It’s that time of year again. There’s a chill in the air, the red cups are back in Starbucks, and I spent yesterday drinking excessive amounts of mulled wine at a staff party. It can all only mean one thing – it’s almost time to head home for Christmas. Hoorah!
Now stop groaning all you killjoys. I have no time for Christmas-haters. What’s to be so upset about? The pretty lights in the street, the choir-singing, the festive films on the box? I can’t get enough of it. Plus, more exciting than anything else, I get to escape London and return to Scotland for a whole two weeks. And given the fact that I’ve been more homesick than ever over the last few months, and that I’m currently homeless – it couldn’t have come at a better time.
Yes, my evil flatmate and the scary dwarf lady have finally driven me out of my beloved little flat. After I dared to object to being woken up at 5am with screams of ‘You made me bleed’ reverberating around the flat, I was called rude, obnoxious, and patronising; and decided it was all too much to bear. Fortunately my lovely friend Liv has kindly offered me her futon to sleep on until I can arrange to get out of my lease.
Remarkably that issue is looking to be working out much better for me than I had expected. My landlady, who was previously cantankerous, cold-hearted, and brusque, has suddenly come over all charitable. Maybe it’s the spirit of Christmas. Anyway, what she has suggested is that I find someone to sign a new lease on the property with me…effectively meaning that the psycho twosome would have to go and I’d get to stay there with the person of my choosing. Amazing.
Trouble is the one and only person I actually would like to live with is still residing in Leith…and has as yet managed to resist my begging for her to move to London. Maybe we could start a campaign. GET CARINE OUT OF LEITH. Yes, that might work. I’ll arrange campaign posters, t-shirts, mugs and all sorts then we can sell them in Flux alongside the ‘I love Leith’ merchandise. There is a chance she could take it the wrong way of course. Then she might throw her handbag at my head like she did last time I pissed her off. Oops.
My alternative solution is to scour the ads online for my perfect housemate. It’s no mean feat, you know. I am effectively looking for someone with whom I can happily share my home – and who won’t turn out to exhibit any signs of hidden psychosis. They need to be clean (both in body and habits!), friendly, sociable but not too sociable, not obsessed with video games, considerate, non-smoking (or part-time drunken smoker only), and without a crazy partner who will move in and scare the living daylights out of me. You might think this wouldn’t be too hard to find but with the likes of these gems posted up there, I’m beginning to wonder if there’s anyone sane left in London:
‘32 year old vegetarian male looking for flatmate into tree-hugging and smoking pot.’
If you are a fellow earth-lover who believes meat is murder and fur is feral, you could be my future housemate. I’m looking for a comfortable room with space for all my beloved plants, no silly rules about posters on the walls, and a laid back approach to personal hygiene.
‘Transgender individual looking for sexually ambiguous/adventurous housemates.’
Do you like men, women, and everything in between? Do you like having fun? Do you want to explore your sexuality in a truly liberal household with no rules and an open-door policy in all rooms. I am looking to set up London’s first residential sex den. Come join the fun.
‘Flat needed for single 40-something man and pet gerbils.’Myself and my five gerbils – Trixy, Vixy, Minxy, Billy, and Bobby – are looking for a room in a friendly houseshare with a fellow rodent enthusiast. Cat-lovers need not apply.
I mean really, what chance do I have of finding my perfect flatmate amongst all of these? Are you out there somewhere roomie? All I want for Christmas…is you.
Tuesday 16 December 2008
Sunday 16 November 2008
No accounting for taste
My taste in men seems to be undergoing something of a strange transformation. If you’d asked me a few months ago who my ultimate crushes were, I would have responded without a second thought: Noel Gallagher (who I have loved blindly since the ascent of Britpop back in 1995), Caleb Followhill (the sweating, growling, and utterly captivating front man of Kings of Leon), and Joaquin Phoenix (the epitome of ugly-sexy). I think it’s the slightly tortured artist thing they’ve all got going on, coupled with that insouciant ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude that gets me every time.
But in the last few months, odd schoolgirl crushes seem to be popping into my repertoire. First came the clean-shaven, smooth-skinned, singing, dancing teen sensation Zac Efron of High School Musical fame (insider tip - he’s even hotter in Hairspray), then I found myself strangely attracted to one of the cutest members of X-factor boy band JLS (yes, really), and literally five minutes ago I heard myself utter the following shocking words: “Considering Gary Barlow used to be the fat one who couldn’t dance from Take That, he’s looking pretty handsome these days.” (Yes, I am ashamed but it’s true.)
Generally the reaction to any confession of these strange fancies has prompted a look of utter incredulity, followed by total disgust. “You are kidding, right?” said Vickie. “Um, no…”
“You are a strange, strange girl Ms Mitchell.”
But is it really that strange? What’s wrong with being attracted to nice guys? When did every red-blooded woman in the world decide that the only man to capture her heart (or loins) would have to be a bad guy – a rebel without a cause who couldn’t articulate any emotion, and just stomped around looking sulky with a fag dangling out of his pouting lips. While this image is still undoubtedly sexy, I think I have bad-boy fatigue.
After years of falling hopelessly in love with the most arrogant, selfish, and cold-hearted man in any room, I think I just want someone to be nice to me. After all, there’s a lot to be said for a nice guy. Just look at Reese Witherspoon – she went from tousle-haired lothario Ryan Phillipe who cheated on her and broke her heart, to puppy-dog Jake Gyllenhaal who looks after the kids, takes her for long walks on the beach and holds her hand. Not too shabby. Then there’s London’s favourite supermodel Kate Moss who has finally moved on from a self-destructive relationship with drug addled Pete Doherty to the woolly-scarf wearing Jamie Hince, who just wants to whisk her off to the country and look after her.
If cosy nights in front of the fire, romantic walks, and hand holding is what’s on offer, I’m jumping on their bandwagon. I’ve kissed goodbye to my gorgeous but terribly vain toyboy (even valiantly resisting his parting offer of a final romp). I’ve given up on a potential liason with a fellow ‘Leither in London’ when it became patently clear, he was only after one thing. And I’ve stopped frequenting the indie bars of Camden, which are essentially wall-to-wall bad boys.
And guess what, no sooner do I make my vow, than I’ve stumbled across a potential nice guy right under my nose. There I am fighting through a crowded bar at my friend’s birthday party when a young man with a lovely face (and those puppy dog eyes) brushes past. “Cute’ I think. ‘Hi Carrie,’ he says. Eh, hold up how does he know my name? Then I realise I’ve actually met this guy at least twice before and dismissed any potential flirtation because he was…yes, you guessed it…too nice. Well not anymore – bring on the niceness I say.
So we trundle outside for a cigarette together, and something wonderful happens. He holds the door, tells some drunk bloke off for bumping into me, then leans over to light my cigarette before his own. Ladies and gentleman, I think I have found myself a gent. Now I wonder if he has Zac Efron’s moves….
But in the last few months, odd schoolgirl crushes seem to be popping into my repertoire. First came the clean-shaven, smooth-skinned, singing, dancing teen sensation Zac Efron of High School Musical fame (insider tip - he’s even hotter in Hairspray), then I found myself strangely attracted to one of the cutest members of X-factor boy band JLS (yes, really), and literally five minutes ago I heard myself utter the following shocking words: “Considering Gary Barlow used to be the fat one who couldn’t dance from Take That, he’s looking pretty handsome these days.” (Yes, I am ashamed but it’s true.)
Generally the reaction to any confession of these strange fancies has prompted a look of utter incredulity, followed by total disgust. “You are kidding, right?” said Vickie. “Um, no…”
“You are a strange, strange girl Ms Mitchell.”
But is it really that strange? What’s wrong with being attracted to nice guys? When did every red-blooded woman in the world decide that the only man to capture her heart (or loins) would have to be a bad guy – a rebel without a cause who couldn’t articulate any emotion, and just stomped around looking sulky with a fag dangling out of his pouting lips. While this image is still undoubtedly sexy, I think I have bad-boy fatigue.
