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.
Thursday, 3 July 2008
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.
Tuesday, 4 December 2007
Going loopy
I am driving myself insane. In the last two weeks, I have transformed from a relatively together, completely grounded, straight-down-the-line person into a complete nut-job. And all because of one stupid boy.
I knew it was a mistake as soon as I gave him my number. In fact, I was suspicious as soon as he even began talking to me at the bar. He was handsome, he was funny, and he was chatting ME up. Something had to be wrong. But then, well he kissed me, and everything got all messed up, didn’t it? There was that sudden feeling of impending doom coupled with a delicious trembling in my legs that I knew spelled trouble…of the completely irresistible kind.
‘Maybe this one would be different;’ I told myself. Maybe he’d be nice to me. He certainly seemed nice when he took my number, and offered to take me out the following week. He seemed nice when he told my friends he’d definitely see them soon. And he seemed more than nice when he told me to stop playing it cool and insisted I take his number. So after spending the whole night on cloud nine, I spent the next three days freaking out because he hadn't texted or called.
By Tuesday night, I couldn’t take it anymore. The three-day rule period had come and gone, I was a bit pissed (shocker!) and totally fed up of his number taunting me from within my phone, so I texted him with some hilarious joke (well it seemed it at the time) about him obviously having been abducted by aliens. Miraculously, he texted back right away, suggesting we go out the following night. As it happened, I was already going to a bar launch that night with a few friends but rather than postpone, I just invited him along with his mates. I figured more people, less pressure.Of course, when I actually got there, I was so nervous, I took it out on the white wine and can only vaguely remember him showing up. I think it was all very fun, I know we had a bit of a laugh, I definitely remember a goodbye kiss and his suggestion that next time we go out it just be the two of us. But then it all goes rather blurry.
By the time I got home. I was completely smashed. I crashed through the door, attempted to give my flatmate Dom a hug, promptly fell over then scooped myself up and went off in search of the phone, having decided it would be a great idea to call the troublesome boy. Unfortunately, he answered and even in my drunken state, I knew after speaking crap for five minutes, that it hadn’t gone well (it may have been Dom sitting shaking his head at me that gave this away).
Since then I’ve been caught in a really confusing cycle. He texts, I get excited, text back, then nothing. I get fed up, delete his number, then the next day he texts.I used to be so content in my own company and so involved in whatever I happened to be doing at the time, that if my phone rang or beeped, there was a 90% chance I wouldn’t even bother picking it up. Now, I so much as feel a vibration in the air and I leap for my phone. It’s exhausting.
I don’t know whether it’s a good sign that he’s still texting, or a bad sign that he hasn’t actually booked in the next date. Part of me thinks I’d be better just writing the whole thing off so I can go back to being a sane person again.The most ridiculous thing is I’m sure I used to be quite good at all this. Before I moved to London, there was generally always at least one boy that I had an ongoing text-flirtation with and it was great fun. But somehow in the last two years, I seem to have changed into an insecure, untrusting, emotional wreck. And who knew?
There’s been no men on the scene for so long, that I’ve been living under the ruse that I am totally clued-up, chilled out and nonchalant about the whole thing. I’ll even admit to being condescending to Carly when she has her weekly emotional breakdown as a result of some boy failing to text her, or worse, blatantly myspacing other girls and not her.Thank god, this one doesn’t have a myspace page or I’d really be in trouble. Googling him was bad enough. (Yes, googling him – we all do it, didn’t you know?).
Now don’t laugh but I’m sure I just felt my handbag vibrate. Hang on……yes, that was him. Replying many hours too late since my text message last night, which I’d promised myself was his last chance. And still no mention of a second date. Argh.
Right, I’m switching my phone off. Or maybe I should fling it in the Thames on the way home. But then Kieran wouldn’t be able to get in touch when he gets here on Thursday. Did I mention that? Yes, my email buddy from NY is coming to visit. Note to self: kissing boys gets me in trouble. Possibly even boys who live on the other side of an ocean.
I knew it was a mistake as soon as I gave him my number. In fact, I was suspicious as soon as he even began talking to me at the bar. He was handsome, he was funny, and he was chatting ME up. Something had to be wrong. But then, well he kissed me, and everything got all messed up, didn’t it? There was that sudden feeling of impending doom coupled with a delicious trembling in my legs that I knew spelled trouble…of the completely irresistible kind.
