Date with S (and the tooth fairy)

You're saying it, I'm saying it: what the f*ck am I meeting S again for?

A brief flick through earlier posts delivers the reminder that he is a charming womaniser who is 20 years too old and has previously made it painfully clear he doesn't want a relationship with me. To make it worse, I have – in true pushover style – agreed to go for dinner at a Japanese restaurant when I can’t abide Japanese food.

Unfortunately S is also a fantastic kisser, kindly, entertaining, easy company and I fancy the pants off him despite the grandad zip-up cardigans and being, essentially, an only slightly hotter version of Sacha from Holby City (a clear sign that I have got it either "really bad", or just "really wrong"). 

Thus I regress to age 16, step into my semi-gothic charleston outfit, and find myself supping half a barely swallowable blackthorn in a dingy pub in Camden, having arrived early and nervous.

Dinner, S style, consisted of him ordering a banquet of a thousand starters (“to share” – yeah right!) as well as a couple of mains. Some of them were surprisingly edible (not the rubbery fluorescent seaweed which made a gallant effort to resist peristalsis), and the game of blind-testing beers helped me with some of the more inedible items – e.g. gelatinous shitake mushrooms - the clue’s in the first syllable. We also sampled a Colico - "Japan's favourite drink" – but certainly not mine (something akin to an effervescent aspirin).

However, greater culinary problems were to be in store when I realised the crunchy texture of my aubergine was not some crystal of carelessly strewn gravel, but actually my once-again-broken false tooth. Cursing myself for having allowed S to sit "gap-side", I attempted to surreptitiously regurgitate the offending piece of porcelain and its plastic bridge into my napkin and deposit the articles into my handbag (for a fifth super-gluing on the morrow). This manouvre was somewhat impeded by the plate being securely wedged between the roof of my mouth and a large mouthful of semi-masticated soy-flavoured sludge. I battled on. The only consolation of this grotesquery was that S’s dislike of my new haircut was no longer of any consequence!

Should I be generous and believe that S graciously chose not to notice this ineptly executed and – frankly – disgusting performance? Or, in the light of previous posts, would it be more accurate to record that he was too engrossed in the morsels between his chopsticks to notice? You reader, may decide.

Either way (or perhaps it was pity), he unleashed the charm. Sample: “You can have any man you want”;  “You’re really one of the smartest women I've met” (clearly a lie – he lectures at one of the world’s top universities) and – in an infinitely more self-sacrificing gesture – gave me the last lychee.

Over jasmine tea he laid his hand on my arm. Over double cointreaus he took my hand and started playing with my fingers. Although this time I had come fully prepared with my week’s wages in cash, he generously treated me to dinner (for finishing my MA, he said).

“I was hoping you'd be wearing a basque,” he said, a little coyly. Yes, I thought, then I’d really look like your prostitute. “You’ll need to meet me on a Friday instead then.” I deadpanned.

We got up to leave. He pulled me forward for a kiss as I was heading to the bathroom. Then mumbled a sweet nothing into my ear. What were these beautiful words of wooing? Let me record it verbatim: “Those glasses really do absolutely nothing for you.”

In the cold light of the bathroom, I wondered had he also reflected that the newly-acquired Mr Greedy-style potbelly did similarly little for him?

I decided to score points instead through a virtuoso display of crossword-completion on the tube, and treated him to a bag of maltesers on our way back to his.

Oh my! What a lot of toothbrushes you have!

After furnishing me with my own new toothbrush (later I wished I’d checked to see how many he had – I have visions of a full pirate’s chest). 

In bed, I took his glasses off. “I'll put them back on thanks!” My '20s haircut was even "growing on" him. 

Well, I barely slept a wink (two causes both beginning with 'S', the second being "snoring"), but he made reparation by making me comfortable on his shoulder, bringing tea and biscuits in bed, offering to iron my shirt for work, and providing me with a mini-packed lunch.

Feeling confident I later texted: Fancy an encore? 

His reply: Yes please, followed by a standing ovation!

Old flames

Ok, so I didn't think I'd catch myself doing this, but one night at a loose end (since my dissertation and I had finally parted company for good) with a friend beside (and a bottle of prosecco inside) me, I was persuaded to email a one liner to all those men I had previously gone on dates with who did not have anything sincerely wrong with them.

Obviously this didn't take long.