After years of falling hopelessly in love with the most arrogant, selfish, and cold-hearted man in any room, I think I just want someone to be nice to me. After all, there’s a lot to be said for a nice guy. Just look at Reese Witherspoon – she went from tousle-haired lothario Ryan Phillipe who cheated on her and broke her heart, to puppy-dog Jake Gyllenhaal who looks after the kids, takes her for long walks on the beach and holds her hand. Not too shabby. Then there’s London’s favourite supermodel Kate Moss who has finally moved on from a self-destructive relationship with drug addled Pete Doherty to the woolly-scarf wearing Jamie Hince, who just wants to whisk her off to the country and look after her.
If cosy nights in front of the fire, romantic walks, and hand holding is what’s on offer, I’m jumping on their bandwagon. I’ve kissed goodbye to my gorgeous but terribly vain toyboy (even valiantly resisting his parting offer of a final romp). I’ve given up on a potential liason with a fellow ‘Leither in London’ when it became patently clear, he was only after one thing. And I’ve stopped frequenting the indie bars of Camden, which are essentially wall-to-wall bad boys.
And guess what, no sooner do I make my vow, than I’ve stumbled across a potential nice guy right under my nose. There I am fighting through a crowded bar at my friend’s birthday party when a young man with a lovely face (and those puppy dog eyes) brushes past. “Cute’ I think. ‘Hi Carrie,’ he says. Eh, hold up how does he know my name? Then I realise I’ve actually met this guy at least twice before and dismissed any potential flirtation because he was…yes, you guessed it…too nice. Well not anymore – bring on the niceness I say.
So we trundle outside for a cigarette together, and something wonderful happens. He holds the door, tells some drunk bloke off for bumping into me, then leans over to light my cigarette before his own. Ladies and gentleman, I think I have found myself a gent. Now I wonder if he has Zac Efron’s moves….
Friday 3 October 2008
In therapy
I've never really had much time for all those awful self-help books that desperate women buy into. You know the myth propagated by Bridget Jones that all single 30-something women are sat at home with a copy of ‘The Rules’ and a bottle of Chardonnay on a Saturday night? Well I hate to shock you boys, but it ain’t true - we’re out having fun just like you lot.
I’m proud to say that the closest thing I have to a self-help title on my book shelf is ‘The Book of Answers’ - which is basically the literary form of a magic 8 ball and generally asked such profound questions as ‘Should I wear the lace-up black platforms or my black suede boots today?’ So taking my scepticism into account, you may well wonder how it is that I ended up spending my Saturday afternoon sat in a boardroom at the Ritz surrounded by frantically scribbling women at a seminar entitled ’The Secret Laws of Attraction’.
Ostensibly, it was because myself and my new Deputy Ed Laura had decided it could be transformed into a great feature about how to get the perfect marriage. Truthfully, it’s because neither one of us is capable of saying no to anything that is offered for free (she‘s a fellow Edinburgh-er, you see). Since Laura joined the magazine, a typical day for us goes thus: Slap-up meal? “Of course!” Bottle of champagne? “Sure.” A day at the Ritz and a free lunch? “Where do we sign up?”We also both secretly harboured ‘Sex-and-the-City-esque’ visions of ourselves stalking into the swanky hotel, all dressed up to the nines, and stifling our laughter as poor dishevelled single women in their forties poured out their tales of woe and desperation.Of course, that’s not quite how it went in the end.
For one thing, we soon realised that the seminar wasn’t at all a lecture on how to get the perfect relationship - it was a life-coaching session to teach people (yes, there was even a man present) how to attract success in every area of their lives.The coach was a New Yorker who had transformed herself from a steely high-powered banker, to a wealthy entrepreneur, wife, and mother - all after one day when she found herself weighing up what would be more attractive: going to work in her office or stepping out in front a bus!And what she had to say wasn’t the usual crap about the battle of the sexes, learning to love yourself, and meditating (barf). It was actually just basic common sense. The short version: how can you expect to achieve anything in the future when you don’t know what you want or need? And your life right now, here in the present, is a shambles?
Just by posing a few pertinent questions, she had us all realising what exactly it was about our lives that was falling short, how to go about fixing those things, and what our true needs and goals were. And believe me, the answers to all of these questions were not at all what I expected. Who knew that one of my top needs in life was simply ‘to be right’? (well, yes okay a few of you might have, but I had no idea!). Throughout the day, Laura and I, who had both arrived as cynical Scots, found ourselves enthralled, enlightened, and emotionally challenged, in a way much more befitting of soppy Americans.
Rather embarrassingly, there was even tears - for Laura it was reaching a realisation about a past relationship; and, rather unexpectedly, for me, it was frustration and anger at my brother that caused the sudden welling up. We soon realised that none of the women there were needy or pathetic - 50% were strong self-aware women seeking some kind of clarity in their lives and relationships, and the other 50% were blagging journos like us. Oh yes, and there was that one man - who I think may have been on the pull (smart guy).
When home-time came round and the coach kicked our asses out so she could take her kids to see the Lion King, I was so hell-bent on starting on my road to success that I very nearly cancelled plans to go to a party with a free bar, in favour of going home to make over my flat (I said ‘nearly’ - I’m not that stupid).
Anyway that was two days ago, and I’m already making headway in sorting my life out - my home is now spotless from top to bottom; my clothes are all clean, ironed and put away; my paperwork is all filed; my bills are all paid; and I have appointments with the bank, the dentist, and the optician. I’ve eventually accepted that if I’m ever going to be comfortable in my own home, I’m going to have to move out of this flat that my flatmate and his pyscho girlfriend have taken over, and I’ve started looking for a new place. I’ve resolved to do something I love every day, whether it be writing, dancing, or pampering myself. And perhaps most importantly for me, I’ve promised myself that I won’t be taken advantage of - not by my flatmate, not by my brother, and certainly not by another stupid boy.So far, so good - I just hope I can keep it up.
And if any of you can put aside your doubt long enough to just give it a go too, I swear you’ll be glad you did. Even if all it means is having a tidy sock drawer for a few weeks.
For more info, visit www.lifecoach.com or get yourself to Borders and buy either Coach Yourself To Success or The Secret Laws of Attraction (McGraw-Hill) by Talane Miedaner. Even better, buy both! (And no, they’re not even paying me to say this!).
I’m proud to say that the closest thing I have to a self-help title on my book shelf is ‘The Book of Answers’ - which is basically the literary form of a magic 8 ball and generally asked such profound questions as ‘Should I wear the lace-up black platforms or my black suede boots today?’ So taking my scepticism into account, you may well wonder how it is that I ended up spending my Saturday afternoon sat in a boardroom at the Ritz surrounded by frantically scribbling women at a seminar entitled ’The Secret Laws of Attraction’.
Ostensibly, it was because myself and my new Deputy Ed Laura had decided it could be transformed into a great feature about how to get the perfect marriage. Truthfully, it’s because neither one of us is capable of saying no to anything that is offered for free (she‘s a fellow Edinburgh-er, you see). Since Laura joined the magazine, a typical day for us goes thus: Slap-up meal? “Of course!” Bottle of champagne? “Sure.” A day at the Ritz and a free lunch? “Where do we sign up?”We also both secretly harboured ‘Sex-and-the-City-esque’ visions of ourselves stalking into the swanky hotel, all dressed up to the nines, and stifling our laughter as poor dishevelled single women in their forties poured out their tales of woe and desperation.Of course, that’s not quite how it went in the end.
For one thing, we soon realised that the seminar wasn’t at all a lecture on how to get the perfect relationship - it was a life-coaching session to teach people (yes, there was even a man present) how to attract success in every area of their lives.The coach was a New Yorker who had transformed herself from a steely high-powered banker, to a wealthy entrepreneur, wife, and mother - all after one day when she found herself weighing up what would be more attractive: going to work in her office or stepping out in front a bus!And what she had to say wasn’t the usual crap about the battle of the sexes, learning to love yourself, and meditating (barf). It was actually just basic common sense. The short version: how can you expect to achieve anything in the future when you don’t know what you want or need? And your life right now, here in the present, is a shambles?
