Summer of Discontent

After calling it off with T (Calling it off? Nothing had happened anyway), I disconsolately turned to my dissertation for solace.

Actually, there was none of that Romance of the Intellectual crap. I had to write 55,000 words in 3 months because, having previously been more interested in snogging than studying, I'd pretended it didn't exist for the first half of 2012.

Oh the misery!

What did I need to relieve me from the burden of the lonesome scholar and the full-time job? Someone affectionate, easy to be around, undemanding. Someone who knew me inside out (and still found me tolerable), and was therefore willing to cut to the chase (thus representing a good investment of my minuscule amount of free time). But who could this demi-god be?

A-ha! An ex!

In timely fashion one got in touch. Ex (as I shall henceforth refer to the being) sent me an extremely romantic birthday present, out of the blue. From thence I fell into a pining and a sighing. Hadn't he always been my One True Love? Wasn't this, finally, the very pinnacle of moments for Ex and I to reunite in a metaphysical merging of both body and soul?

Stop wasting my time!

The short answer: No.

We met for drinks, things seemed encouraging when - and I must admit a level of presumption on my part here - he turned the discussion to the possibility of having children with me, how he had never stopped fancying the pants off me, how he'd never met anyone he could get on with as well as he got on with me, and what a wonderful mother I'd make. Six or seven long phone calls (and holiday plan-making) later and...

Well, reader, I feel such a fool. You see, I had interpreted the above outpourings (articulated after one measly pint) as an indication he was still interested.

scratch 'n' sniff

However, one month down the line he kindly informed me this is how he talks to all his female friends. Yes, that's right - "I want you to be the mother of my children" appear to be words used as a mere token of friendship in Warwickshire...


Following his suggestion that we now be bestest of best friends ever, and maybe swap sticker albums or something, I decided that the time to be hankering over commitment-phobes 20 years older than me was past*: in short, the Era of the Ex was over.


Time to reinvest my energies in the more emotionally thrilling "Panic" stage of the dissertation.

Back to old faithful...

*you will enjoy my upcoming posts, if you believed that...

T: 4th and final date

"The bells, the bells!" my subconscious cries.

So, he fucks up, and he sends flowers.

I love getting flowers. It's sweet he bothered. It's great he realised an apology was required.

BUT as a male friend pointed out - send flowers to show someone you care, not as a buy off when you've done something wrong.

On balance it seemed another chance would only be polite. However, warning bells (and friends) clanged "Don't trust him."

Nonetheless, I met him at a London museum Late (not the ice-cream parlour that he'd have preferred), and we spent an awkward hour examining exhibits that he feigned no interest in, thus inhibiting mine (except for the string quartet playing pop hits in 1800s style and costume - nothing could have dulled my pleasure in that!).

Was this the offending article?

We didn't discuss the problem - it seemed too early to be having that kind of intense conversation, but I no longer felt free to be myself as I didn't trust him. He then revealed another present. This made me extremely uncomfortable.  Not least because I sensed it might be something that would exacerbate rather than rectify the problem. He admitted that he had initially purchased an instructive 1900s manual on etiquette for women. Does this guy never learn? Would he have liked me to gift him a book on subordinating the natives in colonial India? It was at this point I gave up.

The present in fact was extremely cool, but this man just seemed to be too much hard work. He wanted to go for dinner. I wasn't hungry, and there seemed little left to say. I declined. His face fell. He asked if he could give me a hug goodbye, and left me at the tube.

And he strode off to get his long awaited ice-cream.

T - Date 3 (the alternate version!)

When writing up a date, it's tempting to filter the write-up through the lens of whether it later worked out or not. Reader, things with T did not work out! Here is the alternate version of date 3 with warning signs included!

We met at Greenwich station, and went to Cafe Rouge for a cooling drink. As I was feeling a little abashed at the flowers, having arrived so late (and hot and flustered, I avoid the term "sweaty"), and the small matter of having a crone-like missing tooth, I let him talk.

