Some thought it would never happen. But sure enough, she has now gone on a SECOND DATE. Look, it really does have to be in capitals. It is the first time she's had a second date in more than four years, after all.
He was there, waving, outside the bar she had elected. And she thought - My, he really is hot in an indie boy way, isn't he? Hurray! They kissed cheeks hello, and she was glad to see his hand lingered on her waist as they broke away. All set up for the perfect second date, no?
But, let's fast forward here kids. For I am afraid to report that this was a second date with NO KISSING.
No kissing! On a second date! When he is hot and she is fantastic! Seriously, what is going on there? Has he got the dreaded 'swu and is afraid of infecting her? If so, fair play. But if not then there really is no explanation.
Last time she checked, she wasn't a 15-year-old slightly tipsy on a few pints of Firkin, all dressed up in a fur-lined coat and deliriously happy to have any male contact. And a little arm touching is really not enough at the age of 29.
They really did have a great night though. He has a lovely, full-of-gorgeousness face. They went to see a great film (Moon, since you ask. Go see!) and went for a great drink afterwards.
The only explanation in her eyes is that he is the last of the great romantics, and felt a first kiss at midnight at a tube station where the only witness was a drunk 60-year-old in a purple wig clutching a can of Special Brew in one hand and a mouldy pasta salad in the other was really not the way to go.
The fact he suggested they next meet at a film not due to be screened until the end of September is neither here nor there. Apparently he got his dates wrong. Shall we let him off? Or should she pursue the red-haired, freckled Famous-Five-All-Grown-Up boy who she met this week while on a course at work? True, they haven't spoken all that much. But he HAS been smiling on each occasion.
Decisions, decisions...
Thursday, 30 July 2009
Sunday, 26 July 2009
Le weekend
Don't get too excited - she was tied to the computer this weekend (for work, she would like to add, rather than as the basis of some bizarre spreadsheet-based sex game).
And having to cancel plans with some of her favourite girl friends really sucked too. Fortunately, this week brings a whole host of fun nights out, hurray! Including her first second date for a very, very long time. She will just have to try to keep her eyes open the whole week, which may be a bit of a struggle.
This is all a marked change from last weekend, half of which was spent in a drunken stupor and half in a hungover stupor. Does London make hangovers worse, or something? Yuck. She hadn't had a two-dayer for a LOOOONG time.
It was worth it though (and at this point, she would like to apologise for keeping this secret. She was too excited about meeting up with Jeremy/Daniel and kind of forgot). There were no hot men at the salsa evening unfortunately, but just like a reverse Cinderella, her luck changed post midnight when she and her Lovely Friend (LF) took a detour via a boathouse bar. And hello, hot man!
She was a little too drunk on tequila and wine to do much other than squint and murmur incoherently about her dating blog (great chat up technique, huh?) but amazingly, LF's boyfriend decided it would be ultimately amusing to play Cilla and bring the hot guy back to his flat. Where, incidentally, The London Loves was due to collapse on the sofa.
At this point, it all goes a little blurry. She knows they watched some bizarre children's TV show and drank some ill-advised Bacardi and coke. She remembers LF and her bf going to bed and thinking: "She is, like, the best friend EVER....". Oh and then snogging the boy's face off on the sofa. She was convinced he was a barman. He is not. She was equally convinced he was called Will. He was not.
Strangely enough, they decided to call it a night after that (as much as you can still call something "a night" at 4am. Against the Trade Descriptions Act, surely?). She decided that she quite likes people playing Cilla, as long as they set her up with David Arquette-alikes (look, she was drunk and squinting, and it's a bit passe to tell people they're Keanu Reeves-alikes these days).
Anyone else fancy stepping up to the Cilla-shaped plate?
And having to cancel plans with some of her favourite girl friends really sucked too. Fortunately, this week brings a whole host of fun nights out, hurray! Including her first second date for a very, very long time. She will just have to try to keep her eyes open the whole week, which may be a bit of a struggle.
This is all a marked change from last weekend, half of which was spent in a drunken stupor and half in a hungover stupor. Does London make hangovers worse, or something? Yuck. She hadn't had a two-dayer for a LOOOONG time.
