Braving the singles night...Part 1

Despite having been for all intents and purposes pretty much single for over 5 years now, I have resolutely refused to go down the horrific route of organised dating. Speed-dating events, internet dating sites, singles ‘supper clubs’: you can call it what you want but I’ve long been of the belief that these places are populated by predatory players, sad singletons, and losers of the highest degree.

I’ve had to become slightly less vocal with this opinion as more and more of my successful, attractive, and perfectly eligible single friends have opted to give it a go, but still, there’s no way I could accept that was how my story could get sewn up. What about romance, fate, the star-crossed lovers effect? Stumbling across your soul mate in the supermarket. Eyes meeting across a crowded room. Those stomach-flipping moments when you realise you’ve just met the one. I was still set on the fairytale. And in no fairytale I can imagine would there be a door charge, a tick list, or an uncomfortable dinner party with a bunch of overbearing strangers.

Which is why I couldn’t quite fathom what had happened when just a few weeks ago, I found myself roped into attending London‘s newest singles night: ‘Meddlers of Honour’ with the tasteful tag line - ‘the dating night where every single person gets hooked up’. I’d been seduced by the fact that a very good friend of mine had signed up to be a ‘meddler’ ie. one of the matchmakers at the event whose job it was to circulate the room making introductions.

“So, see anyone you like?” she asked hopefully. “Eh no is the short answer to that,” I replied, having scanned the room, taken in the medley of unlikely characters, and retreated to a quiet corner in the hope of avoiding any unwelcome advances. “Give it time,” she instructed. “And get another bottle of wine in.” It looked like it was going to be a long and painful night.

My meddlers buddy Liv was more optimistic having spotted a beefy long-haired chap who bore a vague resemblance to her fantasy husband (one Nathan Follow ill - the entirely unattainable drummer in Kings of Leon). Only this particular attendee was not there in the capacity of singleton; trussed up in a long white coat and holding court in the ‘Love Clinic’, he was one of the ‘Love Doctors’ - one of two self-appointed experts in dating who were there to dish out advice and convince all the undate-able that they were in fact the catch of the century. “I’m going to go talk to him,” she announced. “What shall I say?” “How about ‘Doctor, Doctor, my sex is on fire’ I suggested helpfully. “Only he might just recommend cranberry juice.”

Responding with a raised eyebrow and a shake of her head, she stalked off to stake out her prey, leaving me at the mercy of two over-enthusiastic young men who’d sat down next to us and now set about making their moves. With all the arm touching and knee grazing going on, it was clear they’d been reading up on flirting techniques, thankfully a few well-placed shudders and bored facial expressions were enough to convince them they were fighting a lost cause with me and they skulked off.

I breathed a sigh of relief and set about demolishing the bowl of love heart sweets on the table in front of me, while trying desperately not to make eye contact with anyone. It didn’t work: “Carrie, I’ve found someone who’d really like to meet you!” Laura piped up, appearing beside me with man in tow. “ This is James…” Hmmm, maybe she’d got it right, I thought, giving him a quick once over - battered old jeans, plaid shirt, dishevelled hair artfully arranged to fall over one eye. “Eh hi…” I stuttered. And then, as he flicked his hair out of his face to say hello, I saw it - “Oh!” - the word ‘nose’ seems insufficient to describe the giant pointed beak that took over most of this poor guy’s face and as I desperately tried and failed not to look directly at it (could I turn to a pillar of salt?), he attempted to strike up a conversation. “So Laura tells me you’re a writer, I’m a writer too, I write music reviews for The Times.” In ordinary circumstances, this would indeed have been a reason why he might appeal to me but seriously, was Laura insane? “Maybe I should leave you guys alone to chat…” she offered. Clearly she was insane. “Actually, I was just about to nip to the bar. I’ll catch up with you later yeah,” I responded practically sprinting away.

And the bar was where Liv found me an hour later, when Doctor Love had departed, and I was half way through the second bottle of rose wine and quickly losing my ability to see straight. “Can we please go home now?” I begged. “Let me help you with that bottle first,” she decided, wrestling it out of my iron grip. “He left, no goodbye, no number, nothing.” “I’ll get you a glass,” I answered, turning to hail the barman.

But by the time I’d turned back, she’d been approached by a new man, and simply winked as she walked away with him and - even more upsettingly - with the wine, leaving me proffering an empty glass.

That’s when he made his move. “Hi, I’m John. Looks like you need a drink.”

“You know what John, that’s the most appealing offer I’ve had all night.”

To be continued…

Indecent exposure

I have just seen the most shocking thing - I feel slightly nauseous thinking about it again but I feel it is my duty to recount the experience here.