Oh T, which of us wouldn't?

In a monologue I will generously entitle “falling for the wrong people” T began recounting a detailed story about his best friend who declared (unrequited) love for him. The essence: the two were extremely close for years, did everything together, sufficient for the friend to assume there was some romantic spark, and one day, "out of the blue" the friend decided to leave his wife for T. T, appalled, said there had never been anything romantic between them and alas, their friendship has never fully recovered this cruel blow.

Hmmm. This does not ring true. I internally drum my fingernails on the table.  “That’s a shame,” I offer.

Unadvisedly encouraged, he progresses to a second anecdote in similar vein.

As he works nightshifts at a hospital he has a driver (for home emergencies). Story 2 involves his female driver, Claire, whom he used to take to dinner/the cinema once a week, make treats for, and have a great laugh with. And guess what, dear reader! Despite the fact he clearly had No Interest Whatsoever, this driver remarkably also declared undying love to him and also imagined it would be reciprocated.

At this point I was forced to interject. Looking him in the eye and with a silken tone I can only summon for cases of the most scathing irony, I cooed, “You know what I find reeeeeaaaallly sexy? I just love it when I'm on a date and a man tells me stories about all the people who are in love with him. It’s just… [I mime a shiver of delight] irresistible.”

He looked confused. Clearly this was not going to plan!

Not my style, I'm afraid.

I presume his revelations (ever so ‘umble, mind) were based largely on three flawed assumptions:

1) Other people who know me very well have fallen desperately in love with me so you should too. Or at the very least be quite a bit impressed.

2) I wasn't interested, but it wasn't my fault. Because I'm so self-deprecating that I never imagined that they would want more, because I'm A Good Guy.

3) In the case of the first, as it was a male friend, note how metrosexual and liberal I am (this possibly to counter my 2^nddate question, prompted by the high open-collared blue shirt, excessive confidence and public school accent: “Are you a Tory?”).

However, I cannot bear this kind of story because:

1) It’s grotesquely egotistical to brag about your romantic fan-base on an early date, especially when the subject was artificially made out to be chanced upon, when it was clearly engineered. Also, purely pragmatically, if you're bragging, there's no space for me to give you a compliment.

2) The idea that this will inspire some competitive impulse to prove myself and win his heart where others have failed, is way off. I don't want to compete, that is not the way to start a relationship.

 3) No one declares love to anyone unless they feel they have a semblance of hope in it being requited. Therefore for this to have happened twice (and to be a tale delivered with pride rather than shame) I can only conclude the teller is an arch-manipulator whose priority is to be at the centre of an adulation he has disingenuously cultivated with no concern for the feelings of the supposed “friend.”

What's that Simona? You think T is a bit of a bell-end? Well, you'd know best...

4) It is incredibly disrespectful to discuss your current friends/colleagues in this way, if there is any chance your interlocutor (whom you are making romantic overtures towards) might one day meet them. 

Did it stop there? Well, I heard about how he loves how his eight year old daughter (overseas) loves wrapping Daddy round her finger (a man who loves being played by women - hmm), and every date so far he had brought his psycho-therapist along. Or Simona, as he refers to her (Unlike T I don't work in health care, but even I know that there's a rule against pairing a patient with a counsellor of the opposite sex). She has kindly taken his part in every disagreement thus far. "Simona says it's my intelligence that hinders me with women." Later, it would be: "Simona says that although she can see your side of events, mine is also equally valid." Did I ask to have these three-way dates? How can she possibly see my side when I haven't even explained it to him, let alone her?! Perhaps "Simona" will turn out to be a sock puppet that he pulls out of his blazer pocket.