‘Maybe this one would be different;’ I told myself. Maybe he’d be nice to me. He certainly seemed nice when he took my number, and offered to take me out the following week. He seemed nice when he told my friends he’d definitely see them soon. And he seemed more than nice when he told me to stop playing it cool and insisted I take his number. So after spending the whole night on cloud nine, I spent the next three days freaking out because he hadn't texted or called.
By Tuesday night, I couldn’t take it anymore. The three-day rule period had come and gone, I was a bit pissed (shocker!) and totally fed up of his number taunting me from within my phone, so I texted him with some hilarious joke (well it seemed it at the time) about him obviously having been abducted by aliens. Miraculously, he texted back right away, suggesting we go out the following night. As it happened, I was already going to a bar launch that night with a few friends but rather than postpone, I just invited him along with his mates. I figured more people, less pressure.Of course, when I actually got there, I was so nervous, I took it out on the white wine and can only vaguely remember him showing up. I think it was all very fun, I know we had a bit of a laugh, I definitely remember a goodbye kiss and his suggestion that next time we go out it just be the two of us. But then it all goes rather blurry.
By the time I got home. I was completely smashed. I crashed through the door, attempted to give my flatmate Dom a hug, promptly fell over then scooped myself up and went off in search of the phone, having decided it would be a great idea to call the troublesome boy. Unfortunately, he answered and even in my drunken state, I knew after speaking crap for five minutes, that it hadn’t gone well (it may have been Dom sitting shaking his head at me that gave this away).
Since then I’ve been caught in a really confusing cycle. He texts, I get excited, text back, then nothing. I get fed up, delete his number, then the next day he texts.I used to be so content in my own company and so involved in whatever I happened to be doing at the time, that if my phone rang or beeped, there was a 90% chance I wouldn’t even bother picking it up. Now, I so much as feel a vibration in the air and I leap for my phone. It’s exhausting.
I don’t know whether it’s a good sign that he’s still texting, or a bad sign that he hasn’t actually booked in the next date. Part of me thinks I’d be better just writing the whole thing off so I can go back to being a sane person again.The most ridiculous thing is I’m sure I used to be quite good at all this. Before I moved to London, there was generally always at least one boy that I had an ongoing text-flirtation with and it was great fun. But somehow in the last two years, I seem to have changed into an insecure, untrusting, emotional wreck. And who knew?
There’s been no men on the scene for so long, that I’ve been living under the ruse that I am totally clued-up, chilled out and nonchalant about the whole thing. I’ll even admit to being condescending to Carly when she has her weekly emotional breakdown as a result of some boy failing to text her, or worse, blatantly myspacing other girls and not her.Thank god, this one doesn’t have a myspace page or I’d really be in trouble. Googling him was bad enough. (Yes, googling him – we all do it, didn’t you know?).
Now don’t laugh but I’m sure I just felt my handbag vibrate. Hang on……yes, that was him. Replying many hours too late since my text message last night, which I’d promised myself was his last chance. And still no mention of a second date. Argh.
Right, I’m switching my phone off. Or maybe I should fling it in the Thames on the way home. But then Kieran wouldn’t be able to get in touch when he gets here on Thursday. Did I mention that? Yes, my email buddy from NY is coming to visit. Note to self: kissing boys gets me in trouble. Possibly even boys who live on the other side of an ocean.
Sunday, 4 November 2007
A singleton abroad
I just got back from the most ridiculous, tacky, and OTT press trip I have ever been on…incidentally it was also the most fun - by a mile.
When my editor received the invite, she guffawed (as only editors know how) and emerged from her office clutching the offending article by one corner like she might catch a horrible disease from it. “I’m not sure if this is your cup of tea, but it’s certainly not mine so if you want to go, feel free,” she said, dropping a print out of the trip’s itinerary on my desk.