So I’m at my friend Jen’s house enjoying a few civilised drinks in the back garden with some of the girls, when what can only be described as a fucking mentalist joins the party. She’s a friend of a friend who is visiting for the night and before she even walks through the door I am warned that she’s a bit schizo - understatement of the century. You know those girls who are so insecure and desperate for approval that they’ll do anything for attention? Well here was possibly the most extreme example of one I’ve ever met. She was like a dog chasing its tail to get a treat from its master, only with possibly less developed social skills.

As soon as she arrived in a whirl of fake tan and bleach blonde hair, she halted conversation to tell a story about a date she’d been on where she’d caused a fight of such epic proportions that one poor guy ended up in a coma. Not getting quite the awed responses from us that she’d hoped for, she upped the ante by announcing that she’s just had her clit pierced: “Look…” she said whipping her trousers down before anyone had a chance to object or avert their gaze. “It goes through the hood and I am telling you, it make things sooooooo much better”.

This time she had me, I sat there stunned not knowing quite how to react to the spectacle of a woman I’d barely met displaying her private parts in all their Hollywood waxed baldness. Thankfully, by this time it was blessedly dark making the view a little less graphic than it might have been earlier…cue Lou: “I can’t see it,” she says, peering in for a closer look. “Here,” says Fliss, brandishing a lighter, “just as well you’re so bald down there or you could go up in smoke!”.

Morbid curiosity satisfied, we manage to convince our exhibitionist to pull her pants up, but no such luck getting her to sit down: “Can any of you do a crab from standing?” she asks, readying herself for a demonstration. “I can!” and with that her arms shoot up, and she falls backwards, smacking her head on the paving stones before righting herself . “See!” she exclaims proudly, arms and legs akimbo, fanny pointing skyward again. “Wow, that’s ace,” Jen manages while we all struggle to stifle our laughter, “your head okay though?” “Oh yeah, it’s fine, I do that all the time,” she answers. That explains a lot, I think, only just managing to keep myself from saying it out loud. The bash to the head does seem to shut her up for a while though so I decide to take the opportunity to escape before the next act starts.

As I’m walking out the front door, I hear her pipe up again: “Did you know I’m double jointed? Wanna see what I can do….”. Eh no, time for a sharp exit.

Falling off the wagon

So the funny thing about celibacy? It seems when it’s unofficial (ie. when you’re just having a bit of a drought), it’s a damn sight easier to stick to. Conversely when you have made the vow publicly to numerous actual people (I say numerous in the hope that more than just my mum reads my column. Hi Mum.), it suddenly becomes much more of a challenge.

No sooner had I hit send on the email containing last month’s column (and brave assertion that I had transformed into a beacon of virginity), than temptation arrived on my doorstep. And I’m talking literally.

Since I moved into my lovely new home back in January, the house next door has been sitting empty but the other weekend, all of a sudden, there came the distinct sound of someone tramping up and down the stairs heaving boxes. A new arrival in our hood. “Ooh new neighbours!” I proclaim excitedly to my housemate Johnny. “Yeah, I met them earlier and you’ll be pleased to hear it’s three boys - one of whom is apparently just home from touring with his band.” Potential Hot Indie Boy next door - amazing.

Fast forward a few hours, I’m leaving the house to meet Liv for lunch and bump into said HIB on the doorstep. “Oh hi, I’m X, I just moved in ne….” he trails off and we both look at each other incredulously.

I’ve met this particular HIB before. In fact the last time I saw him, we were pretty much in a liplock for the entire evening. Afterwards there was some flirtatious texting but given the fact he lived up North, it seemed pointless to start anything up. I knew I’d see him again at some point as he’d just signed to my friend’s record label - but I wasn’t quite expecting to see him directly outside my front door.

“Eh hi X, this is a bit of a coincidence,” I manage, as a flush creeps up his neck - shy boy this one. “Hi Carrie, I had no idea you lived here. This is mad.” Indeed it is, I agree and approximately 2 and a half minutes of awkward conversation ensues before I make my excuses and we both turn to leave with stunned smiles frozen on our faces.

Since then, I have successfully managed to avoid bumping into him, but the knowledge that he could be laying in bed on the other side of the wall from where I lay my head, immediately unlocked the door in my mind to the kind of thoughts my vow was supposed to quell. ‘Well as long as I don’t act on them,’ I tell myself. Before promptly going out and sleeping with the first man who chats me up. Whoopsadaisy.