Just by posing a few pertinent questions, she had us all realising what exactly it was about our lives that was falling short, how to go about fixing those things, and what our true needs and goals were. And believe me, the answers to all of these questions were not at all what I expected. Who knew that one of my top needs in life was simply ‘to be right’? (well, yes okay a few of you might have, but I had no idea!). Throughout the day, Laura and I, who had both arrived as cynical Scots, found ourselves enthralled, enlightened, and emotionally challenged, in a way much more befitting of soppy Americans.
Rather embarrassingly, there was even tears - for Laura it was reaching a realisation about a past relationship; and, rather unexpectedly, for me, it was frustration and anger at my brother that caused the sudden welling up. We soon realised that none of the women there were needy or pathetic - 50% were strong self-aware women seeking some kind of clarity in their lives and relationships, and the other 50% were blagging journos like us. Oh yes, and there was that one man - who I think may have been on the pull (smart guy).
When home-time came round and the coach kicked our asses out so she could take her kids to see the Lion King, I was so hell-bent on starting on my road to success that I very nearly cancelled plans to go to a party with a free bar, in favour of going home to make over my flat (I said ‘nearly’ - I’m not that stupid).
Anyway that was two days ago, and I’m already making headway in sorting my life out - my home is now spotless from top to bottom; my clothes are all clean, ironed and put away; my paperwork is all filed; my bills are all paid; and I have appointments with the bank, the dentist, and the optician. I’ve eventually accepted that if I’m ever going to be comfortable in my own home, I’m going to have to move out of this flat that my flatmate and his pyscho girlfriend have taken over, and I’ve started looking for a new place. I’ve resolved to do something I love every day, whether it be writing, dancing, or pampering myself. And perhaps most importantly for me, I’ve promised myself that I won’t be taken advantage of - not by my flatmate, not by my brother, and certainly not by another stupid boy.So far, so good - I just hope I can keep it up.
And if any of you can put aside your doubt long enough to just give it a go too, I swear you’ll be glad you did. Even if all it means is having a tidy sock drawer for a few weeks.
For more info, visit www.lifecoach.com or get yourself to Borders and buy either Coach Yourself To Success or The Secret Laws of Attraction (McGraw-Hill) by Talane Miedaner. Even better, buy both! (And no, they’re not even paying me to say this!).
Wednesday 3 September 2008
Behaving like a teenager
It’s been something of an odd month for me. Miraculously, there has been two boys on the scene (yes, two!) and even more miraculously, I haven’t fallen for either of them.
First there was Haris. As soon as I laid my eyes on this one, I knew he was trouble. He was tall, obscenely cute, and had that cheeky glint in his eye that I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist. Plus, according to my friend’s boyfriend who worked with him, he was also only 18. So, in a rare moment of clarity (or more accurately sobriety), I decided to keep my distance.
Trouble is, when he noticed me making moves to leave, he decided the complete opposite: ‘Aw you leaving already? I was just about to ask if you wanted to go out for a smoke…’ Looking up into his pleading eyes, my resolve faltered: “Well we are heading outside, so feel free to come with.”
Fast forward ten minutes, and I seem to have morphed into a giggling schoolgirl, Haris flirts in that super-obvious way that’d make any girl blush: standing directly in front of me so I’m forced to touch him just to get him out of the way, holding my gaze a little too long when he’s talking to me, asking if I’m a cuddler and if he can try out said cuddles, and basically just being ridiculously over the top and childish. It’s preposterous…but it’s fun and (I’m not going to lie) extremely flattering.
But the cigarettes smoked and my friends getting restless, it’s time to go. I turn back to Haris to say goodbye, and he leans in to give me a farewell kiss on the cheek, only that’s not where his lips end up - he playfully bites my neck then, probably in reaction to the shock on my face, quickly counters with a “Sorry, was that too much?”
‘Well hell yes, of course it was too much! I’m ten years older than you!’ I think, only I don’t actually say anything.
“And would it be too much if I kissed you now?” ‘Yuhuh!’ Say it out loud, Carrie.
“Ok I’m going to kiss you now.” ‘Damn, damn, damn!’ So yes, I kiss the beautiful boy, and it’s literally like being transported back to the days of public snogging at the school disco, only better, because this one can actually kiss.
When I eventually pull away, I turn round to Vicky staring at me open-mouthed in shock (or maybe admiration). “I think I better leave now,” I manage and push Haris away before he can cause any more trouble. “I cannot believe you just did that” exclaims Vicky. “I know, it was bad, wasn’t it?” “No, it was f***ing amazing!”she beams. “You should have got his phone number.” I practically float home.
The next day Vicky walks into work looking like the proverbial cat with the cream. “What?” I ask suspiciously. “What would you say if I told you I’d given Ian your number to give to Haris?” “I guess I’d say you shouldn’t have, but I’m not sure I’d mean it,” I smile. And this is how, a few nights later, I find myself rushing home from work to shave my legs and change my Bridget Jones-style granny pants, before going to meet Haris at the tube station.
What follows is the most ridiculously fun night ever - and one I’m afraid I’ll have to censor due to the fact that my dad occasionally reads this. Short version…we go for one drink, he tells me he turned 19 that week, I decide that’s much more acceptable than 18 and we go back to mine. “So we‘ll do this again, yeah? The sex I mean...” says Haris as he’s leaving to catch the last train home (yes, to his parent’s house). “Hell yes,” I say - out loud this time. There really was no other possible answer.
Then Ben came along with a different kind of offer altogether. In every way that Haris is inappropriate, Ben is appropriate. He’s 31, he owns his own flat, he’s looking for a girlfriend and he wanted to take me out on actual dates. And who was I to argue with a handsome man whose opening gambit was “I think you should give me your number, we should date, fall in love, get married, have six kids and live happily ever after. What do you say?” “I say lets start with the number and see what happens.”
What happens is we go for date number one, I think ‘Hmmmm, he’s thinner than I remember’ then quickly get rip-roaring drunk and end up spending the latter half of the evening in a cosy clinch in the corner of the bar. The next day I have no recollection of whether I really like him or not, so when he calls to ask me out again, I accept. And it’s this time that I realise he could never be for me.
It’s partially the bad shoes, and partially the wonky teeth, but most of all, it’s how keen he is - how much he’s putting himself out there and hoping I’ll do the same; how earnest he is when he asks if I’m having a good night, how pleased he looks when I kiss him (yes, okay, I kissed him again), and how he asks me on date number three before we‘re even half way through our first drinks.
Being the polite (and hopeless) girl that I am, I agree to date 3 then do the unforgivable…I cancel via text less than an hour before we’re scheduled to meet. Then I call Haris...
First there was Haris. As soon as I laid my eyes on this one, I knew he was trouble. He was tall, obscenely cute, and had that cheeky glint in his eye that I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist. Plus, according to my friend’s boyfriend who worked with him, he was also only 18. So, in a rare moment of clarity (or more accurately sobriety), I decided to keep my distance.
Trouble is, when he noticed me making moves to leave, he decided the complete opposite: ‘Aw you leaving already? I was just about to ask if you wanted to go out for a smoke…’ Looking up into his pleading eyes, my resolve faltered: “Well we are heading outside, so feel free to come with.”
Fast forward ten minutes, and I seem to have morphed into a giggling schoolgirl, Haris flirts in that super-obvious way that’d make any girl blush: standing directly in front of me so I’m forced to touch him just to get him out of the way, holding my gaze a little too long when he’s talking to me, asking if I’m a cuddler and if he can try out said cuddles, and basically just being ridiculously over the top and childish. It’s preposterous…but it’s fun and (I’m not going to lie) extremely flattering.
