Thursday, 8 September 2011

Secrets and lies.

Oh dear, she decided to mention (tipsily, over red wine) existance of this said blog to Uni Boy last night. About the hilarious festival boyfriend anecdotes etc. No mention obviously of the neverending crush on him and its documentation herein, though he did ask for the link. Not in a million years....

It does beg a question though. Why do we find it so hard to admit feelings to other people? If she had manned up (wo-manned up?) years ago and told him how she felt, she wouldn't still be hanging on. And, potentially risking other chances like with the lovely guy she went on a date with last Friday. Who is obviously a much better prospect.

Is he unreliable? Nope. Immature? Nope. Leaves you unsure of where you stand like a wobbly fairground floor? Nope. Occasionally arrogant? Nope.

So, there we have it. A MUCH better prospect. She is planning a day trip to go and see him next week. Does someone have an eraser so she can get Uni Boy out of her head for the final time please? It would be ever-so-much appreciated.

Thursday, 1 September 2011

Tomorrow, tomorrow...

Okay by the time anyone reads this it will be today. But that aside, yes! The London Loves has a date tomorrow. A DATE. Gosh, it's been a little while since one of those. She does rather wonder if she will remember what to do. Discussing this over work drinks tonight, it was decided it is scarier than a job interview... Well. Let's see how it goes...

Tuesday, 30 August 2011

Here's what you missed... kind of.

It's not that she doesn't want to write about the Irishman, but it just feels a bit wrong. She may get round to it at some point. To be honest, she's just figuring out how she feels about being single again, and is a bit grateful that what happened at Reading seemed to break some kind of spell. He was the nicest guy, but ultimately, she didn't love him. Oldest story in the book. But it's the truth. And he never said he loved her and - worst crime of all - wouldn't hold her hand. Perhaps it's a little bit of a sad situation, perhaps it's wasted time that's the most frustrating. Yep, frustrating is probably the word to sum up the whole relationship.

Anyhow - she's still in love with Uni Boy. But you guessed that, right..?? She's trying to let it go, don't worry. Umm yeah, STILL trying to let it go.

However, for the first time in forever, she has a date. On Friday. With the brother of her new best friend. Whom she met at her wedding, but oh-so-briefly that this feels like a blind date, if anything. He lives out of town and has asked to stay at hers ("on a sofa or a stairwell", in his words). Is that weird? She can't work it out. In any case, she'd better tidy her room...

Part Two.

Do you remember the first time? The first time she met the festival boyfriend that is – the boy she met in a field with the most intense gaze in the whole, wide world. She never found the five-pound note on which he'd written Love in the Time of Cholera. But this year, this Reading Festival, she did find him. And reader? She'd married him. No, not the London Loves. Despite this unforgiveable, lengthy hiatus she is still happily unmarried. And after 15 months with the Irishman, now single again. No, it was the festival boyfriend's girlfriend who had married him.

It was really amazing to bump into him, though she kind of wished she hadn't been eating really grotesque festival food at the time. The kisses were kind of amazing too. The same stage, the same great bands, the same chat – it was seeming to be going swimmingly well. Only, why was he so apologetic and defensive? She joked about him having wives and children. Turned out it wasn't all that funny.

“I want to kiss you and punch you in the face at the same time, which is a really complex set of emotions. And would be physically quite difficult.”

Were her exact words after having her suspicions confirmed. What she then did, was say: “I can't do this.” Which was the right thing, the good thing, to do. Less good was avoiding him when she bumped into him the next day. But then, there was more festival fun to be had... Updates will come, promise. There is much ground to be caught up on

PS Hello Festival Boyfriend if you're reading this, having coaxed the name of the blog from my friend. Thanks for the fun. Radiohead truly will never sound the same again.

Saturday, 3 April 2010

Luck of the Irish

Sometimes, just sometimes, comes along a date that restores your faith in the Gods of Dating (and they exist - oh, they exist). She wasn't so much nervous about this date itself, more nervous in case she didn't fancy him. But she did. Oh, she did.
From the lopsided grin when he met her at the train station, to the protective arm thing he did when she nearly walked in front of a bus (now THAT would have been a bad start...), to the just simple NICENESS of him and how funny he is and the accent. Did she mention the accent? Argh, and she promised not to gush!
After a rash of bad dates, it's very hard not to get too excited about a great one. But there's nothing wrong in a little excitement, no? He says funny things, like: "I think I'd like to go into space... but only if there'd be something to see, like. I think the novelty of just seeing earth would wear off, after a bit....". Okay, maybe you had to be there.
She had a bit of date embarrassment in suggesting the bottle of wine she bought wasn't all that cold, so he offered to take it back - only to find she'd accidentally bought red instead. Oops! But somehow, it didn't matter. Not one bit.
Anyway, early days. Early, early days....

Tuesday, 30 March 2010

Normal service now resumed....

She wanted to get some things off her chest. DONE! And now for a catch-up (another one!).

* There were two dates with the friend's friend from work. A no comment would probably be kindest. Though she did discover the utter wonderousness of wasabi peanuts, so that can't be all bad.

* She got the date with the Guardian Soulmates guy. You know Mr Schuester from Glee? Imagine that. Now imagine him as gay, awkward, making inappopriate comments and without the general beauty of Mr Schu's face. He had a phobia of tea and a cat called Mo-Fo. This is not a joke. You may, or may not, be surprised that she had to drink her way through it. Mojitos and red, red wine.

* Finally, FINALLY she figured that Future Husband probably isn't future husband if he has a girlfriend. Subtle clue, but she just about figured it out. He is coming to the birthday party to end all birthday parties in the coming weeks, and she has rather embarassingly sent a few drunken texts (albeit restrained ones. no kisses counts as restrained, right?) but it's probably all okay. Except she is, however, a tad concerned about the fact that on Friday night on a flashing dancefloor, she told FH's uni friend she intended to marry FH. Said friend (who came home with her flatmate, fact fans! wooop!) then sent text to FH. She is worried. Needlessly? We'll see.

* Now for the fun stuff. On said flashing dancefloor, when lovely flatmate was otherwise engaged, after a free shot of Sambucca she started talking to a boy in a red t-shirt. Or he started talking to her, the details are a tad hazy. We shall call him Irish (for that is his name) and we will be a little bit excited that they then had an ace chat on Saturday and that they are going for a wee drinkie on Wednesday night - a pre-weekend to make up for her covering the whole of England for work for the whole of Easter. Actually, and at last, a date she is really looking forward to. Nothing might happen. But you know, it's a possibility, an outside shot, that something just might. Did she mention his accent? Oh, the ACCENT....



Singleness is a strange thing. Its boundaries morph and change, a formless shapeshifting being that can make you feel like you're dancing on a beach one minute and trying to keep afloat in the sea the next. It is terrifying at times, and wonderful for exactly the same reason - because you are, absolutely and completely, forced with figuring out the youness of you. No-one to bolster you or throw out a lifebelt. It takes a little while to remember you do not need it and actually revel in the freedom, the bliss of singleness. There are stages, of course... the utter joy and release, the messiness of the rebound, the fun, the dates, the not-wanting-someone, the not-not-wanting-someone, the wanting someone, the not-actually-caring-eitherway and then this. A kind of contentment. And the realisation that perhaps the person best equipped to save yourself is you - you can swim.