Frantic Daisy
an excerpt

FRANTIC DAISY

What on earth is a frantic daisy? Life is generally frantic or it can be and a daisy is definitely not frantic. So how can this be? Which impinged on which? The daisy came from the song. A Turkish song. In Turkish, the word is papatya, which is a pretty word in itself. I have found two songs called Papatya. I’m listening to one of them now. It’s a tango, written and sung by a Turk. The other is a love song. Mournful and beautiful, also written and sung by a Turk. So what does all this mean and how did it become frantic? Not only that but, where is it all going?
The tango song is making me want to dance but there is no one to dance with and this perhaps is the curx of the matter. Now there’s an interesting typo. I wanted to type crux but ended up with curx, which sounds a bit like curse. Very interesting but let’s not dwell.
So back to not having anyone to tango with. Alone as usual. Have been for such a long time that it’s beginning to feel comfortable and, yet, of late there has been this nagging feeling that I’m missing something. That there is an empty space in my life. Maybe a man could fill this space and so this brings me to The Search. This could of course be done in a military style. Making lists, having a plan of action and I’ve known people be successful with this method. I am very much a list person but perhaps this is one occasion when a list is not the correct way to go about things. A more natural, come what may approach seems to be called for. However, this is not working, so, time for plan B. Not that there ever was a plan A.
So this is the story of plan B. I have no idea whether it will have a happy ending or, indeed any ending at all. We shall see and follow progress together.

The beginning.
It’s a lovely sunny day in Istanbul. Sitting here with the window open and the heating on full. What a waste but, I have no control over the heating in the building and I have to pay for it anyway. It’s November, which is one of my favourite months, not only because it’s my birthday month but also use it as a time of re-birth. So today, I’m going to the hairdressers. I can’t expect a future tango partner to be impressed by the bird’s nest on my head. Obviously, I’m now thinking that the sort of man that I want won’t care about my hair but, actually, I do want someone that cares about my hair. And his own. This may seem a small start to the plan but I have already done Other Things. I have stopped smoking, for example. I don’t want to live with a smoker. Smelly, antisocial, and pretty stupid. So I’m on the look out now for a fellow non-smoker. I’m also doing some exercise so that I’m fit and well for the tango lessons. I need to be lithe and light.

All of this is preparation, which I think is an important part of putting a plan into action. It is of course possible that all this planning is a ruse actually to put off any action. This is a complete cop out and I’m alert to this and all other procrastination possibilities. Actions speak louder than words. However, supposing you don’t want to be heard. Maybe you are just not ready to be heard yet. Anyway, what is the story? A travelogue of the adventure to find Mr Tango or a wish list? Or what I’d like Mr Tango to be like and the hope that I might meet him somewhere, sometime. Just musing and doing this in the knowledge that something will come out of this. Something substantial and worthwhile. It would be a very good thing if my whole life in general could be something substantial and worthwhile and I do know that I don’t need Mr Tango to achieve this. I also know that I have to change Mr Tango’s name as this conjures up a picture of a large, round, orange man and this is definitely not what I’m looking for!

Is this a story? Is it fiction? That remains to be seen when the tale is told. This tale does need to be told. It is bursting with plump ripeness and needs to blossom and come forth into the world. Just like me!

To help you out, I’ll tell you about me. I think you need to have a picture in your mind and this will be especially helpful once I meet Mr soon to be renamed Tango. I know this because I also know that you will be making judgment as to whether we are compatible, whether I could have done better, whether he is indeed Mr Right Tango. Alternatively, whether he has two left feet and is not deserving of my ambitions to dance in tandem.

I’m old enough to know better and, at heart, I do. I’ve had my share of loves and loss and have recovered in varying degrees from it all. I’ve lived to tell the tale and feeling strong enough to launch myself onto the carousel once again. I do mean once again. This will be the last time as far as I’m concerned. It takes too much out of me and I can’t leave myself exposed to hurt and trauma too many times. So once more I expose myself to the chance of love and romance and this time it will be the last and long lasting. I just hope he’s up to this challenge.