But the cigarettes smoked and my friends getting restless, it’s time to go. I turn back to Haris to say goodbye, and he leans in to give me a farewell kiss on the cheek, only that’s not where his lips end up - he playfully bites my neck then, probably in reaction to the shock on my face, quickly counters with a “Sorry, was that too much?”
‘Well hell yes, of course it was too much! I’m ten years older than you!’ I think, only I don’t actually say anything.
“And would it be too much if I kissed you now?” ‘Yuhuh!’ Say it out loud, Carrie.
“Ok I’m going to kiss you now.” ‘Damn, damn, damn!’ So yes, I kiss the beautiful boy, and it’s literally like being transported back to the days of public snogging at the school disco, only better, because this one can actually kiss.
When I eventually pull away, I turn round to Vicky staring at me open-mouthed in shock (or maybe admiration). “I think I better leave now,” I manage and push Haris away before he can cause any more trouble. “I cannot believe you just did that” exclaims Vicky. “I know, it was bad, wasn’t it?” “No, it was f***ing amazing!”she beams. “You should have got his phone number.” I practically float home.
The next day Vicky walks into work looking like the proverbial cat with the cream. “What?” I ask suspiciously. “What would you say if I told you I’d given Ian your number to give to Haris?” “I guess I’d say you shouldn’t have, but I’m not sure I’d mean it,” I smile. And this is how, a few nights later, I find myself rushing home from work to shave my legs and change my Bridget Jones-style granny pants, before going to meet Haris at the tube station.
What follows is the most ridiculously fun night ever - and one I’m afraid I’ll have to censor due to the fact that my dad occasionally reads this. Short version…we go for one drink, he tells me he turned 19 that week, I decide that’s much more acceptable than 18 and we go back to mine. “So we‘ll do this again, yeah? The sex I mean...” says Haris as he’s leaving to catch the last train home (yes, to his parent’s house). “Hell yes,” I say - out loud this time. There really was no other possible answer.
Then Ben came along with a different kind of offer altogether. In every way that Haris is inappropriate, Ben is appropriate. He’s 31, he owns his own flat, he’s looking for a girlfriend and he wanted to take me out on actual dates. And who was I to argue with a handsome man whose opening gambit was “I think you should give me your number, we should date, fall in love, get married, have six kids and live happily ever after. What do you say?” “I say lets start with the number and see what happens.”
What happens is we go for date number one, I think ‘Hmmmm, he’s thinner than I remember’ then quickly get rip-roaring drunk and end up spending the latter half of the evening in a cosy clinch in the corner of the bar. The next day I have no recollection of whether I really like him or not, so when he calls to ask me out again, I accept. And it’s this time that I realise he could never be for me.
It’s partially the bad shoes, and partially the wonky teeth, but most of all, it’s how keen he is - how much he’s putting himself out there and hoping I’ll do the same; how earnest he is when he asks if I’m having a good night, how pleased he looks when I kiss him (yes, okay, I kissed him again), and how he asks me on date number three before we‘re even half way through our first drinks.
Being the polite (and hopeless) girl that I am, I agree to date 3 then do the unforgivable…I cancel via text less than an hour before we’re scheduled to meet. Then I call Haris...
Sunday 3 August 2008
(non)-dating and deleting
Why are men so bloody exasperating? Are they given a special class at school that we don’t know about that trains them how to mess with our heads?
I can just imagine it: ‘Yes, boys - that’s it, you tell them one thing, then you do something completely contradictory. You act caring, interested and committed enough to get them into bed, then you leave with a casual ‘yeah so see you soon’. You take them out for dinner, suggest a follow-up date, then go off the radar for weeks. And you never, never answer their text messages anything less than 12 hours after they’ve been sent. Now go pro-create…but use a condom.’ It really would explain a lot.
I’ve been dating (but not really dating) one grade A student from this particular class for going on six months now and I’ve just about reached my limit. Well to be honest, I’ve reached my limit a few times, but it’s like he has a sixth sense that picks up on this so whenever I delete his number and swear I’ll never so much as look at his myspace page again, a text or email will promptly pop into my inbox asking if I fancy a drink sometime.
And that’s another infuriating thing - it’s always ‘lets go for a drink sometime’ not Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, or whatever, just sometime. Any attempts on my part to clarify when this ‘sometime’ might occur, are generally rebuffed or ignored completely. So we rarely ever get to the stage where we actually go for a drink, instead it’s this minefield of random texting and occasional emails that leads exactly nowhere.
What’s the point? It’s not like either of us is getting anything out of it - unless you count the boost to his ego or my recurring headache. And if it’s really getting to me so much, why can’t I just end it?
This Monday morning, I woke up with a renewed determination to opt out of the game - I deleted his number, all his texts, all my sent texts, any calls to him on my call register and every single one of his myspace messages (even the one where he originally gave me his number that I usually fall back on when I delete all trace of him from my phone). I was done - for good.
Only last night, I’m sat explaining this very situation to my friend Alice when my phone rings. And it’s him.
What the fuck? He never calls - NEVER. And he’s supposed to be busy tonight so what the heck does he want anyway? Of course, I can’t actually answer to find out because I’ve just been making Alice swear to hold me to my promise that it’s over. So I just give my phone an intensely dirty look and put it back in my pocket. Strong or what?
Only not really…fast forward three bottles of wine, and Alice and I have decided that it’s not lame boys that are the problem - it’s us. Why can’t we just accept that not all men need to be the latest love of our life? Why can’t we just have no strings fun? Let them take us out, wine us, dine us, and sleep with us then not spend the next 24 hours wondering why they haven’t called? Why can’t we just accept the good stuff for what it is and be satisfied with that?
Why? Because we’re all mental. Every single last one of us, no matter how intelligent, self-sufficient or sane we are in every other area of our lives, can be brought to our knees over some pathetic boy.
So anyway, Alice and I go back to mine, continue drinking and telling ourselves we’re going to transform ourselves into callous sex kittens, then I remember I do have his number - I’d written it down along with all the other numbers in my phone when I changed my mobile a few weeks back. ‘Do it,’ says Alice, and that’s all the encouragement I need. I hit send and the text is
on its way.
And so the game begins again. Seriously
I can just imagine it: ‘Yes, boys - that’s it, you tell them one thing, then you do something completely contradictory. You act caring, interested and committed enough to get them into bed, then you leave with a casual ‘yeah so see you soon’. You take them out for dinner, suggest a follow-up date, then go off the radar for weeks. And you never, never answer their text messages anything less than 12 hours after they’ve been sent. Now go pro-create…but use a condom.’ It really would explain a lot.
I’ve been dating (but not really dating) one grade A student from this particular class for going on six months now and I’ve just about reached my limit. Well to be honest, I’ve reached my limit a few times, but it’s like he has a sixth sense that picks up on this so whenever I delete his number and swear I’ll never so much as look at his myspace page again, a text or email will promptly pop into my inbox asking if I fancy a drink sometime.
And that’s another infuriating thing - it’s always ‘lets go for a drink sometime’ not Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, or whatever, just sometime. Any attempts on my part to clarify when this ‘sometime’ might occur, are generally rebuffed or ignored completely. So we rarely ever get to the stage where we actually go for a drink, instead it’s this minefield of random texting and occasional emails that leads exactly nowhere.
What’s the point? It’s not like either of us is getting anything out of it - unless you count the boost to his ego or my recurring headache. And if it’s really getting to me so much, why can’t I just end it?
This Monday morning, I woke up with a renewed determination to opt out of the game - I deleted his number, all his texts, all my sent texts, any calls to him on my call register and every single one of his myspace messages (even the one where he originally gave me his number that I usually fall back on when I delete all trace of him from my phone). I was done - for good.
Only last night, I’m sat explaining this very situation to my friend Alice when my phone rings. And it’s him.