Now, to be perfectly honest, I knew before I’d even read the thing that I was going to say yes. I’ve admittedly already got a bit of a rep in the office for taking advantage of every press freebie that comes my way, and if it involves spending a few days relaxing at a luxury resort and getting paid for the pleasure, I’m most definitely there. But even to me, this trip looked a bit much - four days in Antigua at the opening of a new ultra all-inclusive couples-only destination brought to us by the Caribbean’s most commercial resort group with raucous parties every evening and the company of international press, C-list celebrities, and the groups most loyal customers (ie. wealthy vulgar Americans). It sounded awful but I figured I could opt out of all the activities and work my way through the final Harry Potter tome so of course, I graciously accepted.
Fast forward a few weeks and I’ve arrived, my group of eight UK journalists, one PR and two reporters from E! Entertainment are sat in the lobby drinking our first glass of Champagne and waiting to be shown to our rooms when the concierge finally presents me with my key and I run off upstairs to investigate the mini-bar situation. And boy, am I in for a treat - there’s no ‘mini’ about this bar - it’s a proper bar with full size bottles of spirits, a fridge stacked with beer, wine, bubbly, and mixers, and a basket overflowing with calorific nibbles. I’m so excited I don’t even take in the four poster bed, whirlpool bath, plasma screen TV, or ocean-view balcony before pouring myself a welcome G&T. Well, there’s not much time to waste. Shaggy takes to the stage soon to kick off the first evening’s festivities.
Expecting a cheese-fest that will be more likely to make me cringe than join in with the grinding, I am pleasantly surprised by what turns out to be a great show. I forgot just how many Shaggy songs I knew, and all us girls end up having a brilliant time dancing by the side of the stage to classics like ‘Oh Carolina’ and ‘It Wasn’t Me’. Shaggy even starts to look quite attractive in an unexpectedly disarming way. So much so that I consider hanging out with the E! Entertainment crew, who plan to hijack him for an interview when he comes off stage. Then I realise that coming onto Mr Lover Lover himself would be very wrong indeed and I send myself to bed.
The next day, I somehow end up volunteering to go zip lining in the rainforest and find myself with my stomach in my mouth flying from tree to tree in the pouring rain 3oo feet above the ground. It’s obviously all a bit much for me because I max out on fun by 9.30pm that night and sneak off to my room (and Harry Potter) before Sean Paul even takes to the stage.
When the final night arrives - the dreaded pool party - I fully expect to duck out early again, unable to bear the embarrassment of being seen dancing in a bikini, but something miraculous happens. I end up first in the pool, and stay there for a full three hours dancing my little socks off and occasionally getting out to drag someone else in.I manage to convince all the UK crowd, a Californian couple we met on the zip lining trip, and also one of the company directors of the resort group, who seems to be getting a little flirty in the hot tub! He is undeniably attractive and charming but as one of the hosts of the whole event and having recently hit the big 4-0, I know he doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s just doing his job - schmoozing and boozing.
At least that’s what I thought to begin with, but after sinking my umpteenth margarita, I notice the vibe has changed. I decide removing myself from the hot tub (and him) is the best idea so I head onto the (dry) dance floor for another shimmy. But barely half a twist into the song, he’s at my side: ‘Lets go for a walk on the beach’. It’s not so much an invitation as an order and I can tell by his eyes that walking isn’t what he has in mind. I am shocked! I mean, admittedly I may have encouraged his presumptuous attitude earlier in the evening by plucking the cherry out of his Pina Colada and proudly showing off my skill at tying the stalk in a knot with my tongue, but come on, everyone has a party trick, it’s not my fault if people misconstrue that particular one as an act of flirtation.
Anyway, I digress, to get back to the moment…the question on deck was did I want to go for a walk on the beach. And I must confess that I really, really did.So I went – and like the rest of the trip, it was completely ridiculous, a little bit wrong, but unexpectedly quite fun!
When my editor received the invite, she guffawed (as only editors know how) and emerged from her office clutching the offending article by one corner like she might catch a horrible disease from it. “I’m not sure if this is your cup of tea, but it’s certainly not mine so if you want to go, feel free,” she said, dropping a print out of the trip’s itinerary on my desk.