The email was short, sweet and scripted by my infinitely more sexually-successful friend: "I've just finished the dissertation from hell and wanted to let my hair down... fancy a catch up? x"

I sent five emails, and received four replies. There was Y, a prominent psychiatrist, extremely handsome, demeanour of ice, but nonetheless charming and certainly interesting to talk to (great kisser). Then H, cute French engineer, who I met about 5 times, and argued about feminism with, but I never felt that he particularly fancied me (as such, am unable to comment on kissing ability).  S, despite being dangerous waters as detailed in previous posts, made the cut (well, why not, I foolhardily reasoned), and I threw in an old school chum for good measure.

(M, the charismatic Oxbridge lecturer for whom I could have dropped everything (including knickers) in a shot (were I simply given the chance not to be a blithering buffoon) alas, did not reply.)

So, 2 dates lined up and 2 more pending. Hey - if it was this easy, why didn't I do this a year ago?!

T and I fall out...

The next few days were a flurry of witty texts and emails (I was still riding on the wave of date 3: the positive interpretation).

I would recount them here, but 1) my phone had an epileptic fit and deleted all my texts, and 2) the emails are extremely intense and still make me blush (despite the fact we hadn't even kissed) - e.g. his creative responses to my task "25 uses for a stethoscope" or the more dramatic (and let's face it, immensely flattering) sign off: I want to kiss you. Deeply. For ages. And for time to stop.  

Phew! Pass me a fan!

As he was wading (Darcy-esque) into the marsh of "risque", I had the inspired idea of sending a book with the addressee "Dr Fifty Shades of T" (this was when the book had just been released and the wider populace were still deciding whether it was acceptable to read or not). 

When I requested his address, he sent his work one. Why not his home one?! What did he think I was going to do? Turn up uninvited? Hmmph!

Undeterred, I ordered the item on Book Depository (in fact simply a harmless miscellany) and, egged on by my housemate, addressed it accordingly. 0.2 seconds after I had submitted the order, my housemate (also a hot ambitious male doctor) informed me he was only joking, and of course I should never dream of sending such a thing to a man's workplace, particularly if it were a hospital, as the internal mail system meant the entire staff would get a laugh at it before it made its way to his pigeon hole, thus rendering him the subject of undermining smutty jokes from his entire team.

Oh fuck.

This became less than my key concern however, due to what happened next. 

Alert...

Whilst I was unequivocally relishing the bosom-heaving sections of the correspondence, other areas were causing me serious dismay. Here I'm talking about the references to the "simplicity" of women, attention-seeking being "clearly more prevalent in those with two X chromosomes" (he who had sent me a text that morning, when I hadn't replied instantaneously to his first two, in capitals, demanding "GIVE ME SOME ATTENTION!") and more on the "my best friends fall in love with me" theme.

In particular, comments such as "What is it with women?! Are they simply unable to listen to men talk?! Or are they just too shocked when they come across a man who knows how to communicate!" had started to grate to much to be ignored.  

What to do? Clearly no amount of bodice-ripping correspondence could make this sort of hogwash tolerable. I wrote a cautious email asking if he could go easy on the casual sexism, positing it as a personal tic of mine to be over-sensitive in such matters, in an effort not to offend.

I received an apology, followed by a summary of a couple of my failings (I'm perhaps unable to love, it seems), and the following facile question which he seemed to think as a trump card: If a woman refers to "man-flu" is that being sexist? (Of course it is!! But if that's the worst it gets, are you truly going to compare it to e.g. the wage gap, being told you're genetically predisposed to being hysterical by a qualified doctor, or Todd Akin's rape comments?)

Somehow he then rationalised the entire situation through reference to the Oedipus Affair (i.e. as it was unintentional he was innocent - an excuse one can unfortunately never use more than once) gave two examples of times he harassed female colleagues to the point of them making official complaints about him, and a request for us to put the matter behind us. The email returned to the apologetic, before this grand finale:

Anyway dear, I also hope that on reading this you will have calmed down. You must have had a terribly stressful day at work. Maybe your stilettoes might have broken and you had fallen over. And clearly you are on your period.

I'm sorry, what? 

Did I write back, "Whilst reapplying my lippy I reflected that I must be careful not to irritate you, or you might stone some women to death, strap yourself to a bomb and then blow yourself up"? 

No, I did not.

I wrote back briefly, saying that I'd thought it over and despite enjoying his company when we'd met up, I didn't think we were compatible enough to take it any further: good luck with the search.

What happened next...

Response 1: curt email, "No problem, good luck."

Response 2: apologetic email with the admission the quoted paragraph was inappropriate and a request not to end it in this way and give him another chance.

Response 3: the next day a box of red roses arrived at my workplace, with a thoughtfully written card.