The result of that particular encounter was a plethora of embarrassing lovebites, a sore head, and the lingering worry that I may have acted like a wanton hussy (I can‘t be sure as the old memory had been dulled into submission by a cocktail of white wine, brandy, and sambuca). One thing I was sure of - I had no idea what this man’s name was, I wanted him out of my bed sharpish, and I never wanted to lay eyes on him again.

Of course, what with my life being a ridiculous chain of embarrassing events, I bumped into him in the same bar just a few days later. Fortunately I know the bar manager….so I had him barred. Problem solved.

Deciding this was an inevitable slip-up on my path to a virginal existence, I attempted another night of white wine induced drunkenness to test my mettle. To minimise the chance of bad behaviour on my part, I decided to make it a Thursday night out, hoping that the anticipation of work in the morning would stop me going too far, and to take my mate Laura, who promised to ensure we remained civilised.

Sadly, after the nth glass of cheap white wine which they were proffering for free at the 1st birthday of my favourite Camden haunt, things began to go downhill. The process went roughly as follows:

9.30pm: Laura and I are approached by two young men asking for a light.
10pm: Laura and I decide party is lame and head to nearby bar with said young men.
10.30pm: Laura and I are aghast to discover they are just 21 and still live with their parents.
11pm: Laura and I have a tequila and decide to relive our youth vicariously through them.
11.30pm: I am waltzed around a kebab shop, ending in a heap on the floor.
12am: We hail a cab to one of the boy’s houses (or rather parent’s house).
12.30am: Boy breaks out vinyl collection and presence of Leanord Cohen album convinces me he is wise and mature beyond his years…
1am: …he may even be my soul mate.
2am: Laura passes out in the spare room after exhausting game of charades.
2.30am: Boy number two goes home, leaving me and boy number one to discuss the merits of Neil Young’s back catalogue.
3am: Boy tells me I am pretty.
3.15am: I’m pretty sure you can guess.
…
8.30am: “Oh holy crap, I start work in an hour and I have no idea where I am!”

I’ve decided celibacy is like dieting - as soon as you decide to stop indulging, you want to stuff your face with cake constantly.

Out of action

Well folks, it’s been a while! Apologies for my unexplained disappearance from these pages but I’ve had to take it easy on the writing front after breaking my wrist during London’s freak February snowstorms.

There I was, walking home from work – with perfectly sensible shoes on, I hasten to add – when I slipped on the ice and landed in an ungainly heap on the ground. After recovering from the embarrassment, I realised I couldn’t actually get up as my wrist wouldn’t support my weight. It being London, and it being the tourism rush hour on the Millennium Bridge, I sat there for a while before anyone came to my aid. But it was worth the wait.

I saw him approaching determinedly through the crowds as soon as he spotted me. He was tall, dark, brooding and all wrapped up against the cold in a huge scarf and battered up old biker boots. Just looking at him made me feel a little better and before I knew it, he was standing directly above me. “You really went down there. Are you okay?” he asked, reaching out to help me up.

I think I must have sat there stunned for a couple of seconds before I accepted his hand and he wrenched me up off the ground. When he did, I was suddenly distracted from my amorous daze by the searing pain that shot through my arm. “Shit, my wrist!” I exclaimed, eloquent as ever, and my eyes filled with tears. “Here, let me see,” he insisted taking my arm gently and pulling off my glove. “It doesn’t look too good, I’m afraid. I think we need to get you to a hospital.”“We?” I queried. Surely this gorgeous specimen of a man was not suggesting he escort me to the nearest casualty ward. I couldn’t quite believe it was happening. And of course, I was right.

Sorry dear reader, but that little episode was just my imagination running away with me. It didn’t happen that way at all. Much as I’d love to be, I am not the heroine in a romantic comedy and stunningly handsome men are generally not in plentiful supply in times of crisis. No, what actually happened is a kindly old lady helped me up and sent me on my way with a “You should really be more careful, dear.” I hobbled off crying my eyes out, got on a bus to Archway Hospital (picking up my reluctant friend Liv on the way) and spent the evening in the Accident & Emergency waiting room trying to ignore the drunk old man sitting on my right, who had quite clearly peed his pants, and the off-his-face young man on my left who was so enamoured with Liv that he dropped his pants right in front of us. Not so nice as the fantasy but much more in fitting with the hopeless narrative that is my life, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Speaking of hopeless, another skill I have been developing over the last couple of months (along with left-handed typing) is my ability to walk away from men who are clearly very bad for me.I’m not quite sure when my mindset shifted from wanton hussy to born again virgin, but recently I seem to have developed something akin to self-respect. The unfortunate result of this is that I cannot bring myself to continue with a love life full of meaningless encounters and as such, have sworn off men. Well sort of.