Now, to be perfectly honest, I knew before I’d even read the thing that I was going to say yes. I’ve admittedly already got a bit of a rep in the office for taking advantage of every press freebie that comes my way, and if it involves spending a few days relaxing at a luxury resort and getting paid for the pleasure, I’m most definitely there. But even to me, this trip looked a bit much - four days in Antigua at the opening of a new ultra all-inclusive couples-only destination brought to us by the Caribbean’s most commercial resort group with raucous parties every evening and the company of international press, C-list celebrities, and the groups most loyal customers (ie. wealthy vulgar Americans). It sounded awful but I figured I could opt out of all the activities and work my way through the final Harry Potter tome so of course, I graciously accepted.
Fast forward a few weeks and I’ve arrived, my group of eight UK journalists, one PR and two reporters from E! Entertainment are sat in the lobby drinking our first glass of Champagne and waiting to be shown to our rooms when the concierge finally presents me with my key and I run off upstairs to investigate the mini-bar situation. And boy, am I in for a treat - there’s no ‘mini’ about this bar - it’s a proper bar with full size bottles of spirits, a fridge stacked with beer, wine, bubbly, and mixers, and a basket overflowing with calorific nibbles. I’m so excited I don’t even take in the four poster bed, whirlpool bath, plasma screen TV, or ocean-view balcony before pouring myself a welcome G&T. Well, there’s not much time to waste. Shaggy takes to the stage soon to kick off the first evening’s festivities.
Expecting a cheese-fest that will be more likely to make me cringe than join in with the grinding, I am pleasantly surprised by what turns out to be a great show. I forgot just how many Shaggy songs I knew, and all us girls end up having a brilliant time dancing by the side of the stage to classics like ‘Oh Carolina’ and ‘It Wasn’t Me’. Shaggy even starts to look quite attractive in an unexpectedly disarming way. So much so that I consider hanging out with the E! Entertainment crew, who plan to hijack him for an interview when he comes off stage. Then I realise that coming onto Mr Lover Lover himself would be very wrong indeed and I send myself to bed.
The next day, I somehow end up volunteering to go zip lining in the rainforest and find myself with my stomach in my mouth flying from tree to tree in the pouring rain 3oo feet above the ground. It’s obviously all a bit much for me because I max out on fun by 9.30pm that night and sneak off to my room (and Harry Potter) before Sean Paul even takes to the stage.
When the final night arrives - the dreaded pool party - I fully expect to duck out early again, unable to bear the embarrassment of being seen dancing in a bikini, but something miraculous happens. I end up first in the pool, and stay there for a full three hours dancing my little socks off and occasionally getting out to drag someone else in.I manage to convince all the UK crowd, a Californian couple we met on the zip lining trip, and also one of the company directors of the resort group, who seems to be getting a little flirty in the hot tub! He is undeniably attractive and charming but as one of the hosts of the whole event and having recently hit the big 4-0, I know he doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s just doing his job - schmoozing and boozing.
At least that’s what I thought to begin with, but after sinking my umpteenth margarita, I notice the vibe has changed. I decide removing myself from the hot tub (and him) is the best idea so I head onto the (dry) dance floor for another shimmy. But barely half a twist into the song, he’s at my side: ‘Lets go for a walk on the beach’. It’s not so much an invitation as an order and I can tell by his eyes that walking isn’t what he has in mind. I am shocked! I mean, admittedly I may have encouraged his presumptuous attitude earlier in the evening by plucking the cherry out of his Pina Colada and proudly showing off my skill at tying the stalk in a knot with my tongue, but come on, everyone has a party trick, it’s not my fault if people misconstrue that particular one as an act of flirtation.
Anyway, I digress, to get back to the moment…the question on deck was did I want to go for a walk on the beach. And I must confess that I really, really did.So I went – and like the rest of the trip, it was completely ridiculous, a little bit wrong, but unexpectedly quite fun!
Thursday, 4 October 2007
A crime of passion
I have shocking news. I have been a victim of crime. I guess I really shouldn’t be so surprised. I do live in what has to be the UK’s crime capital. And of course, spending the majority of my weekends boozing it up in Camden probably isn’t the safest way to pass the time. The most ridiculous thing is that this was no ordinary crime, it was a crime of passion…well, kind of. I guess I better stop rambling and explain properly.