What the fuck? He never calls - NEVER. And he’s supposed to be busy tonight so what the heck does he want anyway? Of course, I can’t actually answer to find out because I’ve just been making Alice swear to hold me to my promise that it’s over. So I just give my phone an intensely dirty look and put it back in my pocket. Strong or what?
Only not really…fast forward three bottles of wine, and Alice and I have decided that it’s not lame boys that are the problem - it’s us. Why can’t we just accept that not all men need to be the latest love of our life? Why can’t we just have no strings fun? Let them take us out, wine us, dine us, and sleep with us then not spend the next 24 hours wondering why they haven’t called? Why can’t we just accept the good stuff for what it is and be satisfied with that?
Why? Because we’re all mental. Every single last one of us, no matter how intelligent, self-sufficient or sane we are in every other area of our lives, can be brought to our knees over some pathetic boy.
So anyway, Alice and I go back to mine, continue drinking and telling ourselves we’re going to transform ourselves into callous sex kittens, then I remember I do have his number - I’d written it down along with all the other numbers in my phone when I changed my mobile a few weeks back. ‘Do it,’ says Alice, and that’s all the encouragement I need. I hit send and the text is
on its way.
And so the game begins again. Seriously
Thursday 3 July 2008
Poison ivy
MISSING: Tall, outgoing and happy 27 year-old man answering to the name of ‘Dom’ and wearing a smile.
I have a very sad announcement to make – I have lost my flatmate. He has been kidnapped by an evil dwarf lady who eats nothing but soya beans and self-confidence – his self-confidence, that is.
Yes, my lovely flatmate has found himself a girlfriend and since her appearance on the scene a few months ago, he has turned into a shadow of his former self. Gone is the happy-go-lucky boy who’d greet me with a cheeky grin and a bear hug every day, and in his place there is a rather confusing chap who flips between all-consuming black moods brought about by another battle with his lady-nemesis, and very occasional highs, which I suspect are the result of marathon sessions in the sack.
Actually, I think this is where her power over him must stem from. He has conceded himself that she makes him miserable, that she’s hard work, and that (and I quote) “it’s not even like she’s that stunning and it makes it all worth it”, yet somehow she still occupies a place in his life…and his bed. I would have given him more credit than being a lad that falls for big boobs and a domineering personality but somehow her sex kitten act has him hooked. She stalks around the place with bright red lipstick, towering heels, and the lowest cut tops you can imagine, and, like an obedient little puppy, he follows with his tongue hanging out. What is wrong with the boy?
And for all of you reading this and attributing my reaction to jealousy, can I just point out that it’s not just me that feels like this. Oh no. Every single one of his best friends has taken me aside to complain about the girl and Dom’s addiction to her. According to them, she’s known in their crowd for being a complete nightmare, apparently she parades around the clubs they go to like she owns the place, and expects every man to fall at her tiny little feet. They can’t stand how she treats Dom, demanding his undivided attention and making a scene every time he fails to live up to her lofty expectations, yet none of them will say anything to him. Instead they bend my ear about it and make me even more exasperated.
On the odd occasion I do get the chance to talk to Dom about it, he just looks forlorn – either defending her with a heartfelt “but she’s so sweet when we’re alone together and no one else sees that” or dropping his head in his hands and vowing to end it. Of course, whenever he attempts that, she breaks out the big guns (so to speak). And the next morning, an array of sex foods from strawberries to crème caramel (yuk) have magically appeared in my fridge, and they hole themselves up in his room for the day. When they finally emerge, she has the smug look of triumph on her face, while poor Dom looks slightly delirious.
To make matters worse, not only have I lost my fun flatmate, I seem to have gained the girlfriend as an honorary one. And let me tell you, she ain’t a bundle of laughs to live with. When she’s not picking a fight with Dom, or trying to look all seductive on the couch, she’s messing around in my kitchen cooking up strange vegetarian dishes that stink the house out (it seems she only breaks her super-healthy diet during their foodie sex sessions). My cupboard and fridge are filling up with gross-looking health foods, various odd-looking meat substitutes, and jar after jar of vitamin and mineral supplements, and my bathroom is overflowing with gloopy blue bath products from Lush. Incidentally, what the hell kind of ‘sex kitten’ shops at Lush and Holland & Barrett – surely it should be champagne, caviar, and Chanel all the way?
Perhaps I should hatch a plan with the boys to stage an intervention. We could lock Dom in his room for a week for a ‘she-devil detox’, ring round some of the old notches on his bedpost to remind him what fun it was to play the field, and force feed him manly food like steak, pizza, and chips to rid the poor boy of the taste of sushi and soya that’s threatening to damage his tastebuds permanently.
Of course what’s more likely to happen is that I’ll continue to try to be supportive as he tears himself apart every other day. I’ll watch quietly as she stomps all over his heart and I’ll be there to pick up the pieces when it all falls apart. There’s really not much else I can do…short of an extermination.
I have a very sad announcement to make – I have lost my flatmate. He has been kidnapped by an evil dwarf lady who eats nothing but soya beans and self-confidence – his self-confidence, that is.
Yes, my lovely flatmate has found himself a girlfriend and since her appearance on the scene a few months ago, he has turned into a shadow of his former self. Gone is the happy-go-lucky boy who’d greet me with a cheeky grin and a bear hug every day, and in his place there is a rather confusing chap who flips between all-consuming black moods brought about by another battle with his lady-nemesis, and very occasional highs, which I suspect are the result of marathon sessions in the sack.
Actually, I think this is where her power over him must stem from. He has conceded himself that she makes him miserable, that she’s hard work, and that (and I quote) “it’s not even like she’s that stunning and it makes it all worth it”, yet somehow she still occupies a place in his life…and his bed. I would have given him more credit than being a lad that falls for big boobs and a domineering personality but somehow her sex kitten act has him hooked. She stalks around the place with bright red lipstick, towering heels, and the lowest cut tops you can imagine, and, like an obedient little puppy, he follows with his tongue hanging out. What is wrong with the boy?
And for all of you reading this and attributing my reaction to jealousy, can I just point out that it’s not just me that feels like this. Oh no. Every single one of his best friends has taken me aside to complain about the girl and Dom’s addiction to her. According to them, she’s known in their crowd for being a complete nightmare, apparently she parades around the clubs they go to like she owns the place, and expects every man to fall at her tiny little feet. They can’t stand how she treats Dom, demanding his undivided attention and making a scene every time he fails to live up to her lofty expectations, yet none of them will say anything to him. Instead they bend my ear about it and make me even more exasperated.
On the odd occasion I do get the chance to talk to Dom about it, he just looks forlorn – either defending her with a heartfelt “but she’s so sweet when we’re alone together and no one else sees that” or dropping his head in his hands and vowing to end it. Of course, whenever he attempts that, she breaks out the big guns (so to speak). And the next morning, an array of sex foods from strawberries to crème caramel (yuk) have magically appeared in my fridge, and they hole themselves up in his room for the day. When they finally emerge, she has the smug look of triumph on her face, while poor Dom looks slightly delirious.
To make matters worse, not only have I lost my fun flatmate, I seem to have gained the girlfriend as an honorary one. And let me tell you, she ain’t a bundle of laughs to live with. When she’s not picking a fight with Dom, or trying to look all seductive on the couch, she’s messing around in my kitchen cooking up strange vegetarian dishes that stink the house out (it seems she only breaks her super-healthy diet during their foodie sex sessions). My cupboard and fridge are filling up with gross-looking health foods, various odd-looking meat substitutes, and jar after jar of vitamin and mineral supplements, and my bathroom is overflowing with gloopy blue bath products from Lush. Incidentally, what the hell kind of ‘sex kitten’ shops at Lush and Holland & Barrett – surely it should be champagne, caviar, and Chanel all the way?
Perhaps I should hatch a plan with the boys to stage an intervention. We could lock Dom in his room for a week for a ‘she-devil detox’, ring round some of the old notches on his bedpost to remind him what fun it was to play the field, and force feed him manly food like steak, pizza, and chips to rid the poor boy of the taste of sushi and soya that’s threatening to damage his tastebuds permanently.