It was worth it though (and at this point, she would like to apologise for keeping this secret. She was too excited about meeting up with Jeremy/Daniel and kind of forgot). There were no hot men at the salsa evening unfortunately, but just like a reverse Cinderella, her luck changed post midnight when she and her Lovely Friend (LF) took a detour via a boathouse bar. And hello, hot man!
She was a little too drunk on tequila and wine to do much other than squint and murmur incoherently about her dating blog (great chat up technique, huh?) but amazingly, LF's boyfriend decided it would be ultimately amusing to play Cilla and bring the hot guy back to his flat. Where, incidentally, The London Loves was due to collapse on the sofa.
At this point, it all goes a little blurry. She knows they watched some bizarre children's TV show and drank some ill-advised Bacardi and coke. She remembers LF and her bf going to bed and thinking: "She is, like, the best friend EVER....". Oh and then snogging the boy's face off on the sofa. She was convinced he was a barman. He is not. She was equally convinced he was called Will. He was not.
Strangely enough, they decided to call it a night after that (as much as you can still call something "a night" at 4am. Against the Trade Descriptions Act, surely?). She decided that she quite likes people playing Cilla, as long as they set her up with David Arquette-alikes (look, she was drunk and squinting, and it's a bit passe to tell people they're Keanu Reeves-alikes these days).
Anyone else fancy stepping up to the Cilla-shaped plate?
Friday, 24 July 2009
M&S
Just a little non-dating note. Why, oh why, do the big supermarkets (and the biggest and loveliest being the one owned by Mr Marks and Mr Spencer) feel the need to bombard Tube-goers and Standard-readers with ads for their couple specials every weekend?
You know the ones. Get a fabulous meal, with some salady thing to make you feel healthy, a nice cake and a bottle of wine for £10. Good eh? All you need to complete the picture of smug domestic recessionista bliss is a suitably gorgeous man (someone along the lines of the D&G swimwear models. Any of them would do. Just in their pants, natch) to share it with.
Whoa! Wait right there M&S! You're missing a trick here. What do you want us to do, buy a couple special and then eat the whole lot? We will you know, JUST TO SPITE YOU.
Alternatively, you could save us all a world of pain by coming up with a meal-for-one option instead. Which, quite frankly, could just be the nice cake and the wine. That would us very happy indeed.
You know the ones. Get a fabulous meal, with some salady thing to make you feel healthy, a nice cake and a bottle of wine for £10. Good eh? All you need to complete the picture of smug domestic recessionista bliss is a suitably gorgeous man (someone along the lines of the D&G swimwear models. Any of them would do. Just in their pants, natch) to share it with.
Whoa! Wait right there M&S! You're missing a trick here. What do you want us to do, buy a couple special and then eat the whole lot? We will you know, JUST TO SPITE YOU.
Alternatively, you could save us all a world of pain by coming up with a meal-for-one option instead. Which, quite frankly, could just be the nice cake and the wine. That would us very happy indeed.
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
Date #4
Or, the One that Went Rather Well, Actually
She wasn't expecting to like him so much. Wasn't expecting that the rather cute boy outside the gallery might be the one waiting for her. But she noticed that, rather than looking like Ugly Betty Daniel exactly, he was more like a young, smiley Jeremy Irons. Which, dear reader, is really not a bad thing at all.
They met outside the gallery - she amazing herself by being actually on time for once in her life. Turned out he'd been there for more than half an hour. Eager? Or not a watch lover? Anyway, those were questions for later. There were tickets to be bought (each buying their own, she didn't want him to think she was a skinflint after the previous day's date cancelling/uncancelling debacle) and a rather odd exhibition to see.
And so, while the rest of the art-lovers were trying to work out the exact meaning of the actual-dead-cat-painted-black-and-cut-in-half sculpture, they talked. And they talked some more. Just general stuff - where they'd lived before, how they were finding London. But it probably annoyed the tits off all the other people trying to appreciate all the "art" in silence (a lot of whom, incidentally, were small people. Who takes their child to an exhibition that features disembodied penises floating past your face? Who?).
