Smelly cheesy platform boots sniffing?

A random post deserves a random title. You know in Blogger stats where you can sometimes see what search words someone's entered which caused them to end up at your place? I have no idea why 'smelly cheesy platform boots sniffing' helped one particular visitor to find their way here today, or what they looked at when they did, but I suspect they were disappointed. I hope they found what they were searching for elsewhere, but I think at this point it would probably be best all round if we put it out of our minds. Unless it's you... in which case I suppose you found your way here quite easily this time.

Anyway, talking of what you're looking for (I still haven't found it but it sure as hell isn't going to be that song) a lovely, recently-divorced friend of mine has just joined a dating site. I think you know me well enough by now to appreciate that I would be lying if I said I'm not intrigued to know how she gets on and that I'll want as many juicy details as possible. She's had lots of responses already apparently and this weekend she was off to meet a deep sea diver, which sounds terribly exotic. I may have been happily married for the last 103 years but it doesn't stop me feeling sort of vicariously excited at the thought of being in such an unknown and potentially adventurous position. Oh, you know what I mean – the idea of it is just a reminder of being young and 'on the pull' again I suppose, wondering who's out there and what they're like and enjoying the attention. I'm sure the reality of it is a lot less glamorous.  It also made me think about how hard I'd find it to describe myself if I had to set up a dating site profile. I'm terribly fussy, you know, and I'm sure I would need a potential new mate to be all sorts of things that are really quite subtle and couldn't be described in a just a few key words. Like, I'd want someone to understand what it was like to live through punk (or something similar), and to get how it is to feel you're on the outside of the mainstream. They'd need to have a creative talent even if it was untapped or unrecognised, and to be tolerant of my fondness for small, creepy, ugly creatures (whilst that category would not necessarily include them).  There's art as well, of course, and music could definitely be a sticking point. I would need to write in a clause along the lines of, 'If you actively hate Eric Clapton's 'Wonderful Tonight' and you understand perfectly why it is so loathsome - even if you can't put that reason into words - then you're in with a shout.'  God, I hate that song with a passion. I had it going through my head this afternoon for some unfathomable reason; I had to reach out for a piece of chalk and drag it down a blackboard to ease my pain.

In my early teens I did once go out with a boy whom I knew could not possibly be right for me when he laughed at my copy of 'Do Anything You Wanna Do' (however sub-Springsteen it may sound now, it was perfection for me in '77) and said The Commodores were his favourite group. There really was no hope for us. We went to the pictures to see 'Sweeney!', which was fine, but then he took me to Macdonalds which wasn't so fine. And he talked about football. Looking back I have no idea what I saw in him apart, perhaps, from his motorbike, but more to the point I have no idea what he saw in me. Surely not my smelly, cheesy platform boots?