There was a drunken snog with a very dashing and fashionably bespectacled gent at a party last month, but in contrast with my usual carefree behaviour, upon discovering that he had a girlfriend I walked away. I’m not going to lie to you, a few months back I would have taken him home in a heartbeat telling myself that it was him that was in the wrong, not me. But this time, the thought of the way I’d feel in the morning when he sneaked out of my bed and skulked home to his girlfriend was enough to make me say no. I’ve finally realised I’m worth more than that and if I’m ever going to get any one else to see that, I need to turn over a new leaf.

The latest challenge to my self-enforced celibacy came on Saturday night when I bumped into a certain young man that my friend had previously tried to set me up with at her birthday. On that occasion, despite the acknowledgement that we both liked each other, nothing happened due to the fact that we were never left alone together. Weeks later, I was disappointed to learn that he’d got himself a new girlfriend and I’ve not seen him since. Until last weekend when he confused me further by failing to mention the existence of said girlfriend, spending all night flirting with me, asking me to go back to a ‘house party’ at his (which consisted of about 4 people!), and then when I did, asking me to spend the night – in his bed.

I’m proud to say that once again I took myself home alone – frustrated but with self-respect firmly intact. How very dull for us all.

new year, new plan

So how many of you have been thinking of quitting your job and running away to live in the country of late? I certainly have. I am so not loving being back at work in this bustling metropolis.

It’s only been three days since the festive holidays officially ended and in those three days, I’ve transformed from a totally chilled out, well –rested, and happy individual, into a tense, moody, and exhausted wreck. I’m not sure if it’s the lack of sleep that’s the biggest problem or a come-down from my Christmas sugar high, but the lack of Quality Street combined with switching from a good ten or twelve hours a night (plus the occasional afternoon nap) to a measly six does not a happy-Carrie make. More like hari-kari.

I have resolved that the only way to get through January alive is to look ahead in excited anticipation of February’s arrival. Yes, that freezing cold and dreich month that most of you dread is my favourite month of all. And why? Because it’s my birthday – and best of all, unlike all my oldest and dearest friends, I won’t be turning 30 this year. Hoorah!

I’ve a whole year of my twenties left and I plan to make the most of it – starting with my party to end all parties: an 80s-birthday-Valentine’s-prom extravaganza. There’s to be big frou-frou dresses, bowls of punch, much drunken dancing, and hopefully lots of lovely boys in tuxes rocking out to Billy Idol and The Cure. I cannot wait.

Plus to add to the joy that is February, my new position of Travel Writer on the mag is kicking off with a weeklong press trip to Vegas. Vegas! It’s too good. Quite clearly I don’t have thousands of pounds to gamble away at the roulette table, but you know who does? All the rich, older, handsome men crowded into the casinos throwing the cash from their bulging wallets around. I just hope they’re not all dreadful fat Americans with Hawaiian shirts and trucker caps. Eurch.

The other good thing about keeping myself so busy in February is that it will distract me from the fact that I am chickening out of the promise I made to myself last year – that if I was still working at this wedding magazine by my 29th birthday, I would quit my job and move to France to write my much-anticipated (by me) first novel.

It’s not that I hate my job – with trips to Vegas, not to mention all the free cake on offer, it’s not half bad – I just don’t feel like it’s taking me anywhere career-wise. According to my teenage dreams, I was supposed to have written a bestseller by now. (I was also supposed to be married with my own home, at least one bouncing baby, and enough money in the bank to never have to worry about whether or not I can afford those fabulous new shoes…but lets not go there.)

This year brings the perfect opportunity of escape – my parents are flitting to France in March to a pretty little house in the middle of nowhere, and there’s a room in there chosen specifically for this purpose. Mum says as soon as she set foot in it and saw the beautiful view of the Pyrenees out the window, she said: “This is the perfect place for Carrie to write her book.” But the bottom line is – I’m too scared. Scared of throwing away a perfectly good job for a pipe dream that could amount to nothing; scared of getting there, sitting down in front of my laptop and being unable to produce a word; scared of opting out of the rat race then not being able to get back in.

The other thing keeping me here is the glorious fact that I have found a wonderful new home, with three lovely individuals, one of whom just rang me to tell me they’re all cooking me a special welcome dinner on Friday night to celebrate my arrival. Awww.

So, all things considered, I’ve decided to give it another year here in London then reassess. With any luck 2009 will be the year, I become an uber-successful writer who can afford to pack in the nine-to-five for a profitable freelance career. Thus allowing me the time to get started on that book – and to re-introduce my afternoon nap habit.

Dear Santa, please find me a flatmate…

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.

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….