Between this and jokes about how I probably "throw like a girl", how he gets his female assistant to "chase a ball round the office" like a dog and how I "must be on my period" if I refuse to chortle at said comments, I became increasingly irritated and determined to say something. Something incisive, thought-provoking, challenging yet not unnecessarily riling, something to put a rapid stop to the sexist slop coming out of his mouth, something intelligent, articulate and unequivocal. What did I say? Drum roll please. The perfect sentence formed itself in my head. The put-down to end all put-downs. Here it is. I said... "Shut up, Paki."

Ok, I didn't say that.

I would never be so utterly offensive as to say, "shut up." However, I indeed did make a joke with the word "Paki" in. Before you start quilling the death threats, may I clarify that this is the first time the word has ever left my lips, and it felt far more taboo than the few times I've said cunt (a word I take offence at being called offensive, as a part of the female body cannot possibly be considered that disgusting). The sole reason I mock-jovially called him "Paki" was to provoke an angry response, which I could then relate to my feelings about his sexist comments. The response took a few days, but I did receive an email informing me that that word was "never, ever, acceptable" but that I could be forgiven for my "slip." (This I found bizarre: he would prefer I was covertly and accidentally racist and made that kind of "slip", than said it to make a point?).

So, racist jokes are never acceptable? Oh really? Is that because racism derides not just the person involved, but a huge swathe of friends and relatives (and their associated cultures), who are/have been historically belittled, oppressed, ridiculed, disenfranchised, considered deviant from the norm, and thought incapable and physically disgusting by the dominant power?


Funny. That's how many people also feel about sexism...

Was there anything else that should have rung an alarm bell? Well, at one point he pulled out a vial of the malodorous scent that he had stewed himself in, and sprayed my forearm. I felt as a lamp post must, when subjected to the pungent visitations of a local hound.

And yet, as he was deliberately (rather than ignorantly) being provocative (and because I am so frequently provocative myself), and because he was otherwise funny, considerate, unusual (in a mainly good way) and interesting, and because I rather wanted to kiss him despite all this, I decided I would give it another chance...

T - Date 3 (the positive version)

Dear Reader,

Here is a quiz. I am midway between Aldgate and Aldgate East stations and am running late, am too hot, have had an annoying day at work and have managed to snap my tooth, thus making myself about as attractive as the witch in Disney's "Snow White", if she had been transported to the tropics and asked to do the 1500m hurdles in her cloak with her basket of apples. In order not to further exacerbate the situation, which route do I take to meet T as promptly as possible in Greenwich?

OK. Here is what I actually did. Prepare to be bemused.

Got on at Aldgate East. I could have walked to Tower Gateway, but my feet were hurting. Didn't get off at Whitechapel as would have been sensible as I was too hot and tired and had a seat which I didn't want to risk not getting on the next train. Instead I took the Hammersmith Line to... West Ham. There instead of taking the Jubilee Line short cut all the way, being flustered, I took it to Canning Town, got off, got onto the DLR to Poplar, and then changed again for Greenwich.

Minutes this trip should have taken: 20
Minutes it actually took: 60
Minutes I was late by: 50

T had received my texts informing him of my mishaps, and kindly replied that he was just happy that I was turning up, and to expect to see him opposite the jazz saxophonist outside Greenwich station.

He was leaning against the wall, looking attractively dandyish, and as I approached he went to pick up his bag, next to the saxophonist, and a bunch of flowers, for me!

We ordered lime waters at Cafe Rouge, and then ate delicious tapas at a colourful place near the market. I produced a book that I had bought him for his birthday, which he asked me to inscribe (he was pressurising me for some sort of witty epigram - I wrote something mature about him being a prick). But we both laughed. Without alcohol (gasp!) we had both got a bit giddy and giggly, and as we walked back to the station I had a strong desire to take his hand, and sensed he was considering it too. But neither of us did it (the trials of dating a teetotaller).

On the DLR we continued winding each other up, and could sense the eyes of the carriage on us - confirmed when I pointed it out and three people started laughing. Then, suddenly he leant over and planted a kiss on my cheek. And blushed. How immensely charming!

