas, when I happened to mention I was looking for someone to go on holiday with, she said lovely, but she made it clear it would have to be separate bedrooms. Oh dear.

And then my old girlfriend suddenly reappeared. She said that in the West Indies she had been ill, felt rotten. She was sorry, and would like to get back together again. And so we resumed our relationship.

We decided it would be wonderful to have our own cottage, just for us, in a new place which neither of us knew. The location we decided upon was the Isle of Wight.

We would find something not too dear, live properly together there for the first time, all lovey-dovey. We would keep our respective homes but would spend half of our lives from now on in the Isle of Wight.

So, in the early autumn of 2020, bang in the middle of the pandemic, we found a cottage there. I paid for it, put it in my name, but she did all the renovating, furnishing, decor, painting.

I loved it – the cottage, the island, the people, our new friends – and I always will. But then the same thing happened again. It started to go wrong.

We staggered on for a few weeks. Then she went home earlier than planned, on her own, in her car, leaving me to return on the train, which I hate doing. She said that since we were arguing all the time and making each other unhappy, she might as well go home. Oh God.

So we split up again. The fun and affection seemed to have gone out of the relationship.

This all happened over a year ago now. What have I been doing since, you ask? Good question.

I will keep you up to date with developments and report progress... if there is any.

Hello again, my one and only love heart. Sorry for the silence these past few weeks. Not much to report really.

I've decided I have no intention of going online dating any more. I'm too old and too tired. I'm giving up all hopes of a proper relationship ever again. I'm going to grow up, be content and lead a celibate existence from now on.

I've told myself I am going to be quiet and sensible, act my age, not like a crazed teenager. But love in old age, if you are fortunate enough to have it, is really like love at any age. You still get carried away, on a high, then get downhearted when she has not called.

You try to work out what it means. And then you act irrationally, do daft things you regret. Oh God, do I need any of that ever again? I have had a good run, a good life, 60 marvellous years with you. Why be greedy?

Shield your eyes, pet.

I've been on my first blind date since I split up with my girlfriend. Yes, I know, pathetic and sad at my age, Caitlin and Flora both think. But a year on my own, without a special female friend in my life, has been pretty dreary.

I eventually decided to go back on Saga dating again, and the offers came flooding in. Oh yes.

The first woman I met had not included her photo in her profile, which was a bit worrying. Nor did I know her real name. She answered to the name 'Petal', which I also found a bit worrying. I didn't know her age either.

In fact, I am not sure why I agreed to meet her, when I knew so little about her. But at my age you can't muck around.

She suggested meeting for a coffee in Hampstead, not far from me, and I told her that I would be wearing a red scarf. Petal said she would be wearing a pink sweater. I hoped the cafe wasn't full of women of a certain age wearing pink sweaters.

But Petal came over to me the minute I entered the cafe. She led me to a small table with two seats, the only ones vacant.

It was a Saturday morning in Hampstead and the coffee bars are always busy. She started fussing that the table was too small and the seats uncomfortable. She glared around, trying to see if anyone was about to leave.

She then spotted a man at a table on his own. She went over and asked him to swap with us, saying he was sitting at her favourite table, awfully sorry, did he mind moving? Oh my god, what a palaver.

We ordered our coffees and eventually she settled herself. After some idle chat I asked her how long she had been online dating – and she was immediately off, telling me about all the awful men she had met over the years.

'They tend to want one of three things,' she said. 'Sex, someone to look after them, or they are looking to move in.'

She had apparently recently met a sequence of men – well-spoken, educated – who had gone through expensive divorces and were living in rented accommodation. They had worked out that she had her own house in Hampstead, and their main object was to move in with her. And, of course, not pay any rent.

She was talkative enough, telling me about her life and work, but I began to have a headache, listening to her chuntering on.

After 40 minutes, I paid for the coffees and said I had to go home as I had some work to do. She did not look too disappointed.

Oh well. It was a start. Can't give up now, can I, after just one failure?