She was relieved they had the same baffled reaction to most of the exhibition. His suitable responses included going "Oh!" and then trying to conceal a snigger when said penis floated past, and "Arrgh!" when they stumbled across what looked like a dead man covered in a blanket.
Then, there were drinks to be had (after she found what appears to be the best thing in the world ever - a personal sound machine so you can have a round of applause wherever you go! How fantastic!). It was possibly a bit early in the day, but it was a daytime date, and wine spritzers were somewhat necessary.
They broached the tricky dating website and how-long-single-for conversations remarkably well, taking in a stroll by the river and generally talking rubbish. There was even food, then a walk back to the Tube and - no kiss. But that's a good thing, right? RIGHT??? Not putting out on a first date and all that! If she keeps repeating that, it will become true. Probably.
But she has heard from him today. Yay! And they are going to watch a suitably arty-wanky film together next week. Which is all, she has to admit, a little bit exciting.
She is just now trying to ignore the fact he told her he'd met some Amazonian woman last Sunday through the site. But the Amazonian didn't speak English, so she has at least one advantage over her.
She wasn't expecting to like him so much. Wasn't expecting that the rather cute boy outside the gallery might be the one waiting for her. But she noticed that, rather than looking like Ugly Betty Daniel exactly, he was more like a young, smiley Jeremy Irons. Which, dear reader, is really not a bad thing at all.
They met outside the gallery - she amazing herself by being actually on time for once in her life. Turned out he'd been there for more than half an hour. Eager? Or not a watch lover? Anyway, those were questions for later. There were tickets to be bought (each buying their own, she didn't want him to think she was a skinflint after the previous day's date cancelling/uncancelling debacle) and a rather odd exhibition to see.
And so, while the rest of the art-lovers were trying to work out the exact meaning of the actual-dead-cat-painted-black-and-cut-in-half sculpture, they talked. And they talked some more. Just general stuff - where they'd lived before, how they were finding London. But it probably annoyed the tits off all the other people trying to appreciate all the "art" in silence (a lot of whom, incidentally, were small people. Who takes their child to an exhibition that features disembodied penises floating past your face? Who?).
She was relieved they had the same baffled reaction to most of the exhibition. His suitable responses included going "Oh!" and then trying to conceal a snigger when said penis floated past, and "Arrgh!" when they stumbled across what looked like a dead man covered in a blanket.
Then, there were drinks to be had (after she found what appears to be the best thing in the world ever - a personal sound machine so you can have a round of applause wherever you go! How fantastic!). It was possibly a bit early in the day, but it was a daytime date, and wine spritzers were somewhat necessary.
They broached the tricky dating website and how-long-single-for conversations remarkably well, taking in a stroll by the river and generally talking rubbish. There was even food, then a walk back to the Tube and - no kiss. But that's a good thing, right? RIGHT??? Not putting out on a first date and all that! If she keeps repeating that, it will become true. Probably.
But she has heard from him today. Yay! And they are going to watch a suitably arty-wanky film together next week. Which is all, she has to admit, a little bit exciting.
She is just now trying to ignore the fact he told her he'd met some Amazonian woman last Sunday through the site. But the Amazonian didn't speak English, so she has at least one advantage over her.
Tuesday, 21 July 2009
Date success!
STOP PRESS! The bank stupidly decided to allow her an overdraft, and therefore, to go dating! Excellent news. In other developments, Mr 60-Shirts asked if she would fancy going out for a drink over a board game or two. In the spirit of feeding the blogging world interesting morsels of dating delights and of saying yes to the universe, she agreed. And, of course, she wanted to see just how good a shirt could be...
Dates on hold
There she was, all set for a date that actually looked rather promising - and then her lack of money had to go and blow a hole in the thing. It is like being financially crippled and then having the crutches kicked out from under your feet.