Of course what’s more likely to happen is that I’ll continue to try to be supportive as he tears himself apart every other day. I’ll watch quietly as she stomps all over his heart and I’ll be there to pick up the pieces when it all falls apart. There’s really not much else I can do…short of an extermination.
Thursday 3 April 2008
Letting go of my space…
Saturday 5th April
It seems that for once I am the only person in my life who is not embroiled in some kind of romantic drama. Everyone else, regardless of their good intentions or hopes, has found themselves in a relationship that is falling apart at the seams.
One of my best friends is searching for a way to save a long-term relationship that may have been dying ever since it became ‘long-term’, another has been crushed by a selfish boy she mistakenly trusted with her heart, my flatmate is on a roller coaster ride with his ‘poca chica loca’ who he refuses to let in but won’t let go, and my brother is struggling with the conflicting demands of groupies and a girlfriend. And me? Well I’ve met a lovely boy with whom I’ve shared a few lovely dates, and all would be hunky dory if I could stop thinking about how it will inevitably all fall apart if I let myself get emotionally involved.
Still, at least for the moment, I feel safe. Safe in the knowledge that he’s still interested. That he’ll call. That we’ll see each other again. That even if he’s not quite sure about me yet, he’ll be back for more.But I don’t want to feel too safe. It’s when you get there, when you really let them in, that it all blows up. Funny thing is, I think we’d all rather blow up than be alone.
Sun 6th April
I took a step towards letting my guard down today. I had no idea until a few weeks ago how much I’d built up a wall. But then when I found myself stuttering through another goodbye, unable to show any real feelings towards the boy, to give away the fact that I might actually like him, I realised that letting another one walk away could be worse than risking my heart again.So I sent a text…a simple text. A casual text. A ‘playing it cool but not too cool’ text. “Thanks for another lovely evening last night. Lets not leave it so long this time”. It took me an hour just to work up the courage to hit send. But I did. And to be completely honest, I had total faith that in a matter of hours, my doubt would be disproved and a reciprocally ‘playing it cool but not too cool’ text would wing its way back to my phone.
I was wrong. Nothing.
How very arrogant of me to assume. Seems there’s more truth in that ridiculous ‘when you assume, you make an ass out of u and me’ phrase than you might think.
Mon 7th April
1.30pmArgh, the curse of myspace. How am I supposed to concentrate on writing a feature about the perfect wedding, when I can see he’s online? When I know he can see I’m online. And still nothing.It’s impossible. Caving in is inevitable. So I choose to end the torture and send one of my signature ‘easy breezy (secretly anything but)’ myspace messages.And guess what? Nothing.
2pm: Still online. Still nothing.
3pm: Nothing
4pm: Absolutely nothing.
5pm: Ok, now I’m angry. What’s his problem?
He’s got pictures of me saved in his phone, we’ve slept in each other’s arms more times than I can remember, he’s sung his head off in my shower, we’ve baked a bloody cake together, for god’s sake. And now, he can’t even respond to a stupid myspace message.
8pm: Oh holy fuck! I may have solved the mystery of why the boy’s not been in touch. Did you know that the mythical computer programme that claims to tell myspace users how many times individuals look at their page does actually work? Do you realise this means that every time I’ve clicked onto the boy’s page to see if he’s been online, or to check if some other floozy’s been messaging him, there’s a possibility he knew? And more importantly, can you believe Carine has only just told me this?
I don’t even want to think about how many times I’ve given away the fact that I’m interested without even realising it. We’re easily taking three figures here. I thought I was playing it so cool and actually there’s every chance the poor boy thinks he has some scary psycho stalker.
I’m telling you, social network sites are the work of the devil. They’ll be the end of us all. And of any chance we might have ever had at a normal relationship.
My name’s Carrie and I’m a myspace-aholic. It’s time to go cold turkey.
It seems that for once I am the only person in my life who is not embroiled in some kind of romantic drama. Everyone else, regardless of their good intentions or hopes, has found themselves in a relationship that is falling apart at the seams.
One of my best friends is searching for a way to save a long-term relationship that may have been dying ever since it became ‘long-term’, another has been crushed by a selfish boy she mistakenly trusted with her heart, my flatmate is on a roller coaster ride with his ‘poca chica loca’ who he refuses to let in but won’t let go, and my brother is struggling with the conflicting demands of groupies and a girlfriend. And me? Well I’ve met a lovely boy with whom I’ve shared a few lovely dates, and all would be hunky dory if I could stop thinking about how it will inevitably all fall apart if I let myself get emotionally involved.
Still, at least for the moment, I feel safe. Safe in the knowledge that he’s still interested. That he’ll call. That we’ll see each other again. That even if he’s not quite sure about me yet, he’ll be back for more.But I don’t want to feel too safe. It’s when you get there, when you really let them in, that it all blows up. Funny thing is, I think we’d all rather blow up than be alone.
Sun 6th April
I took a step towards letting my guard down today. I had no idea until a few weeks ago how much I’d built up a wall. But then when I found myself stuttering through another goodbye, unable to show any real feelings towards the boy, to give away the fact that I might actually like him, I realised that letting another one walk away could be worse than risking my heart again.So I sent a text…a simple text. A casual text. A ‘playing it cool but not too cool’ text. “Thanks for another lovely evening last night. Lets not leave it so long this time”. It took me an hour just to work up the courage to hit send. But I did. And to be completely honest, I had total faith that in a matter of hours, my doubt would be disproved and a reciprocally ‘playing it cool but not too cool’ text would wing its way back to my phone.
I was wrong. Nothing.
How very arrogant of me to assume. Seems there’s more truth in that ridiculous ‘when you assume, you make an ass out of u and me’ phrase than you might think.
Mon 7th April
1.30pmArgh, the curse of myspace. How am I supposed to concentrate on writing a feature about the perfect wedding, when I can see he’s online? When I know he can see I’m online. And still nothing.It’s impossible. Caving in is inevitable. So I choose to end the torture and send one of my signature ‘easy breezy (secretly anything but)’ myspace messages.And guess what? Nothing.
2pm: Still online. Still nothing.
3pm: Nothing
4pm: Absolutely nothing.
5pm: Ok, now I’m angry. What’s his problem?
He’s got pictures of me saved in his phone, we’ve slept in each other’s arms more times than I can remember, he’s sung his head off in my shower, we’ve baked a bloody cake together, for god’s sake. And now, he can’t even respond to a stupid myspace message.
8pm: Oh holy fuck! I may have solved the mystery of why the boy’s not been in touch. Did you know that the mythical computer programme that claims to tell myspace users how many times individuals look at their page does actually work? Do you realise this means that every time I’ve clicked onto the boy’s page to see if he’s been online, or to check if some other floozy’s been messaging him, there’s a possibility he knew? And more importantly, can you believe Carine has only just told me this?
I don’t even want to think about how many times I’ve given away the fact that I’m interested without even realising it. We’re easily taking three figures here. I thought I was playing it so cool and actually there’s every chance the poor boy thinks he has some scary psycho stalker.
I’m telling you, social network sites are the work of the devil. They’ll be the end of us all. And of any chance we might have ever had at a normal relationship.
My name’s Carrie and I’m a myspace-aholic. It’s time to go cold turkey.
Monday 4 February 2008
Mixed signals
I seriously think there is something wrong with me. Either my love life is actually cursed or I am officially the worst person in the world at playing this so-called dating game.
One minute I’m besotted with some guy who can barely commit to a text message never mind an actual date, then I somehow end up dating a guy who I don’t remotely fancy but who I can‘t seem to say no to every time he asks me out. Ah, she’s just desperate, I hear you say. But you know what, I wish it was that simple. If I was desperate, surely I’d be happily dating this latest guy, not kicking myself each time I find my fingers involuntarily responding to his text message, not backing off every time he leans in for a goodbye kiss, and not having this conversation in my head in the first place.