I am here to tell the tales and own up to being contrary, difficult, emotional and unpredictable. Actually not sure about being unpredictable. We shall see. I can’t dance. Not formally anyway. I can jig and bounce around to a tune in my own way and I have referred to this as dancing in the past. I have never had dancing lessons and can’t waltz or foxtrot. This also means that I have no idea of how to tango. Therefore, it would appear that in order to meet Mr Tango, I am going to have to learn how to tango and so go to tango lessons.

Going back to “frantic”. I think it’s me that’s frantic and not the daisy. If I had a daughter I’d call her Daisy. A simple, pretty flower that has no idea of franticness. Quite unlike me in that case. My search for Mr Tango is however not frantic. Slow and steady and controlled. This is important and cannot be left to chance and serendipity. Far too risky.

So the tango lessons. Where and when and do I need special equipment I wonder. Like shoes and a swirly skirt. Neither of which I own. This calls for research. Which I will do in the fullness of time. Firstly, of course, we need to establish how Mr Tango will make himself known. It is a given that I will meet him at the tango dance lessons. He will be tall and slim but well built. I’ve no idea what nationality he will be. Just because we are in Istanbul, it shouldn’t be taken for granted that he will be Turkish. He could be one of the many expats living here or, he might be the tango teacher and be from Buenos Aires. Now there’s a thought. So obviously tall, dark and handsome, early 40s perhaps as that’s a good age for most people. This is getting quite exciting as I now feel that he exists and it’s just a matter of being in the right place and meeting him. Tango is the forbidden dance apparently. I need to check up on that. The attraction of the forbidden is of course another given.

Insert history of tango

But I digress. It does occur to me that these are the ramblings of a lonely woman of a certain age. A lonely woman who has not given up on life and all its wonders. Nonetheless, ramblings and possibly of no earthly interest to anyone else at all. This would all change of course if I actually met Mr Tango because then you would really be interested to read all about him and find out what we get up to and whether or not he is Mr Right Tango or Mr Tango Right. The wrong tango is of course a possibility and cannot be ruled out. What about if I just invent him? How would you know? I could just tell you all about him and you would be none the wiser. But I would and it hardly helps me in my hour of need, so rest assured I won’t do that. He will exist and be as real to you as he is to me. He might even have a real name.

It has occurred to me that Mr Tango could be a musician. Bearing in mind that I like a creative type and someone’s got to play the music for these tango sessions. Just a thought. Having done some investigation on the internet, there are some tango lessons in Beyoglu and it looks like I’m going to have to sign up for them, if I want to stand any chance of meeting MrT.

Insert tango class option details etc

I seem to have come to a grinding halt. This is because I haven’t, as yet, investigated the tango lessons and so cannot proceed. Until I actually do something this all remains a fantasy. Nothing wrong with fantasies so let’s go with that.

It’s a Friday night in Istanbul. It’s raining heavily and because of all the concrete everywhere, the rain cannot drain away and is therefore running in rivers down the roads. She walks along, careful to avoid the deeper puddles and keep out of the rivers. Her shoes are soaked and so are her legs. She is wearing a skirt because she is on her way to her first tango lesson and trousers are not the thing. You have to enter into the spirit of it all. She’s had her hair blow-dried in order to look her best but the rain is not helping and her hair is in danger of going curly and frizzy. Can’t be helped. So there she is, walking down Istiklal Street. She’s a bit early. Keen. Her name is Eleanor but everyone calls her Elli, which in Turkish means fifty. How apt, because she is. She turns into the street and sees the building ahead of her. Others are going in quickly, to get out of the rain. She knows no one and this is daunting. She’s brave though and is not going to be put off. She’s carrying a plastic bag containing her shoes. They are black and have heels, all the better to tango with. She’s watched people doing the tango and the shoes are important, for posture and to help look and feel the part. She also thinks it helps if you are tall and thin but that’s just her insecurities coming out.