He hopped off and I spent the rest of the voyage home trying to suppress my grin.

Couldn't have had a happier train ride!

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.

In which I have a moral dilemma.

Until now, all the men I've met I was talking to prior to commencing The Blog. Whilst I do sometimes feel a little pinprick of guilt typing our meetings up, this is waylaid by the fact I leave it at least a week before publishing each post in case I change my mind (or my interpretation - they have time to make reparations), and also the fact that I hadn't met them originally with the intention of publicly humiliating them - if that's what they feel has happened, perhaps they should look to their own behaviour?

Kiss and tell

Now, starting new conversations, I feel rather like a venus fly trap - luring men in to ensnare them in a report of their own weaknesses. Am I more expectant of finding someone to love, or more expectant of finding someone to laugh at? It's surely the latter (although I hope you'll agree I am equally willing to laugh at myself). This has definitely taken the sting out of rejection: however badly a date goes instead of feeling I've wasted an evening, two cheering words spring to mind: "blog fodder."

In my last LTR I behaved pretty badly at times, little thinking that the intimacies of our relationship would ever go beyond our bedroom (imagining, as you do when you're 20-something and living together, it'll be 4EVA).  In fact, one of the cruellest parts of the break up was the thought of him sharing with some sympathetic eyelid-batting 6-stone beauty what a monster (both physical and mental) his ex had been (Of course, this did not extend to any hint of remorse about doing the same thing to him - and to be frank at times he'd bordered on the beastly).

For example, no jokes like this. 

However, from this I learnt the valuable lesson that you should never do anything you'd regret having done if someone else found out (e.g. no slamming-door-and-marching-off tantrums, no farting in bed, no using tears to get what you want, no silent treatment, perhaps exerting a fraction more effort in toeing the line with the rude mother-in-law, and no using the full range of my whiplash tongue on a man* - exceptional circumstances notwithstanding).

Subliminal?

So is blogging about the men I'm dating an abuse of trust, akin to trampling on their Yeatsian dreams; or is it fair enough that consenting adults should be held accountable for their behaviour, albeit through the medium of a secret, snidey pre-meditated blog?!


*See what an amazing gf I'd be?!

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.

Date 2 with C: are younger men the way ahead?

...but with less smile (same hair and chins though)

To recap, C is the hot young banker that I insulted and kissed about a month ago and hadn't seen since, due to his acquisition of various illnesses (or excuses!). In the midst of the week from hell, by 9am on 'date day' I just wanted to be in my bed, alone, so I texted C warning I felt like Grotbags and was happy to reschedule if he would prefer better odds on me being good company. Sweet response: entirely up to me but he hoped he could put a smile on my face or at least offer wine and a friendly face to talk to (I think he meant ‘at’ there). Encouraged, I acquiesced.

Dinner was at a tapas bar in Canary Wharf. I had never been out in the area as I was harbouring the suspicion that it was a bit sterile and - well - full of bankers. The restaurant looked out over the river, and I sincerely tried to unseat the misgiving that I was an extra in a sanitised Disney banker-campus. The food was fantastic: cheese board, smoked beans, patatas bravas, artichoke stew, breads, chilli jam, aubergine and goats cheese crackers, pimentos, wine... C was attentive and kindly, summoning more interest in my week than he can possibly have felt (it was certainly more interest than I felt).


He had over-ordered, and we couldn't eat it all. C intimated that it had taken him a while, but he had learnt that it was ok to not eat everything on your plate. I nodded sagely, but really, is it ok to be over-indulgent, extravagant and wasteful as a policy, just because you have the money? Isn't it right to feel at least a small pang of guilt about sending a plate's worth of good food to the rubbish bin? Had I been alone I'd have eaten every last bit (without pleasure, of course!), asked to take it away (the sort of places I eat wouldn't mind) or would simply (and more probably) have ordered less.