She quite likes the look of this boy as well. He's from the same internet site, but actually isn't a troll, which is a remarkable first. Instead, he is sweet and funny (on screen anyway, admittedly) and they like the same arty-wanky films and books. We'll call him Daniel, as that's the Ugly Betty character her very wise friend reckons he looks like. They were all set to go to an exhibition that promises floating penises waving past your face in a darkened room while a disembodied voice calls you a buttercup, and the nasty bank went and put a stop to it.
But have no fear! This is a mere postponement. In the meantime, she is living in self-imposed exile in her rather cramped flat, existing solely off Nutella and cous-cous until pay day comes around. ie. with no exciting date action.
And there is another boy on the cards as well - an intriguing non-Tory Sloaney boy who shares her love of a well-made G&T, good grammar and board games and owns 60 shirts. There have only been a few emails, and he is a little young, but she has not had too many moral dilemmas of late when it comes to age so is keeping an open mind.
Oh and an update! The TV presenter called yesterday. But she missed the call. All rather curious...
She quite likes the look of this boy as well. He's from the same internet site, but actually isn't a troll, which is a remarkable first. Instead, he is sweet and funny (on screen anyway, admittedly) and they like the same arty-wanky films and books. We'll call him Daniel, as that's the Ugly Betty character her very wise friend reckons he looks like. They were all set to go to an exhibition that promises floating penises waving past your face in a darkened room while a disembodied voice calls you a buttercup, and the nasty bank went and put a stop to it.
But have no fear! This is a mere postponement. In the meantime, she is living in self-imposed exile in her rather cramped flat, existing solely off Nutella and cous-cous until pay day comes around. ie. with no exciting date action.
And there is another boy on the cards as well - an intriguing non-Tory Sloaney boy who shares her love of a well-made G&T, good grammar and board games and owns 60 shirts. There have only been a few emails, and he is a little young, but she has not had too many moral dilemmas of late when it comes to age so is keeping an open mind.
Oh and an update! The TV presenter called yesterday. But she missed the call. All rather curious...
Monday, 20 July 2009
Date #3
Or, The One That Wasn't Really a Date
Tricky one, this. You see, it wasn't actually, in the true definition of the word, a date. It was a drink with a friend. A rather good-looking male friend. And this very friend, who we shall call Uni Boy, was someone she had had a massive, embarrassing (and massively embarrassing) crush on for the best part of the last decade. So, she felt able to say it was a date. Or at least to pretend. And spent considerably longer getting ready for this one than either date#1 or date#2.
If this was a Richard Curtis film, he would be the one that she would end up with. The one who would gradually, by the end of this blog's life, realise that she really was the hottest, smartest, most wonderful girl in the whole world. Which, of course, she IS.
She felt ridiculously nervous for what was, on paper, a drink with a friend. And when he swaggered towards her with his ridiculous good-looking face, she actually fell a little more in love with him. But then, they hugged outside a wheely bin on a slightly grotty street and she realised - he was just Uni Boy. And she was standing outside KFC.
They had a great time, despite the fact he wasn't drinking, which rather scuppered her plans to get him recklessly drunk and kiss him (on the advice of a friend). But he was still just Uni Boy. No fireworks, just fun. And no crush, no matter how long it's lastest for, is worth worrying about if there isn't even a Roman Candle's worth of excitement on offer. It seems that despite everything, he's just not her hot, smart, wonderful boy. And so the search goes on.
Tricky one, this. You see, it wasn't actually, in the true definition of the word, a date. It was a drink with a friend. A rather good-looking male friend. And this very friend, who we shall call Uni Boy, was someone she had had a massive, embarrassing (and massively embarrassing) crush on for the best part of the last decade. So, she felt able to say it was a date. Or at least to pretend. And spent considerably longer getting ready for this one than either date#1 or date#2.
If this was a Richard Curtis film, he would be the one that she would end up with. The one who would gradually, by the end of this blog's life, realise that she really was the hottest, smartest, most wonderful girl in the whole world. Which, of course, she IS.
She felt ridiculously nervous for what was, on paper, a drink with a friend. And when he swaggered towards her with his ridiculous good-looking face, she actually fell a little more in love with him. But then, they hugged outside a wheely bin on a slightly grotty street and she realised - he was just Uni Boy. And she was standing outside KFC.