To be continued...

And then I remembered the "50 Shades" book hadn't yet arrived... [Clasps hand to forehead]

T Re-met (Date 2).

No, reader, it didn't all end with my heart being trodden on like a squeaky dog ball, by S.

I won't tell you where this is, as they gave me food poisoning.

After I got back from a conference-cum-springtime-holiday in the US, T casually got in touch. It became clear that he has an eye for the aesthetic, as I received instructions to join him at an atmospheric Moroccan restaurant. (This was pre the 50 Shades tsunami, or I may have drawn a parallel, on the level of authoritativeness, at least).

What did we talk about? I remember that listening formed my main duty of the evening, and that there was a distinct absence of follow-up questions when I mentioned my Masters. There was also a notable moment when he didn't let me have the dessert I wanted, insisting instead that we go for ice-cream (on what was a chilly March evening), at a place that turned out to be shut.

Look good don't they?  Sadly I never found out!

Undeterred, he selected an extremely over-priced touristy pseudo-Italian cafe on Regent's Street, where I watched him eat a tiramisu, while he told me he wouldn't normally have contacted me as I'd put my body type as curvaceous (accurate) and I should have put slim (inaccurate). As he had also labelled himself slim (inaccurate), I suppose I could have. However, my premise is to err on the side of um... honesty, in order not to be greeted with the horror of the first-date-falling-face. Experience, however, begins to indicate that this is not a typical male concern.

It seems my somewhat snarky replies had charmed him, as once the serious business of dessert was out of the way, he put his cutlery down, looked me in the eye and told me he didn't like to play games, he was interested, and would like to see me again. As I rather enjoy being non-plussed in this kind of way (it happening so rarely), I said yes, that would be acceptable, and then walked back to the tube babbling so self-deprecatingly I was waiting for him to stop me and say he'd changed his mind.

awkward...

However, he didn't.

We shared a charmingly awkward goodbye in the tube tunnels under Oxford Circus, where he clumsily kissed me on the cheek and concluded, "Nice to meet you!" belatedly remembering, as I arched an eyebrow, that this wasn't in fact our first date.

He picked his bag up, flustered.  Smirking, I tripped off down to my platform.

S and the weeping woman... (that'd be me)

After the exchange of some fruity post-date texts suggesting we visit Mary W's gravestone in Bournemouth, all went quiet on the S front. Considering the evening had cost him the best part of £150 I thought it only polite to follow up the next day with a sober thank you for the delicious dinner "and post-meal entertainment" which elicited an amused and enthusiastic reply, but this followed what I've learnt is his typical pattern of courteous responses and zero initiation. Hmm... Just maybe I scared him off with my drunken recommendation not to do "the man-nonsense of waiting until it was too late"?!

S somehow manages to have a profound effect on my mood - when he's keen it's like the sun shining down a blessing on me; when he's politely dismissive it's like the thunder clouds have opened over my head and battered out any self-esteem I might have ever possessed.  I enjoy his company and find him exceedingly attractive. I know he's no good for me. I suggest we meet as friends.

My plan was just to have a coffee and brief catch up, possibly with a view towards making myself indispensable as a friend (and perhaps along the way provoke him into realising he'd missed out on a good catch), but avoiding alcohol and anything that could be implicit in "getting my hopes up". This morphed into going to the cinema, and then going to the cinema and getting something to eat (both his idea).

Unfortunately for him, it was the once a month free bar at my work, and we weren't meeting until 7.30. I had been planning to fill the time gap with a spot of light reading, but following a major work-related vexation at 5.29pm, I was persuaded to join my colleagues in the pub. The same colleagues who, on ascertaining my plans for the evening, ribbed me with "Not a date?! Yeah right!" until a few beers and sufficient innuendo later, I was riding the crest of certainty that I was the most desirable woman in London and was essentially heading out to be proposed to.

Within minutes of meeting S, my confidence and mild alcohol-induced elation were doused. 

"I've started seeing someone," he announces as we sit down opposite each other in the restaurant of his choice. "I've taken my profile off the website, we're serious about each other."

"Oh? The One?" I reply nonchalantly, possibly in a slightly higher pitch than usual. "That's nice. How long have you been together?"

"You're going to laugh. Since Tuesday."

Laugh? I should have. But not many people laugh when they receive a metaphorical slap. Today is Thursday. He made categorically clear that he did not want to "rush into" a relationship after first meeting me. I'm starting to feel a little... well, shit.

"I thought you weren't into rushing into anything?" I allow myself (trying to avoid doing the petulant mimc voice and accompanying "talking hand" when quoting his words back at him).

