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.