Basically, I’m dancing away in the back of a dingy watering hole on a Saturday night when some ropey looking dude in a Snoopy t-shirt comes over and starts sidling up to me. Now, as I’m sure you all know, I’m a bit out of practice at giving guys the brush-off so after attempting to ignore him for a few seconds, I eventually lose the head and tell him to f-off. Not the subtlest approach, but it seems to work, he mooches off, his tail between his legs, and I get back down to the business of making a tit of myself on the dance floor. Sadly this does not last long and the lights go up exposing all the cool scenesters as sweaty acne-ridden 15 year olds in need of a good wash. Time to leave methinks.
I grab my bag from under the table where I’d stashed it and start scrabbling round for my phone to find out where the next party is. No mean feat when my bag’s about the size of a suitcase and, as is usual form, after five minutes, I give up and ask a friend to ring it to make things easier. Funny thing is it starts to ring then fades away. She rings again and nothing. Odd. Or maybe not.
Hels suddenly realises that at the exact same time we stopped hearing the phone’s ring, Mr Snoopy skulked out of the door. We rush out in hot pursuit to find him standing outside as cool as a cucumber chatting away to a group of lads. Not wanting to jump to the wrong conclusion, Hels rings the phone again. Suddenly his pocket lights up and starts vibrating. I launch into a vitriolic attack screaming at him to give me my phone back, and he just looks at me like I’m mental. Fortunately we have muscle on hand, Hels’ boyfriend, Jon, saunters over with his drunken mate Matt in tow. While Matt’s so pissed he looks like he doesn‘t know where he is, Jon manages to appear just about threatening enough. “Empty your pockets, you c*nt,” he growls. Snoopy does as he’s told and after pulling out just about everything else he has in his pockets (in a hopeless last ditch effort to appear innocent, I assume), he hands over the phone. “I found it on the floor and thought it was mine,” he whines. Cue me: “YEAH, YOU FOUND IT IN THE BOTTOM OF MY F*CKIN’ BAG, YOU THIEVING F*CKER!” In his first wise move of the night, Snoopy makes a sharp exit.
Jon is hot on his heels. “NO JUST LEAVE IT! HE’S NOT WORTH IT!” Hels and I squeal in hysterical-melodramatic-drunk-girl mode. Being a gent at heart, Jon drops the hard man front and swaggers back over. “Have you got everything else?” he asks (obvious question, you might think). “Eh, yeah, I think so. I didn’t actually…OH HOLY CRAP, THE SCUMBAG‘S GOT MY PURSE!” I yell, and we all break into a sprint after him. Trouble is we have no idea which way he went.
Jon runs one way, Hels and I run another (slightly hindered by towering wedges which refuse to remain on my feet), but there’s no sign. We all meet up again at the High Street, where Matt eventually catches up with us, and in between pants, manages: “what the hell are we all running for?”. He clearly has no idea what has just happened. Poor Matt.
And poor me. My purse is gone, with all my cards, all the crap I carry around for sentimental reasons, and what could be anything between £0 and £40 in there (I have no idea how much I’d spent on gin by that point). We decide there’s only one thing for it - we jump on a bus back to Jon & Hels place (and leaving Matt asleep on the backseat), head up to their flat to get over the trauma with a little help from a six-pack of Fosters picked up at the corner shop, and a bag full of weed that somebody kindly gifted Jon for his birthday. Being un-seasoned tokers, we all pass out a few hours later feeling a bit queasy.
It’s a sad story, I know. Who’d have thought a man scorned could be so vicious? Or perhaps, it wasn’t the knock back on the dancefloor that did it. He may have just been another professional petty thief. And the Snoopy t-shirt, a cunning disguise so victims assume he is a harmless geek. But this story does surprisingly have a bit of a happy ending.
A week and a half later, I arrive at work to a message on my voicemail. “Hi! This is Piers Roberts. I run the design festival in Holloway where you lost your purse, Lucky for you, I found it so give me a call and I’ll get it back to you.” Huh? Somehow my purse took a week to travel from Camden to Holloway, then turned up at some artsy event - could Snoopy actually be a creative soul at heart? We’ll never know. But at least I’m getting my purse back.
Now I wonder if this Piers Roberts is a handsome chap….