"Yes, well, we'd been writing to each other for three weeks, so we felt like we knew each other well already."

There's a pause as at least one of us contemplates the fact that he and I were writing to each other for three months before we finally met up. He gets up to pay for the meal (you have to pay when you order in this place).

"Wait!" I say. "How much do I owe you?" I'm not accepting dinner from someone else's boyfriend.

He declines to take any money. Guilt? Pity? Flash? Still wanting to be charming? Just a nice guy?

"Come on," I text (he is now in the queue), "you should be saving your money for your new fiancee."

"Yes, weddings are exorbitant nowadays!" He texts back.

Fine. "Can I be a bridesmaid?"

This is what my outfit should say!

Dear reader, before reading his response, note that I was wearing what I'll pretend to think of as my Lois Lane outfit - i.e. a satin pencil skirt, non-slutty fishnet tights, boots and a low cut but smart white shirt. I probably wear this to work about once a week, but it doubles up as my work-to-date-without-looking-like-I've-made-any-particular-effort-for-you outfit.

His reply: "Definitely, if you wear that outfit!"

I shrugged the inappropriately flirtatious comment off with, "What? Office wear?"

But really, what game are we playing here? Is he seeing someone or not? And either way, why is he even meeting me? To take his turn at knocking me back? I was too unsettled to eat much, or to even mentally note infractions of commonly held table manner conventions for later ridicule. Yes, it was that bad.

We go to the cinema. To see Martha Macy Myrtle Margery Miranda... This was my choice and not a good one. Brooding, sinister, alienating, wholly depressing... the ideal film to give a very wide berth when you're exhausted, haven't really eaten, have pmt, are reaching the groggily depressed stage of drunkenness and have just been publicly given the mega-brush off by someone you have been pretending to everyone (yourself included) not to like a quarter as much as you do.

The film is like walking further and further into a dank, deserted forest at dusk. As, three-quarters of the way through, a character submits herself to rape, a tear slips down my face. I lose the will to pretend I'm enjoying myself anymore and the tear's followed by a cascade of more. This is the sort of mood where you need to be in bed with a hot chocolate, a Pixar DVD and a sleeping pill, not out on a date with someone you like but have somehow blown it with. The film ends and I go to the toilet to have a sob (experience has taught me that teariness needs immediate purging or I'll be on the cusp of a breakdown all evening).  I emerge red-eyed and -nosed, hoping the dark will conceal this and I can emerge with a thread of dignity.

No such luck!

S appears to jolly me along: "Remind you of your experiences in a cult, did it?"

"Yes." I retort, flatly.

I recall that S is a psychiatrist. At this moment there are few professions I would less like to be on a date with.

He seems, understandably, in a slight hurry to get his tube. I tell him to go ahead: I need a hot chocolate or I'm going to spend the whole night being haunted by the film (I'm very suggestible). He accompanies me despite my internal pleas that he doesn't decide to benevolently humour me. He gets kinder and more distant by the minute. I feel more and more like a young and foolish patient... I wonder if he has any diazepam.

We have hot drinks and a share a cake. He makes the sort of kindly gestures to cheer me up that a psychiatrist would of course be so adept at - steering the conversation towards my past successes, asking questions he already knows the (cheering) answers to in a bid to buoy my mood, all the while keeping it impersonal and himself detached. This is smart and considerate of him, and truly depresses the hell out of me. The only thing that could possibly make it worse would be if he started telling me what a catch I would be - for some other man. And that's exactly what he does. If I'm that good a catch... but no, I don't labour that point.

Goddam phoney psychiatrists!

The next day I will send him a message apologising, explaining I am not on the verge of a nervous breakdown, do not want a fling, do not go home with men after only meeting them once, am not persistently drunk, have not been in a cult and do not like seeing films with anything higher than a 12 rating. He will write back telling me he accepts my self-evaluation, and how funny and intelligent I am, how I owe him dinner and how he can't wait to see my published work on the 3 for 2 table in Waterstone's: "All I ask is to be a character in your book, so that I can tell my friends."

But for tonight, this week, this month, I have had enough. I listen to assorted tunes of torment on repeat all the way home and snivel into my pillow, with a plan for the morrow to invest my future energies into dull essays instead of phantasmagoric romances.

Here endeth the blog (for the rest of this month, anyway).

Q – the profile and the reality!

A man doing this for the camera? Please no.