They had a great time, despite the fact he wasn't drinking, which rather scuppered her plans to get him recklessly drunk and kiss him (on the advice of a friend). But he was still just Uni Boy. No fireworks, just fun. And no crush, no matter how long it's lastest for, is worth worrying about if there isn't even a Roman Candle's worth of excitement on offer. It seems that despite everything, he's just not her hot, smart, wonderful boy. And so the search goes on.
Sunday, 19 July 2009
Date #2
Or, The One That Felt Like Counselling
You want a date, she thought? Join a dating website! All the cool kids are doing it these days, she had been told from a very reliable source, and it's not all just freaks and geeks. Apparently.
Well, it couldn't hurt, right? So on a whim, and a strong gin and tonic, she took the plunge, half wondering what on earth she was doing as she picked a profile picture and told the whole world she was single and desperate. Or at least that's what it felt like.
Then this guy started messaging her. He was too old and had too many kids (ie more than none) but said he worked as a TV presenter, and she was intrigued. Utterly shallow, yes, but still. Intrigued.
This intrigue was such that she agreed to meet him for a drink, half fearing there would be a whole camera crew there and that it was all some horrible set up for a show on internet dating. But thankfully, life isn't always like Bridget Jones. There was just a man, a man with a small face, and a pub, and some glasses of wine.
It felt, in all honestly, like a drink with an uncle. Which was to say, nice, but not in the least bit exciting. Turned out he still has (many) issues about his recently ended marriage. Which they talked about. Rather a lot. And no one asked for his autograph. She mostly just wondered what on earth she was doing there. It didn't feel as amusing as she thought it would do.
She got a bit too drunk, they left with a peck on the cheek, and she got cheap Chinese and went home. The TV presenter fell off the face of the earth.
You want a date, she thought? Join a dating website! All the cool kids are doing it these days, she had been told from a very reliable source, and it's not all just freaks and geeks. Apparently.
Well, it couldn't hurt, right? So on a whim, and a strong gin and tonic, she took the plunge, half wondering what on earth she was doing as she picked a profile picture and told the whole world she was single and desperate. Or at least that's what it felt like.
Then this guy started messaging her. He was too old and had too many kids (ie more than none) but said he worked as a TV presenter, and she was intrigued. Utterly shallow, yes, but still. Intrigued.
This intrigue was such that she agreed to meet him for a drink, half fearing there would be a whole camera crew there and that it was all some horrible set up for a show on internet dating. But thankfully, life isn't always like Bridget Jones. There was just a man, a man with a small face, and a pub, and some glasses of wine.
It felt, in all honestly, like a drink with an uncle. Which was to say, nice, but not in the least bit exciting. Turned out he still has (many) issues about his recently ended marriage. Which they talked about. Rather a lot. And no one asked for his autograph. She mostly just wondered what on earth she was doing there. It didn't feel as amusing as she thought it would do.
She got a bit too drunk, they left with a peck on the cheek, and she got cheap Chinese and went home. The TV presenter fell off the face of the earth.
Date #1
or, The One with the Metrosexual Topshop Buyer.
She was told by a tarot reader in Byron Bay recently that she would have to choose between four men when she moved to London. At the risk of sounding ungrateful, just one decent one would be enough.
But with this in mind, she endeavoured to set up dates for when she got back to the UK after her month's holiday. And how would she do this? By drunk-texting the friend of a friend she'd snogged at a birthday picnic just before going away, of course. Classy hey? He will henceforth be known as Topshop Boy.
The drunk text was sent from a bar in Cairns. The date was arranged, at her insistence. And heck it goes against all The Rules, and He's Just Not That Into You, but who gives.
It was, after all, the first proper date in a year of singledom - the anniversary actually falling on the night in question. COMPLETELY COINCIDENTALLY I might add. But then I would be lying.
They met in Soho, outside Topshop, but sadly there were no freebies thrown in for good measure. And she learned that he had grown a moustache, which she instantly took the piss out of, thinking it was a joke. It wasn't a joke. Oh.