Basically, I’m dancing away in the back of a dingy watering hole on a Saturday night when some ropey looking dude in a Snoopy t-shirt comes over and starts sidling up to me. Now, as I’m sure you all know, I’m a bit out of practice at giving guys the brush-off so after attempting to ignore him for a few seconds, I eventually lose the head and tell him to f-off. Not the subtlest approach, but it seems to work, he mooches off, his tail between his legs, and I get back down to the business of making a tit of myself on the dance floor. Sadly this does not last long and the lights go up exposing all the cool scenesters as sweaty acne-ridden 15 year olds in need of a good wash. Time to leave methinks.
I grab my bag from under the table where I’d stashed it and start scrabbling round for my phone to find out where the next party is. No mean feat when my bag’s about the size of a suitcase and, as is usual form, after five minutes, I give up and ask a friend to ring it to make things easier. Funny thing is it starts to ring then fades away. She rings again and nothing. Odd. Or maybe not.
Hels suddenly realises that at the exact same time we stopped hearing the phone’s ring, Mr Snoopy skulked out of the door. We rush out in hot pursuit to find him standing outside as cool as a cucumber chatting away to a group of lads. Not wanting to jump to the wrong conclusion, Hels rings the phone again. Suddenly his pocket lights up and starts vibrating. I launch into a vitriolic attack screaming at him to give me my phone back, and he just looks at me like I’m mental. Fortunately we have muscle on hand, Hels’ boyfriend, Jon, saunters over with his drunken mate Matt in tow. While Matt’s so pissed he looks like he doesn‘t know where he is, Jon manages to appear just about threatening enough. “Empty your pockets, you c*nt,” he growls. Snoopy does as he’s told and after pulling out just about everything else he has in his pockets (in a hopeless last ditch effort to appear innocent, I assume), he hands over the phone. “I found it on the floor and thought it was mine,” he whines. Cue me: “YEAH, YOU FOUND IT IN THE BOTTOM OF MY F*CKIN’ BAG, YOU THIEVING F*CKER!” In his first wise move of the night, Snoopy makes a sharp exit.
Jon is hot on his heels. “NO JUST LEAVE IT! HE’S NOT WORTH IT!” Hels and I squeal in hysterical-melodramatic-drunk-girl mode. Being a gent at heart, Jon drops the hard man front and swaggers back over. “Have you got everything else?” he asks (obvious question, you might think). “Eh, yeah, I think so. I didn’t actually…OH HOLY CRAP, THE SCUMBAG‘S GOT MY PURSE!” I yell, and we all break into a sprint after him. Trouble is we have no idea which way he went.
Jon runs one way, Hels and I run another (slightly hindered by towering wedges which refuse to remain on my feet), but there’s no sign. We all meet up again at the High Street, where Matt eventually catches up with us, and in between pants, manages: “what the hell are we all running for?”. He clearly has no idea what has just happened. Poor Matt.
And poor me. My purse is gone, with all my cards, all the crap I carry around for sentimental reasons, and what could be anything between £0 and £40 in there (I have no idea how much I’d spent on gin by that point). We decide there’s only one thing for it - we jump on a bus back to Jon & Hels place (and leaving Matt asleep on the backseat), head up to their flat to get over the trauma with a little help from a six-pack of Fosters picked up at the corner shop, and a bag full of weed that somebody kindly gifted Jon for his birthday. Being un-seasoned tokers, we all pass out a few hours later feeling a bit queasy.
It’s a sad story, I know. Who’d have thought a man scorned could be so vicious? Or perhaps, it wasn’t the knock back on the dancefloor that did it. He may have just been another professional petty thief. And the Snoopy t-shirt, a cunning disguise so victims assume he is a harmless geek. But this story does surprisingly have a bit of a happy ending.
A week and a half later, I arrive at work to a message on my voicemail. “Hi! This is Piers Roberts. I run the design festival in Holloway where you lost your purse, Lucky for you, I found it so give me a call and I’ll get it back to you.” Huh? Somehow my purse took a week to travel from Camden to Holloway, then turned up at some artsy event - could Snoopy actually be a creative soul at heart? We’ll never know. But at least I’m getting my purse back.
Now I wonder if this Piers Roberts is a handsome chap….
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