I met Q through a mutual friend a couple of years back and we had a brief fling followed by a superficial and occasional gesture at friendship, so it was with some amusement I recently stumbled upon his online dating profile. This seemed an excellent opportunity to gauge the ratio of truth to nonsense of a man's self-analysis (a qualitative rather than quantitative survey, you understand).

The profile commenced with a photo of Q looking imploringly up at the camera, hand coyly over mouth, puppy dog eyes.  This alone would usually be enough for me to "Next!" a bloke (no effete manipulators, please).


The content of the profile itself however, was more engaging. He comes across as funny, articulate, self-effacing, genuine, charming, sweet. A fantastic date and/or boyfriend in fact.


I will refrain from quoting it directly, in the interests of maintaining some shred of decency and anonymity (for him not me), but I think it is fair to say that were I to rewrite this profile (as many men request a female acquaintance do), here are some of the key points I noticed were missing:

• Happy to offer unsolicited unconstructive criticism on anything from your career to your choice of footwear to what you are cooking for dinner this evening (even if he is not invited to said dinner).
• Rude to taxi drivers, and potentially anyone else who is working class and/or an ethnic minority.
• Likes to receive texts and exclaim expletives such as “bugger” (or the strangely unplummy "motherfucker") in loud voice to provoke you into asking what the problem is. If ignored will repeat in attention-seeking manner until he gets the go ahead to disclose a "teaser" about the latest girl who is "stalking" him.
• Enjoys point-scoring off friends, particularly in front of their new girlfriends.
• Inability to give compliments: they "have to be earnt" - yes headmaster!
• Frequent difficulty in distinguishing between wit and tactlessness/rudeness.
• Capacity for occasional acts of charm and sweetness, but only activated after at least a bottle of wine, and likely to be strenously denied in the morning.
• And let's not forget my personal favourite: the post-coital baby voice with accompanying lisp. Irresistible.

On the other hand (after all, it wouldn't do to appear one-sided), also unrecorded on his profile was the fact that he possesses a rather nice, sleek body.


Can I ever approach a profile with my prelapsarian innocence again?

Date with T: Renaissance Man.

Is he a doctor? Is he a banker? Is he a philosophy and theology double postgraduate from Oxford University?

Yes, this was my date from last week.

Instead of taking me to planet Krypton he takes me to a restaurant that looks rather ordinary (in fact, verging on dingy) on the outside, but inside, tardis/phonebooth-like, opens down into a indoor south Indian villa replete with fountains, palm trees, grottos and multi-level splendour. Wow.

And despite the fact he doesn't drink the evening passes fluidly. He's intelligent, interesting, asks questions I want to answer (engaging ones). He orders vegetarian to share. He's open. He's straight-talking and witty (therefore slightly dangerous). He's foppish (I wasn't sure about the pink blazer at first, but I'm now of the opinion that individuality is an excellent thing). He's going on holiday to North Korea (as above).

So - ticks all my boxes. But do I fancy him? Unsure. In the sense that if he flirted with me more overtly I'm sure I would, but it seems I'm required to do the chasing, which leaves me a little cold: I don't like to feel I'm with someone because I've ground them down, even if they are resplendently out of my league. And does he fancy me? We exchanged texts, but as he seems to be waiting for me to make the move twice (something he said he prefers women to do) I get the impression the answer is, if at all, then not enough.

Back to the drawing board?

Attractive only to P V Glob 

It's been a rather dry month for new contacts. Here are some of the highlights:


- A cousin of the Tollund Man, from Staines, who wants to share tea and "banter"... 


- "Mr Efervescent" who is too bubbly to check the dictionary and see his username is spelt incorrectly, and thinks a mildly homophobic joke makes a good introduction.

I don't want to wake up with you.

- Shapher, who makes the extraordinary claim: "In the near future I am going to be one of the best selling authors in the world". Yes, we did both read that correctly...


- Mark, a lumpish Pole, who believes in "Cerpe Diem" (which I first misread as "Herpes Diem") and looks like he's wearing a wig.




- Dan, who sent me the following incisive yet tantalising message: "Hi." (Yes, that really was it).

And how about this for a bizarre introduction from someone who seems to have forgotten that he has already sent me this email (or a variant of it) twice before, at six monthly intervals: 

I suppose I could begin with a harmless, mundane opening email that induces a yawn in you but won't offend and may well lead to a harmless, mundane reply in return. We then spent a few months emailing pleasantries to each other, at the end of which we decide to meet up. If we haven't slit our wrists in boredom by then, that is.

So I'll just be honest here and say that you're cute. Superficial I know but screw it, I'm a man and blame it on that y chromosome. Fancy a drink?

