4 Body + Soul
KATIE WILSON FOR THE TIMES. STYLIST: SIDONIE WILSON. CLOTHES: REISS BLAZER AND TUXEDO TROUSERS, REISS.COM; ZARA MULES, ZARA.COM. LOCATION: MADHU’S OF MAYFAIRat all. The only invitation I’ve had from a
man here recently is a text — from some-
one else’s husband.
Of course I want a man. Of course I want
a partner again and of course I want sex —
but not with a guy my sons’ age and not
only for one night as a notch on his bedpost
or a joke to share with his friends. Yes, I’m
72 and it might shock you that I dare to say
something like that out loud, in print, in a
respectable publication, but, flipping heck,
even though I feel like the only rampant
widow in Seville, I believe it’s normal and,
surely, I’m not alone on that one as well. I
want to be stroked, to be held gently, to
be admired and to be kissed. Snogging...
Remember snogging? What a wonderful
pastime between two consenting adults.
I want to be cared for before I’m in a care
home and looked after before I need to be.
Acceptable, even laudable, as it seems to
be in society for all those older male celeb-
rities, rich guys and politicians to be dating
women young enough to be their daugh-
ters, somehow the idea that a woman inpopping in to see old friends and the hus-
band coming home from work, touching
his wife on her shoulder and kissing her
cheek in greeting. I did a runner, fighting
back tears. Later I explained that I’d left so
suddenly because the tenderness and
affection of that scene was unbearable.
The gentle love that it showed illuminated
my loss like bare neon strip lighting in a
1950s Formica-furnished kitchenette.
And then, six months after that, I discov-
ered unknown letters written by my hus-
band to me, each of our three children and
the cat and dog. Scrawled in pen, almost
illegible, they were written in a red, plastic-
covered small notebook. It was on his desk,
next to his Mont Blanc pen, just as he’d left
it. His desk was the last place I got to sort-
ing out because it epitomised him so much.
He had written the letters when terminally
ill and knew that the end was very near. An
art director, copywriter and graphic de-
signer, he was devastated when he was no
longer able to draw or write with precision.
“Elaine, I want you to find someone
else,” he wrote, “I don’t want you be on
your own.”
Oh, Jerry, the guilt I feel at not fulfilling
your dying wish is tremendous, but also
my guilt at even wanting another relation-
ship when I had one that lasted 32 years,
when I have three incredible, beautiful,
kind and talented children. So many of my
younger women friends have nothing of
that and are now past child-bearing age.
How greedy I am to want more.
Yet still I’ve searched, still I hoped.
There’s no one as optimistic as a woman
with a long-term, happy relationship to
her name. Still I was on Tinder — despite
my lack of success. Tinder gave me
supposedly 64-year-olds “1 kilometre
away”, whose profile pics looked like
greying, distinguished guys, advertising
expensive watches in magazines, like the
one who sent messages in broken English
to say that he worked on a ship docked in
the UK but was “sailing to Seville to fine
[sic] a caring woman that I will spend the
rest of my life with”. Don’t send him the
money, Elaine!
More recently, bored with not having
anything or anyone to dress up for and
desperate to hold on to my belief that I
could still look good if I scrubbed up, I have
started posting pictures on Instagram of
myself taken in my bedroom mirror fullyHer husband’s dying wish was for her to find someone
else. So Elaine Kingett, 72, tried online dating. It has
been quite an experience, but she won’t give up on love
dressed, for my own entertainment. I gen-
uinely forget sometimes that what I post
will be seen globally, in the same way I for-
get about what I write.
A particular shot in white jeans and a
checked shirt — buttoned up, I hasten to
add — initiated an avalanche of new male
followers with profile pictures like mug-
shots, names followed by numbers and
messages offering their services as my
“sugar-baby”. There are terms I wish I
didn’t know. I felt angry because attracting
men was not my intention. It wasn’t a
“sexy” shot, but it seems that adding
#olderwomen and #ageing to a post
brings out the creeps. I felt insulted and
foolish. I want dignity and respect. Better
late than never, eh, Elaine?
And God, I miss flirting. I don’t speak
Spanish well enough yet to practise this in
public should the need arise and I can
hardly swan into a local bar solo and start
chatting-up a Jesús or Paco who’s downing
a few cañas or munching on some jamon
with his mates. No, no señora — not doneH
ave you touched anyone
today? Chucked the cat
out into the garden or
manoeuvred the dog off
the bed? Pets count. May-
be you’ve made love —
mornings are by far the
best time, aren’t they? Or perhaps a small
child has grabbed you with an annoyingly
buttery paw? What about that hug from
your friend when you met for coffee?
Covid and quarantine have worn us all
out, but it has hit singles of all ages with a
particularly hard sucker punch. Accentu-
ating isolation (even a smile from a
stranger has been diminished thanks to
masks), loneliness, the longing for affec-
tion, the longing for touch and the warmth
of another body next to ours. If a man, my
lawyer or landlord for example (fully
masked, of course), touches me en passant,
an electric shock zips through my body. It’s
100 per cent not sexual, just completely
unusual. How I envy single friends of my
generation who can grab a passing grand-
child. (I live in Spain, away from my three
children, none of whom has a child.) One
evening, feeling particularly lonely, I
downed half a bottle of posh red and fell
into bed, fiercely cuddling my fur-covered
hot water bottle for companionship.
So here I am, age 72, wondering how to
live this solo life. A life without a partner,
without a lover, a life without a man — my
husband died 21 years ago. Over the past
few years I have tried my hand at Tinder. It
was exciting at first, it felt full of promise,
even if I had to explain myself constantly
to surprised — and intrigued — friends.
But now I’ve finally kicked the idea of
internet dating into the gutter, where it
belongs. Tinder, my only option here in
Spain, made me feel constantly grubby,
ugly, unloveable — none of which I am.
I sold my London flat and moved to
Andalusia in 2020. I’ve run writing, walk-
ing and meditation retreats there for many
years, but after 18 months of pandemic,
quarantine, lockdown, travel restrictions,
living and working alone, I find that I am
spending days on end not touching
another living soul. I am prone to accost-
ing strange dogs being walked in the street,
desperate to feel the warmth and heart-
beat of another creature. “Hablas inglés,
perrito?” No, didn’t think so.
Soon after my husband died I rememberOf course I
want a man, of
course I want
a partner again,
and of course,
I want sex
No, I don’t want
to be your sugar
mummy! Why I’ve
given up Tinder
Elaine Kingett