We went outside and deliberated between going to another bar, or, he proposed, going back to his. Lured by the prospect of the boat ride, romantic and exotic, I agreed to the latter, but then - massive disappointment - he surreptitiously called a taxi. I'd have preferred to have taken the night bus, if not the boat (if I'm sans suitcases, I just don't like taxis), and besides, this invalidated the decision to go back to his at all. Not that I could tell him my decision was based on such a Lolita-esque motive! I suppose he'd seen me wavering and decided to mobilise me before I changed my mind.

Did I want to get off? Unsure.

His house was modern, nice, but rather a mess. Half a foot of receipts and chocolate wrappers covered most surfaces. Dust the others. He needs a clean up. Or - as he said - a cleaner. Considering he's so successful it had more than a whiff of a student flat (not in the literal sense of whiff though, thankfully). Hairgrips from a "friend" he is going on holiday with this week were on the table. For some reason I didn't mind though. He's too straightforward to seem at all shifty, like S. Too innocent to be manipulative. It all seemed simple, easy and extremely pleasant. The one thing it didn't seem though, was entirely natural. The evening was proceeding in a rather clunky manner, as if we were doing a first read-through on a script. He was doing/saying all the right things, but on reflection (and maybe only because he's not entirely slick, which is surely a good thing?) the whole evening seemed a little soulless.

Stolen from Ken Dodd

But that was an analysis for later in the week. At the time I was more concerned by the leather sofa (squeaky not comfy, why do people buy them?), and the rather too many loud stripy shirts in his wardrobe (presumably selected to clash with his loud stripy scarf). But of course, you can always get a man out of his clothes... And C had a very acceptable physique!

And here, dear reader, I shall draw a veil over proceedings. Except to say I woke up on his shoulder, having dreamt about icebergs on the Thames and running across London in only a towel (??), and had a large weeping blister on my foot...



In the morning, he warmed me a towel on his heated towel rail and lent me some clean clothes to wear home (thus sparing me the sweaty evening dress walk of shame, and indicating, I suppose, that he intended to see me again). Then he held my hand on the bus. Which was nice.

So how does C compare to S?  Well, the fact his biological clock isn't ticking means he is much more laid back, and he doesn't have an immature yet panic-ridden turbo-drive to find The One. Which frees up more energy for simply being pleasant, uncomplicated, affectionate company. And compared to P? I know he isn't going to make maudlin clutches at my feet if I don't reply to his texts quickly enough. This is also a bonus. At this rate I will need to seriously revise my policy about younger men. I think this is what my neighbour meant when she advocated getting a "Boy Toy". More enthusiasm + less baggage = happy date.

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.

So you want to date a lawyer...? (The endless attentions of E)

Last year I went on a date with E. He had a great profile: a human rights lawyer (read: smart, informed, noble), witty, cheeky sparkle in the eye, so we agreed to meet.

However, alarm bells sounded before we even got that far. I foolishly accepted his request to Skype, and almost immediately received a link to The Human Centipede (there was life before knowing this existed, and life after).

It immediately became clear he was too pushy. His online conversation was essentially a monologue, albeit a generally amusing one. If I interrupted the flow by asking a question that deviated from his script he tended to just ignore it. He corrected me for typing Hollywood without a capital H: "Pronoun.  Capital 'H'." I wish I'd replied - "Proper noun. F*cking. Idiot." Or offered him one of these:

E obviously had a previous career in marketing.

Then he got too demanding. You know how on Skype you can choose to be "invisible", but how if someone's invisible and you message them, it'll give them away with a telltale "pop"? Well E started sending me messages every day, and so every time I logged in and he was there (which was every time I logged in) he would oblige me to converse with him. For example, I received the following one evening:

Hey - are you online?  My Skype just pinged.

Hello!  You around...?

Hellooooooooooo? Helloooo?