His profile only further enhances the impression of a tolerant, agreeable, open-minded, jolly good sport:

Interests: 

- cooking (I do a fair bit. I mean good, solid, old-fashioned french+italian cooking. So if you dislike butter & garlic, piss off).  

- Real ale. Belgian trappist beer. German weissbier. Old-man pubs (preferably full of old men, rather than wanky advertising types). 

- opera (it's not just for posh tossers. The music and singing are actually rather good) 

-jazz (no wanky modern stuff - mostly crackly old recordings from the 1920s-40s) 

Talk about a glaring mismatching of style to audience and occasion... With this man I'd probably be asking for "a kick in the c*nt" if I tuned into the "wrong" radio station. And in light of my intellectual revulsion, there is really no need to venture into the aesthetic with any commentary on the photo evidence of his extreme swollen-faced morbid obesity...

Not lying: he was much bigger than this.

C date 3: too "nice"?

Something's gone wrong. My feelings for C have swung from enthusiasm to mild disdain. How has this happened? It was all going so pleasantly. He has no noxious habits (thus far revealed anyway), is kind, affectionate (kisses me frequently, on the head if I'm semi-asleep - I love that!), attentive (sends generally amusing texts), generous (bought me a second dinner out - to my embarrassment - after he'd chosen an expensive wine I didn't have enough cash to pay my half), he's sexy, he's enthusiastic... But still, something is wrong.

I've dug deep, and here it is!

Problem one: "Pleasantly." You see. It's all there. If I'm going to abdicate from my Monaco of singledom it's going to have to be for something more than "pleasant". C is really a very sweet (boy-) gentleman. But there's something lacking. Depth? Is that simply because he is untroubled? In which case, isn't he what everyone is looking for? Well perhaps not. I enjoy the grit and colour and tone in my life.  I need to feel alive. I don't like binaries. I like to explore...  I... OK, I get bored easily.

Problem two: he's an investment banker. Aside from the stereotypes that attach to the role (which he generally does not seem to fulfil), it occurs to me that bankers do not often spend their money wisely, or creatively. Life has more imaginative pleasures, and rewarding ethical opportunities than the typical corporate interests. He works in Holborn - verging on the funky end of town, but lives in a sterile Docklands (surely an inversion of how it should be?). His considered opinion (I am informed) is that resorts make better holidays (having spent most of the last decade living abroad, I do not concur). He dallies with golf. And I don't know if this is connected to being a banker and the ensuing life priorities, but he has NO BOOKS in his house. No books?! The extent to which this is a problem for me means I could quite easily halt the list here. I'm also skirting around the issue of ethics as this is meant to be a lighthearted blog, but: Hello? Ethics?!

Problem three: he has too much money. Or rather, he is too young to adequately appreciate the amount of money he has. A trip to Iceland taking a helicopter over a volcano is not a big deal for him; he's passing on the huskie-sledding, not because he can't afford it (which would be my only reason) but because instead he is going on an ice buggy over a glacier, or maybe it was champagne swilling in an geothermically heated igloo, or something. No, it wasn't as cool as that. That's what I'd do with the money. He wants to do a brewery tour. Maybe he is a secret philanthropist who donates swathes of his time and income to charity. But if so I need to know about it, and fast.

Problem four: I think his aspirations are based on Friends. There's something altogether teenage about his flat set up. Maybe it's the leather covered sofa with lever-activated foot rests (neither beautiful nor useful), the two large wall mounted TVs (one in the bedroom - indicator of instant sex death), or the fact the luxurious bathroom with heated towel rail has a ring of grime around the bath and smears in the toilet. Something really disappoints me about seeing someone with the finances to do it properly still failing to pull it off.

Problem four: we have already sunk into comfortable. His place is verging on a sty (I'll be honest, now that the glazing of interest is dissolving: smint boxes, mountains of receipts, pockets full of coins and various currencies on every surface vying with the dust for total coverage), and he has no compunction about me seeing it that way. And let's just say the third date's routine was more Thomas the Tank Engine than Trans-Siberian Express.  A reasonable enough exposition but no modulation or recapitulation.  Work that out! He's texting from his holiday. I know I'm being old fashioned - but part of the joy of a holiday for me is exactly that feeling of being cut off from phones and emails; there is no way I'd be delivering updates on my itinerary from the Arctic Circle. I'd hope I'd be too busy enjoying myself. Or if I weren't, I'd damn well pretend to be!