When he first asked me out, I will admit it was possibly the volume of mind-altering substances in my body that led me to accept (and the fact that I felt obliged after already snogging the face off him in my inebriated wisdom), but now, what’s my excuse?
He texted last night asking if I fancied supper this week (apparently posh boys say supper, not dinner- yes, he‘s posh but we‘ll get to that later), I spent all of an hour trying to pretend he hadn’t texted at all, then came up with this genius reply: “Sure, supper would be lovely but I seem to have lost my diary so I’m not quite sure when I’m free. Can I let you know tomorrow?” Will you check out the mixed messages here… “supper would be lovely”- that sounds keen, no? But then what’s this nonsense about losing my diary? I’ve not lost my diary, I never lose anything, I’m just putting off the moment that I actually have to commit to a date.
Then today I’ve gone from being 100% sure this morning that I’m going to call it off, to deciding this afternoon that as I have quite a quiet week ahead, dinner (or supper - whatever!) might actually be nice. A few hours of to-ing and fro-ing later and then somehow there’s a text on the way to him saying “I’m free any night but Wednesday”.‘Ach, what harm can dinner do?’ I say to myself. ‘We’ll have a nice meal, a few drinks, then I’ll get a cab home at a reasonable hour and all will be fine.’ Only that’s not what he has in mind - apparently he wants me to go to his place so he can cook me supper…yeah right! Sorry but it doesn’t take a genius to work out what that means. There’s no way I’m making the mistake of going to his place (again).
Yes, okay, I am skipping a few significant parts of the story here. I have indeed been in his house before…on Friday night, after attending several parties and consuming way too many drinks and far too little food, I somehow found myself stranded in Battersea with him at 7am after a mutual friend‘s birthday. It would have cost me 40 quid that I did not have to get a cab back to mine in the North, and frankly, I was way too wasted to be allowed anywhere on my own. At the time, I’m sure the alcohol helped me rationalise it. The next afternoon, when I woke up at his place, it all seemed rather different.
This is the moment I should have got the hell out of there and deleted his number. Of course, I’m way too polite (or messed up in the head - which is it again?) to do that so I wind up here, agreeing to see him again (cue the moment where I spend the next couple of paragraphs convincing myself this is a good idea).
Maybe this time, I’ll change my mind and decide I actually like him. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with him. In fact, on paper, he’s quite the catch. For a start, he’s my age, which means he’s much more mature than all the young indie boys I usually waste my time on. Plus, he’s a gentleman - he wouldn’t dream of letting me pay for a thing, always remembers to holds the door open, kisses me on the cheek when I arrive, and takes care of getting me a cab home (on his business account, but still it‘s an improvement on the night bus!). He’s got a good job as a restaurant PR which means lots of lovely meals in very nice restaurants and occasionally free champagne. He’s funny, confident, and he has his own flat - which is very rare in London (even more rare is that it’s not a hovel). And most importantly of all, he makes it plainly obvious that he really likes me - he always calls when he says he will, he acts totally engrossed in everything I say, and he tells me I’m beautiful all the time.
Now for the cons, he’s not just posh, he’s super posh - he’s from an intimidating wealthy family who own a massive global beauty firm. They have houses all over the world, and go skiing every Christmas for god‘s sake. (Eurch, I bet he even calls his parents mummy and daddy!) Con number 2: from what I can gather, he’s quite the fan of recreational drugs. Con number 3: he wears a long coat and carries a man-bag (is it wrong that I find the last con most offensive of all?). Oh no, wait, con number 4 - I don’t find him attractive. What I do find attractive is how nice he is to me. And oh, it’s been such a long time since someone’s been that nice to me.
One more date couldn’t hurt. Could it?
Could it?
One minute I’m besotted with some guy who can barely commit to a text message never mind an actual date, then I somehow end up dating a guy who I don’t remotely fancy but who I can‘t seem to say no to every time he asks me out. Ah, she’s just desperate, I hear you say. But you know what, I wish it was that simple. If I was desperate, surely I’d be happily dating this latest guy, not kicking myself each time I find my fingers involuntarily responding to his text message, not backing off every time he leans in for a goodbye kiss, and not having this conversation in my head in the first place.
When he first asked me out, I will admit it was possibly the volume of mind-altering substances in my body that led me to accept (and the fact that I felt obliged after already snogging the face off him in my inebriated wisdom), but now, what’s my excuse?
He texted last night asking if I fancied supper this week (apparently posh boys say supper, not dinner- yes, he‘s posh but we‘ll get to that later), I spent all of an hour trying to pretend he hadn’t texted at all, then came up with this genius reply: “Sure, supper would be lovely but I seem to have lost my diary so I’m not quite sure when I’m free. Can I let you know tomorrow?” Will you check out the mixed messages here… “supper would be lovely”- that sounds keen, no? But then what’s this nonsense about losing my diary? I’ve not lost my diary, I never lose anything, I’m just putting off the moment that I actually have to commit to a date.
Then today I’ve gone from being 100% sure this morning that I’m going to call it off, to deciding this afternoon that as I have quite a quiet week ahead, dinner (or supper - whatever!) might actually be nice. A few hours of to-ing and fro-ing later and then somehow there’s a text on the way to him saying “I’m free any night but Wednesday”.‘Ach, what harm can dinner do?’ I say to myself. ‘We’ll have a nice meal, a few drinks, then I’ll get a cab home at a reasonable hour and all will be fine.’ Only that’s not what he has in mind - apparently he wants me to go to his place so he can cook me supper…yeah right! Sorry but it doesn’t take a genius to work out what that means. There’s no way I’m making the mistake of going to his place (again).
Yes, okay, I am skipping a few significant parts of the story here. I have indeed been in his house before…on Friday night, after attending several parties and consuming way too many drinks and far too little food, I somehow found myself stranded in Battersea with him at 7am after a mutual friend‘s birthday. It would have cost me 40 quid that I did not have to get a cab back to mine in the North, and frankly, I was way too wasted to be allowed anywhere on my own. At the time, I’m sure the alcohol helped me rationalise it. The next afternoon, when I woke up at his place, it all seemed rather different.
This is the moment I should have got the hell out of there and deleted his number. Of course, I’m way too polite (or messed up in the head - which is it again?) to do that so I wind up here, agreeing to see him again (cue the moment where I spend the next couple of paragraphs convincing myself this is a good idea).
Maybe this time, I’ll change my mind and decide I actually like him. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with him. In fact, on paper, he’s quite the catch. For a start, he’s my age, which means he’s much more mature than all the young indie boys I usually waste my time on. Plus, he’s a gentleman - he wouldn’t dream of letting me pay for a thing, always remembers to holds the door open, kisses me on the cheek when I arrive, and takes care of getting me a cab home (on his business account, but still it‘s an improvement on the night bus!). He’s got a good job as a restaurant PR which means lots of lovely meals in very nice restaurants and occasionally free champagne. He’s funny, confident, and he has his own flat - which is very rare in London (even more rare is that it’s not a hovel). And most importantly of all, he makes it plainly obvious that he really likes me - he always calls when he says he will, he acts totally engrossed in everything I say, and he tells me I’m beautiful all the time.
Now for the cons, he’s not just posh, he’s super posh - he’s from an intimidating wealthy family who own a massive global beauty firm. They have houses all over the world, and go skiing every Christmas for god‘s sake. (Eurch, I bet he even calls his parents mummy and daddy!) Con number 2: from what I can gather, he’s quite the fan of recreational drugs. Con number 3: he wears a long coat and carries a man-bag (is it wrong that I find the last con most offensive of all?). Oh no, wait, con number 4 - I don’t find him attractive. What I do find attractive is how nice he is to me. And oh, it’s been such a long time since someone’s been that nice to me.
One more date couldn’t hurt. Could it?