So I agreed to another date, with a woman who suggested lunch in a brasserie in Camden. She was a retired solicitor and had gone to a very good university. She was divorced, and had two daughters.

'I have two daughters as well,' I said, brightly. 'What do your daughters do? Are they married? Do they live near you?' All harmless, routine questions, I thought.

'Why are you asking me this?' she barked, glaring at me. 'You are supposed to be asking me about me.'

'But your children are you,' I replied. 'I will get a picture of you and your life by knowing something about them.'

I went on about how one of my daughters had lived for 15 years in Botswana. But now two of my children live locally and one on the south coast. So they are all quite close by, which is lovely. So tell me more about your own daughters?

But again she glared at me. For some reason, her children were off limits.

So that was it. If she was not going to reveal totally harmless stuff about her family, I suspected I was never going to get to know her.

I will give up online dating for ever, I decided. Caitlin and Flora are right. It is pathetic, someone of my age looking for a girlfriend.

I've met a woman called Miranda. Who is she? Read on.

In the late summer of 2022 I spent a few weeks at my adored cottage in Ryde. Because I love it there so much, I had written a book about it, which was coming out in September that year.

As part of the launch I did a talk and a book-signing at the bookshop in Cowes, and afterwards there was a long line of people waiting for me to autograph their copy. The last person in the queue was a striking woman in her 70s.

I noticed she had on a colourful scarf and a multi-coloured knitted jacket and looked rather arty. Not a hippy. Just interesting and attractive.

While I signed her book, I asked if she was local. She said yes, she lived here on the island, near Cowes.

I found myself asking her what she was doing now and if she would like a drink. A bit pushy and presumptuous, I know.

I added quickly that I was with my friend Peter who had kindly driven me over from Ryde, and we were just about to go for a glass of wine. Would she care to join us?

She appeared a bit hesitant at first but, having thought for a few moments, she said OK then, a quick drink would be lovely.

The quick drink progressed into a couple. 'I like your pashmina, pet,' I said, in my light-hearted, jocular, northern way, showing off my fashion knowledge.

'It is a scarf, not a pashmina. And don't call me pet,' she said. I liked that. Sign of character.

We moved on to having a pizza at the bar, chatting all the while – well, to be strictly accurate, I was asking her questions non-stop. Her name was Miranda and she is an artist with a studio outside Cowes.

Peter, meanwhile, was starting to roll his eyes. It was like being out with two teenagers, he said. And in truth, that is how I felt.

Nothing really ever changes in relationships if the chemistry is there. People chat each other up and engage in mild flirting, however old and decrepit they might be.

I learned that Miranda was from Norfolk, but had been living on the island for 40 years. She was divorced, with two grown-up sons and three grandchildren.

I also managed to find out, being ever so subtle, that she did not appear to have a partner. But she clearly had lots of friends and interests. Apart from her own art, she works with dementia patients as a practitioner of something called creative arts reminiscence.

I told Miranda about my house in Ryde. Grade II listed, don't you know, minutes from the beach. Where I lived alone, not having a lady friend. Hint hint.

I invited her to come and see it some time, have a drink, perhaps a walk on the beach? Peter's eye-rolling was becoming more intense.

I asked Miranda to write down her email address and said I would contact her, give her my address and suggest a date. She said thanks – she often came over to that side of the island for her art therapy work.

Well, that was an interesting evening, I said to Peter as he drove me home. A date without looking for it, a spark out of the dark. Where might it end, I wondered.

They always say such things happen when you are not looking for it. Fate or what, eh? Not that I believe in fate. I believe you make your own luck. You have to work at it, make it happen. And I had, I suppose, by chatting her up all evening.

We shall see.

Adapted from Letters To Margaret by Hunter Davies, published by Apollo on August 15 at £22. © Hunter Davies 2024. To order a copy for £19.80 (offer valid until August 17, 2024; UK P&P free on orders over £25) go to mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3176 2937.