Problem five: he doesn't have a degree. I tried to convince myself this wouldn't be an issue (he's definitely not thick), but as I have spent the majority of my life either working or studying in higher education, it's clear we do not share the same ideals.

"I'm mad, me." Remember Colin?

Problem six: he's too young. Five years makes a difference (especially when the man is younger). And he's a bit sheltered. He expected me to be astonished slash horrified by the time he took 2 sleeping pills and didn't wake when his girlfriend pushed him on the floor. However having been knocked out in a 15 car pile up in Java, my idea of a dramatic unconsciousness story is a bit different.
It's not the story itself that's the problem (of course I don't imagine every man should be Indiana Jones, and his could have been funny, had it not been over-hyped); it's the expectation of a grand response I can't conjure. It's the same every time a man expects me to coo over an unspectacular denouement - I can't bring myself to fake it, and am bemused by the embarrassing presumption that I am meant to be virtually peeing myself with excitement whenever a guy "shares." What I like is humility - a man will get far more response from me if I'm not frogmarched to the compliments cupboard with the demand to hand over the key and contents.

Problem seven: his shirts. He wears loud stripy shirts. And they don't coordinate with the slightly ratty but equally loud yellow stripy scarf he loves. Like most men, he looks fantastic in his white, pale blue or grey-striped normal shirts. How about sticking to those, and finding other outlets for your "creative" side?

Problem eight, and this is the real, inescapable, deal-breaker: I'm being mean and I don't like being mean. But once I've lost a sense of admiration or respect for a man, I'm like a missile - seek and destroy. Experience tells me now is the time for both of us to get out.

Internet Dating Tips 2

More things I've learnt about the wonderful world of internet dating...


1. Be yourself. On date one there's nothing to lose. No point waiting until date five to relax and find he's interested in someone you haven't got the effort to sustain being (of course I don't mean don't make any effort, that's something different). Also, imagine if you put someone really nice off with a bogus version of yourself? Wouldn't that be annoying! (Yes, been there...) And if someone doesn't like you, why the hell would you want to be with them? This attitude makes first (and in fact all) dates a lot easier.


2. Avoid anyone who writes in txtspk on their profile. This sort of man won't have much truck with foreplay either.

3. Judge a man by his shoes. Pointy toes, no (takes himself too seriously; imagines women believe shoe length to correspond to something else (possibly ego); might be Italian). Crocodile, no (vain, extravagant, and possibly a little twisted). Hefty trainers or anything neon, no (zero effort, probably doesn't trim his fingernails carefully enough). Ankle boots with elasticated sides, no (needs Mummy to dress him). Cuban heels, no (sleazy and chip on shoulder about height and other "ruler-related" hang ups). Baseball shoes, no (unless you want to date a teenager). Monkstraps (I just discovered the word for these on the internet), NO (slithery, slimy, staid men who are convinced they're projecting rich, smart and sexy, but in fact their bums are usually too big for their chinos - shudder). 

4. Listen to an upbeat song immediately before arriving to set the appropriate tone. I favour this (for being cheerful), this (for feeling attractive) or this (for not taking any shit).

5. Paying. I have recently been informed by friends that I am doing this one all wrong. Fuck feminism (after all, everyone else this decade has). Let him take the bill! Say, "How much do I owe you?" and when he says, "Nothing," instead of insisting and causing a mild scene (like I have done over the last one and a half decades) say, "Thank you!" Wow, that was easy! And it didn't even mean we had to have sex.


6. This one came from another friend, and can be applied to life in general, not just dating. If someone makes you feel crap, instead of putting yourself down (and vainly hoping for reassurance) phrase your complaint thus: "You've just made yourself slightly less attractive..." (by bragging about other women, for example). The "slightly" is key in sounding unconcerned, and therefore is more niggling for the recipient. I trialled this on S (thirty minutes later he petulantly burst out, "What do you mean I'm not so attractive?!") - extremely effective!


7. Finally, not this:

Our poor mothers...

A cynic's guide to internet dating profiles

“The definition of insanity is continuing to do the same thing over and over, and then expecting different results,” Einstein famously proclaimed. But thanks to this entry you won't even need to do it once: just follow this handy phrasebook-cum-dictionary which translates online profiles into plain English for all your dating needs...
"I've made the mistakes so you don't have to!"

• I don't really know what to write here, but here goes... = I have no personality, discernible interests, or the wit to realise I should try to hide this.

• I asked my best friend and she says... = a girl I've been stalking has agreed to massively oversell me on here in a bid to palm me off on someone else.

• I asked my best friend and he says... = no, I doubt it. This functions as a disclaimer for filling the profile with lies. Unless his best friend is gay.