Followed the next day by:

Morning!  Let me know if you fancy chatting today.  I should generally be home until the evening, as I'm doing housework and other 'gripping' domestic bits and pieces.  I'll leave Skype logged on.

"I seem to be very full of something. Is it myself?"

(No, please don't.)

I felt there was no escape - I'd agreed to meet him and tried to ease myself out of it, but I figured face to face, maybe he'd be ok (no such optimism or generosity one year on). The (execution) date was set.

First surprise, he'd clearly put on 3 stone (and 7 years) since his photo was taken. He had a black velvet jacket that was straining at the buttons over the paunch. He was also not 5'8''. I am 5'8", I wasn't wearing heels and I was looking down at him. I started feeling immense relief that I had told him I was "kind of" seeing someone (we'd agreed to meet as "friends").

Surprise number two: he'd told me he was a human rights lawyer, something I'd naively found rather appealing. I discovered that night that pensions come under the remit of human rights.

"I just want this date to end."

What did we do on this semi-date? Well, I drank an awful lot (my irritation reflex needed anaesthetising). I also listened through gritted teeth while he corrected me about the plot of a book I'd read - that HE HAD NOT! To make it worse, I'd also seen the film adaptation of the same book. AND HE HAD NOT!

Intermittently I tried to lessen the burden of what for E was essentially hours of soliloquising, by sharing a little anecdote. I.e. do that thing people often like to do when meeting socially: "converse." Even though my stories were very short and cannot have been too taxing on his patience, his eyes wandered while I was speaking, his face set with a look of forced forbearance as he waited impatiently for his "turn" (I can imagine he was a troublesome child in the playground). As soon as I'd finished, rather than acknowledge or follow up on anything I'd said, he'd resume delivery of a further lengthy monologue, with the chastisingly delivered, "Anyway..." I believe I was Anyway-ed upwards of ten times that evening.

Is this "Yes please"? Really?

The night was finally over (note to self: do not schedule a Friday night date unless you're more than sure - it's much harder to call off early). He walked me to the tube in what was now only interpretable as a gesture of pompous mock-courtesy. He made to kiss me on the cheek, I thought, but at the last minute turned his head to catch me on the mouth. I recoiled, horrified, and virtually vaulted the ticket gates.

It was baffling: at what point had he thought the evening was going sufficiently well to attempt the lunge (he'd intimated that intuition was just one of his fortes)? Was I unique in actually sticking out such a terrible evening, making it for him, a successful date?

A few days later I logged onto Skype and received:

Hey - you still awake?
Hello!
Hey - how're things?
Hello! How's it going?


These all in a row (one sent each day since we'd met). I declined to answer (having accepted early into online dating that this is the most courteous and most unequivocal mode of rejection).

I can't possibly be boring you, I'm a law graduate (oh, and PM).

However, a lack of response was clearly too subtle for this gentleman. His messages continued (albeit with slowly diminishing frequency) for months. They are still continuing now, March 2012. I last answered in February... 2011! Since then I have received emails inviting me to obscure musical events in Dulwich, to fourth rate comedy in Croydon, comments on my updated dating site profile (hey, we're not on Facebook here!) and texts such as this (nine months after meeting): Hey, what happened? I've had friends go quiet on me before, but not for so long and for no reason.  Whilst wanting to reply that one evening spent trying to extricate myself from the musings of a prolix, pompous podge did not, in my view, equate friendship, experience has taught me that if you don't wish to receive ten more similar messages in the next 24 hours, it's sadly best to stay quiet.

The last time I heard from him was last week, thirteen months after I met him. He'd already tried to "lure 'n' bore" me with the tale of how a famous comedienne had almost agreed to go on a date with him (at least she'd have got some material). Now he wanted to know did I fancy catching up to discuss his "inarguably interesting" year? No! No! A thousand times no!


What have I learnt about lawyers? Well, if E is anything to go by, to have a career in law you have to be persistent, you have to believe in yourself even when you know you're talking utter rot, and, it seems, you must never take "no" for an answer.