Could it?
Friday 4 January 2008
An American in London
Well I’ve settled on my new year's resolution...never again am I allowing myself to be roped into some strange psuedo-relationship via email.
The American decided to pay me a little visit - and it was…how can I put it...an unmitigated disaster? Yes. The longest two days of my life? Yes. Painfully awkward? A huge eye-opener? And a valuable lesson learned? Yes, yes, yes.
Who'd have thought that the same man who regularly makes me laugh out loud with his witty emails, who has a similar passion for writing and working in the media, and professes to love all the same films and music as me, would turn out to be such a bad match? Certainly not me! I knew he wasn't conventionally the most attractive of guys but I figured his blinding personality would make me see beyond the receding hairline and over-sized snozz. Turns out the hairline and nose were much worse than I remembered, and the 'blinding personality" was strangely absent.
After quickly realizing that there was not a flicker of chemistry, I thought perhaps we could still manage to spend a pleasant couple of days together as friends, but he apparently didn't cotton on to this lack of frisson and consistently made ill-advised attempts at grabbing my hand, or resting his sweaty palm on my knee. What could be worse than being forced to spend 48 hours in the company of someone you find repulsive who seems to be under the impression that you're in the midst of a romance? Not much it seems - well apart from the guilt that comes with it.
I felt awful that he’d come all this way with certain expectations that clearly were not going to be met. I felt awful that the only place for him to sleep outwith my room (which there was no way he was setting foot in!) was a tiny two-seater sofa in the lounge. I felt awful that I may have led him on. And most of all, I felt awful that every time he opened his mouth, I wanted to punch him. It sounds mean – but I just couldn’t help feeling that way.
Just to make it through his last night without jabbing a fork in his hand (or my own eye), I knew I was going to have to get smashed. I managed to sink most of a bottle of wine over dinner before I realised that me getting drunk, would mean him getting drunk too…and thus an added risk of wandering hands. Taking him along to a house party where we could lose each other in the melee seemed the ideal solution so we crashed the party of a friend of a friend and I set about my avoidance strategy. It worked pretty well to begin with– I met two lovely Scottish boys who were happy to keep me entertained/surrounded while the American stood on the other side of the room switching between looking at me like a wounded puppy, and giving the boys the death stare. Of course, he soon got fed up and came over with his coat on declaring that he was leaving. I couldn’t bring myself to be such a rude hostess, that I’d let him go home by himself but what would happen when we were alone and drunk? It could have been a disaster. Fortunately I came up with a new genius plan…I’d take my new best friends with me!
Needless to say taking home two random boys did not go down well with the American, who went to bed in a huff ten minutes after we got back. I, of course, had to stay up and entertain my guests which resulted in me not waking up until 12.30pm the next day with a banging headache and strange recollections of the three of us giving each other piggy back rides around the house and trying to do tricks on my flatmate’s skate board in the street at 6am.
I tentatively crept out of my room and caught a glimpse of a present and a post-it note on the dining table. My heart leapt for a second as I thought he had left early to spare us an awkward goodbye. Sadly, he’d just nipped out ‘for a walk’. When he returned, I did the whole “oh, I’m so sorry you’ve had to entertain yourself, you should have woken me” thing, to which he replied “well I didn’t know if you were in there by yourself” – cheeky sod! Thankfully there was only an hour left before he had to leave for the airport and as I had installed myself on the couch in my pyjamas to make it clear I wasn’t going anywhere, we just sat in awkward silence while he watched the telly, and I watched the clock. Eventually the time came when he had to head off and after a polite hug, he trotted off alone to the tube station.
I shut the door, did a little jig of joy, and set about washing every towel, sheet, surface, couch cushion or anything else he may have touched. As I cleaned, I thought about how I had got it so wrong and realised my new year’s resolution should actually be two-fold…not only will there be no more emailing, there will also be no more putting huge emphasis on what a guy does, what music he listens to, what films he watches, and how many intelligent opinions he has. In fact, someone with terrible taste in films and music, a completely different job to me, and no intelligent opinions whatsoever could be the way to go.
Or maybe not.
The American decided to pay me a little visit - and it was…how can I put it...an unmitigated disaster? Yes. The longest two days of my life? Yes. Painfully awkward? A huge eye-opener? And a valuable lesson learned? Yes, yes, yes.
Who'd have thought that the same man who regularly makes me laugh out loud with his witty emails, who has a similar passion for writing and working in the media, and professes to love all the same films and music as me, would turn out to be such a bad match? Certainly not me! I knew he wasn't conventionally the most attractive of guys but I figured his blinding personality would make me see beyond the receding hairline and over-sized snozz. Turns out the hairline and nose were much worse than I remembered, and the 'blinding personality" was strangely absent.
After quickly realizing that there was not a flicker of chemistry, I thought perhaps we could still manage to spend a pleasant couple of days together as friends, but he apparently didn't cotton on to this lack of frisson and consistently made ill-advised attempts at grabbing my hand, or resting his sweaty palm on my knee. What could be worse than being forced to spend 48 hours in the company of someone you find repulsive who seems to be under the impression that you're in the midst of a romance? Not much it seems - well apart from the guilt that comes with it.
I felt awful that he’d come all this way with certain expectations that clearly were not going to be met. I felt awful that the only place for him to sleep outwith my room (which there was no way he was setting foot in!) was a tiny two-seater sofa in the lounge. I felt awful that I may have led him on. And most of all, I felt awful that every time he opened his mouth, I wanted to punch him. It sounds mean – but I just couldn’t help feeling that way.
Just to make it through his last night without jabbing a fork in his hand (or my own eye), I knew I was going to have to get smashed. I managed to sink most of a bottle of wine over dinner before I realised that me getting drunk, would mean him getting drunk too…and thus an added risk of wandering hands. Taking him along to a house party where we could lose each other in the melee seemed the ideal solution so we crashed the party of a friend of a friend and I set about my avoidance strategy. It worked pretty well to begin with– I met two lovely Scottish boys who were happy to keep me entertained/surrounded while the American stood on the other side of the room switching between looking at me like a wounded puppy, and giving the boys the death stare. Of course, he soon got fed up and came over with his coat on declaring that he was leaving. I couldn’t bring myself to be such a rude hostess, that I’d let him go home by himself but what would happen when we were alone and drunk? It could have been a disaster. Fortunately I came up with a new genius plan…I’d take my new best friends with me!
Needless to say taking home two random boys did not go down well with the American, who went to bed in a huff ten minutes after we got back. I, of course, had to stay up and entertain my guests which resulted in me not waking up until 12.30pm the next day with a banging headache and strange recollections of the three of us giving each other piggy back rides around the house and trying to do tricks on my flatmate’s skate board in the street at 6am.
I tentatively crept out of my room and caught a glimpse of a present and a post-it note on the dining table. My heart leapt for a second as I thought he had left early to spare us an awkward goodbye. Sadly, he’d just nipped out ‘for a walk’. When he returned, I did the whole “oh, I’m so sorry you’ve had to entertain yourself, you should have woken me” thing, to which he replied “well I didn’t know if you were in there by yourself” – cheeky sod! Thankfully there was only an hour left before he had to leave for the airport and as I had installed myself on the couch in my pyjamas to make it clear I wasn’t going anywhere, we just sat in awkward silence while he watched the telly, and I watched the clock. Eventually the time came when he had to head off and after a polite hug, he trotted off alone to the tube station.
I shut the door, did a little jig of joy, and set about washing every towel, sheet, surface, couch cushion or anything else he may have touched. As I cleaned, I thought about how I had got it so wrong and realised my new year’s resolution should actually be two-fold…not only will there be no more emailing, there will also be no more putting huge emphasis on what a guy does, what music he listens to, what films he watches, and how many intelligent opinions he has. In fact, someone with terrible taste in films and music, a completely different job to me, and no intelligent opinions whatsoever could be the way to go.
Or maybe not.
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