• I prefer not to send hundreds of emails and would like to get to know you in person... = I'm inarticulate and can't keep up the facade for long. Let's meet up and get drunk quickly before you realise you can do better. C'mon, I just really need a shag.

And the quickfire rounds:


I'm...

I just don't think you get how lucky you are to be on a date with me.

• laid back = lazy, and possibly have hygiene issues
• chilled out = boring, and expect you to arrange everything
• popular = with the local takeaway owners, perhaps
• honest = rude
• quirky = trying too hard
• witty = setting myself up for a fall
• complex = a pseudo-intellectual pain in the backside
• enthusiastic = fickle
• I don't take myself too seriously = highly unsuccessful and resigned to it
• down to earth = bad mannered
• confident = opinionated, stubborn
• good looking = conceited (why write this? We can see your photo!)
• spontaneous = disorganised
• driven, career-focused = no feelings, just sex please.
• romantic = wet
• sensual = creepy/sloppy kisser
• tender = even creepier/not over my ex
• loving = I like to stroke things
• passionate = extremely sexually frustrated, possible stalker

I like:

If only his fingers were always so dextrous...

• travel = I want you to think I'm rich and open-minded
• travel (with number of countries listed) = as above, but I've also counted the number of times I've had sex and measure my penis monthly to see if it's grown
• socialising = talking about myself
• cooking  = microwave meals for one
• nothing more than a bottle of wine/DVD on the sofa = slob with no creativity, originality or spark. I'll be wearing a tracksuit by date 2.
• massage = parlours
• salsa = frottage
• films = original!
• extreme sports = wanking, South Park and yards of ale
• writing = indulging my misguided sense of self-importance and uniqueness
• music = sticking headphones in and going "la la la" when anything gets tough
• computer games = computer games (enough said). Oh, and wanking.

I'm looking for a girl who is...

I saaaid, "Give. Me. Half. Your. Dessert."

• chilled out = willing to take my crap
• cute = half my age plus four
• sexy = horny
• a good listener = a good flatterer
• down to earth = won't expect romance
• willing to commit = desperate
• intelligent = but still willing to pretend that I'm smarter
• fun = dirty
• a challenge = owns a whip
• who knows her own mind = wants to urinate on me
• equally at home up a mountain as in a cocktail dress and a pair of heels = I don't know what I want, so I'll steal someone else's cliche and will never be satisfied. 
• happy =  see fun
• generous = with oral
• confident = on top
• kind = tolerant of idiots/gives pity shags
• open-minded = into anal
• doesn't take herself too seriously = won't mind giving me a bj in the loos on the first date.

M: a blast from the past

At dinner last week, S asked me if I'd met anyone online in the last couple of years that I could have truly fallen for. Yes, there was one man: M. M was uber-smart, had degrees/doctorates from top world universities, and taught a third subject at Oxbridge. He was strong, sure, charismatic, had a powerful animated face, an appreciation of arts, sciences, philosophy, a wry sense of humour, and was skilled in the art of conversation. He thought he was too old for me, but he was younger than my oldest ex, and is significantly younger than S. My main challenge was just to act like an adult and keep my head, as he seemed pleased enough with everything else.


I last saw M last summer when we went to a concert: music and dance, in an intimate venue. I found it hard to watch the show and not him - he was magnetic. 

What happened? I blew it. I told him my life plan was set and (didn't quite grasp that) it didn't fit in with his. Only a week later did I realise the implications of this.

Let's just deal with that forthcoming joke now.

OK, that's not all.

I also got uncharacteristically nervous, and made a ridiculously juvenile, unfunny, immature joke at a point where he might possibly have been leaning over to kiss me. And then I got out of his car, watched him drive off and looked for a wall to head butt, hard.

I didn't hear from him again, and gathered up my last scraps of dignity by not hounding him.

Why am I telling you this? After speaking about him with S I started thinking about him again. Actually, that isn't true - I was already thinking about him, when I considered sending him a Valentine's message, but didn't (see previous paragraph).

But after mulling it over, on Saturday night I sent him a message apologising for being a moron and letting him know I'd be in his city the next day, and although it was horribly late notice... coffee? I expected no answer (as that was what my last email, sent in the autumn, received).

A couple of hours later - a reply! It commenced: "Always a pleasure to hear from you, you ought to be told." And continued: "Behaved like an idiot? Surely not." Unfortunately he wasn't free for coffee, but did suggest catching up in a couple of weeks (once his house move is out of the way).

Thanks S!