*Addendum: if there are any lawyers out there who would like a chance to redeem the face of the profession by taking me on a more bearable date, please make yourselves known!

Lavish dinner with S and his repellent table manners!

I was very close to cancelling this after the text/conversation debacle. No point spending an evening with a man who makes you feel 100th on his list and who didn't even have the courtesy to text with the venue until the day itself.  I didn't reply while I deliberated. However, perversely the question "are you having second thoughts?? x" made me resolve to show: at least he had realised I was no longer excessively keen!

I set off in a foul mood, trying to negotiate the dress code of "effortlessly irresistible" and the mental code of "fun yet sceptical" whilst having a bad back, period pain and ladders in all my tights. A prescription codeine later and I was a lot more in the mood!  Dinner was at a reputed vegetarian restaurant in Hammersmith, and I was (unintentionally but not regretfully) late. 

I hear you've been dating my daughter, Comrade Stalin.

First topic of conversation: my new haircut ("quite nice, 20s-ish"). Second topic: Collaborators. I adored this play (seen 3 days earlier) - I love the era, the set, the casting, the resonance with another play I'd seen about Anna Akhmatova, the way it starts off so amusingly and ends so chillingly... I was completely gripped. Someone in the play reminded me of S, could he guess who? I had to stifle a laugh when he asked "the dashing young Jewish intellectual who plays the violin?"  No. It was the genial, crafty, stumpy Stalin who was immensely likeable (in the play at least), prior to the revelation of his macabre side. I said I'd tell him at the end of the night if he remembered to ask. Thankfully he didn't.

During this discussion, it became obvious that S hadn't eaten all day. Or perhaps all week. In his (wholly legitimate) eagerness to remedy this evident starvation, he sucked his starter from both his fork and his knife, whilst spattering the table with oil and vinegar from his vigorously dipped bread. There was something unsavoury, Dickensian, about this; perhaps it was "his avaricious manner of collecting all the eatables about him and devouring some with his eyes while devouring others with his jaws in the same manner".  But the conversation and wine were good... and at least his napkin wasn't tucked into his chin and resting on his pot belly (in the interests of fair reportage - he doesn't have a pot belly). Could I overlook these "minor" infractions?

Of course we had to talk about the phone call. He had the cheek to genially suggest he'd feared I might become a stalker (the conceit!), but "could see now that it was unlikely". Then he asked about my other dates. "Depends whether you want to consider me a friend, someone you won't see again, or someone with future romantic potential," I said. "Either of the first two and I'm happy to tell you; the latter, no, I think it's a bit crass." He looked aghast. I continued that I'd make it easy and tell him anyway - "The one exactly half your age," I started, "is taking me to a comedy club on Thursday". Apparently the table next to ours were all ears. Perhaps this was also why he'd ordered the second most expensive wine. 

I think I'd prefer to have sat opposite this...

The main course was almost over. He spent a good five minutes picking his teeth in the most gaping-jawed uncouth manner imaginable. I was almost dumbstruck. Even my usual bazooka-style shootdowns (normally only enhanced by wine) were deactivated.  I only managed a limp "Do you always do this on a date?" when what was actually required was the googling of a video of a komodo dragon (toxic saliva strung between teeth, gorging on live goat entrails, covered in gore) and the subsequent thrusting of said video into the offender's face, whilst simultaneously making finger-throat vomit gestures. Anyway, this sealed it - he could never, ever, be my boyfriend, and once that was out of the way the evening significantly perked up.

Two pictures are required to adequately convey my disgust.

I pointed out that despite having table manners which would offend a beast, we had great chemistry (just like you, dear reader, I am subsequently demanding 'How can this be so?!') and should he stop being such a plonker, I might concede to have a short but torrid affair with him. He took my hand, whilst telling me 50 reasons why it wouldn't work: I was too smart; I didn't watch enough TV; I would find his friends boring; he hadn't heard of Anna Akhmatova before; I would want babies soon (the number of times he has brought this up... I cut it off with "yes, and I don't want them all to be deformed")...  

The best and surely most noble of these reasons however, was that he couldn't stop internet dating, even temporarily (my precondition for anything physical between us), as he might miss out on meeting The One.

"The One?!" I spluttered!  "She could have run rings round you five times by now and you wouldn't have noticed! If you carry on like a headless chicken imagining a woman wearing big badge declaring 'woman of S's dreams' on it is about to tap you on the shoulder, you're going to miss - and have already irreparably missed - anything approaching Genuine Love. If you don't grow up and realise that all relationships need work, and that a partner can't be slotted into your existing life like a new piece of furniture, you are going to wake up on your deathbed horribly alone..." 

"But-"

"And besides, (no, my rant was not yet done) even if you did meet someone who so perfectly fit in to your daily routine that not a smidgen of it changed, what on earth would you have to talk about, and how could you have any respect for her?!"

S's ideal wife?

He whined, but accepted I was right.  He's evidently an internet dating addict who is yet to check into a Priory for a necessary spell of abstinence.

Warming to my theme of indignation, I pointed out that there are four men who have taken international flights to see me in the last year hoping for a similar offer (and not all received it, despite the airfare) and that it was quite indicative that the one English resident I'd liked in that time couldn't even be bothered to make it 30 mins down the District Line - and now, here was another such moron!

I apologise for under-dressing.

"But you turned up in non-date clothes!" 

I was wearing an almost backless green silk dress. 

I asked what I was supposed to have worn... Let's just say it was not second date attire. 

You may think this sounds like I was having a bad evening. I wasn't! There was something extremely refreshing about sitting opposite a man to whom I could say whatsoever I wanted, in the knowledge that he would listen, consider it as being probably true and not jump to taking offence, or argue back with the sole aim of protecting his ego and winning points. 


Case in point: when he leant over to kiss me I made a joke to the waiter about 'the old man thinking he was my boyfriend', and all three of us laughed. In normal circumstances I could easily have been the recipient of a slap. I like a man who has the self-assurance not to batter me (or at least sulk) for my errant tongue.

He ordered more wine, negotiated a made-to-order dessert plate (being a practiced glutton does then have some benefits), and, feeling I was on a roll (though not quite sure where I was rolling to), I upped the temperature by discussing al fresco sex (Mary Shelley losing her virginity to Percy on her mother's tomb). 

About as probable (but as enjoyable)

Over three hours after we'd arrived (we also had post-dinner peppermint tea), he kindly picked up the bill saying he didn't want to bankrupt me, and we ambled contentedly back to the station (me contented from the sense I'd won an argument, him seemingly contented because he'd lost one, but was still having fun).

S wanted to get me a taxi home. I suggested instead that he get my tube and take a circuitous route back. I laid on his shoulder and he had his arm round me, all surprisingly fond. He then made the journey even more circuitous by refusing get off at the first Northern Line junction, so I got off at the next one with him and we giggled our way to the end of the platform for a passionate kiss... Something I have subsequently been informed may well appear on Harry Hill's "Tube Snogs". (is this real, or is someone having mean fun with me?!).


Two trains went by. It was hotting up, and - although he may deny it if asked now - he told me I was very "loveable". Then he asked if he could come back to mine (Reader - quick! Do you see what he did there?!). In light of his earlier refusal to even temporarily halt searching for The One, the fact that he kept getting the place I lived in wrong (obviously confusing it with someone else's he'd been back to recently), and perhaps the subconscious realisation that I'd have to transcribe the result for this blog, I said "Sorry, no!" and jumped on the train currently sitting in the station.  The doors pipped  ("You're not seriously leaving on that train?!").  I was. 
I waved goodbye to the astonished man on the platform.