They went to old man pubs and a bizarre member's only pub like a bachelor's flat in 1976, with the world's tiniest beer garden, a brick square in which she smoked. And she doesn't smoke. And then, in that brick square, she drank some more wine (than was strictly necessary) and kissed the boy. And decided that going back to his, on the other side of London, on the night bus was The Best Idea In The World (TM). It really, really wasn't. He had Queer Eye for the Straight Guy in his DVD machine. He owns a hairdryer. He owns hotpants. He wore them, and the tache, on Gay Pride day in London. ACCIDENTALLY. He makes her laugh, but he really is more metro than sexual.
Waking up, half drunk and half dressed in quite-a-high-up flat and nearly flashing at early risers on their way to work outside the window is really not a good look, she soon realised. Nor is bumping into someone from work on the bus back home, still dressed in the night-out dress she'd bought from Whistles the day before.
She kissed Topshop Boy goodbye on the Tube. And he promptly fell off the face of the earth.
She was told by a tarot reader in Byron Bay recently that she would have to choose between four men when she moved to London. At the risk of sounding ungrateful, just one decent one would be enough.
But with this in mind, she endeavoured to set up dates for when she got back to the UK after her month's holiday. And how would she do this? By drunk-texting the friend of a friend she'd snogged at a birthday picnic just before going away, of course. Classy hey? He will henceforth be known as Topshop Boy.
The drunk text was sent from a bar in Cairns. The date was arranged, at her insistence. And heck it goes against all The Rules, and He's Just Not That Into You, but who gives.
It was, after all, the first proper date in a year of singledom - the anniversary actually falling on the night in question. COMPLETELY COINCIDENTALLY I might add. But then I would be lying.
They met in Soho, outside Topshop, but sadly there were no freebies thrown in for good measure. And she learned that he had grown a moustache, which she instantly took the piss out of, thinking it was a joke. It wasn't a joke. Oh.
They went to old man pubs and a bizarre member's only pub like a bachelor's flat in 1976, with the world's tiniest beer garden, a brick square in which she smoked. And she doesn't smoke. And then, in that brick square, she drank some more wine (than was strictly necessary) and kissed the boy. And decided that going back to his, on the other side of London, on the night bus was The Best Idea In The World (TM). It really, really wasn't. He had Queer Eye for the Straight Guy in his DVD machine. He owns a hairdryer. He owns hotpants. He wore them, and the tache, on Gay Pride day in London. ACCIDENTALLY. He makes her laugh, but he really is more metro than sexual.
Waking up, half drunk and half dressed in quite-a-high-up flat and nearly flashing at early risers on their way to work outside the window is really not a good look, she soon realised. Nor is bumping into someone from work on the bus back home, still dressed in the night-out dress she'd bought from Whistles the day before.
She kissed Topshop Boy goodbye on the Tube. And he promptly fell off the face of the earth.
The Beginning
Once, there was a girl who was a bit of a nomad, having lived all over the UK. She had always dreamed of living in London and one day, a year shy of her 30th birthday, she found a lovely if overpriced flat, packed her belongings and set off to seek fame, fortune, and fantastic dates. One out of the three would be a good start.
Having had two disastrous dates in as many days, and having joined a dating website against all her better judgment, her lovely friends suggested she write about it on a blog, so that not only they, but ever other girl in the city could be amused by her shambolic love life. So here it is.
And the blog title? Well, her first ever kiss was to Blur's London Loves (He said: "You look like Demi Moore". She said: "You look like Keanu Reeves." They were both liars. And very, very drunk. But she was only 15 so we'll let her off).
Let's see where this takes us. Get ready for a bumpy ride...
LLx
Having had two disastrous dates in as many days, and having joined a dating website against all her better judgment, her lovely friends suggested she write about it on a blog, so that not only they, but ever other girl in the city could be amused by her shambolic love life. So here it is.
And the blog title? Well, her first ever kiss was to Blur's London Loves (He said: "You look like Demi Moore". She said: "You look like Keanu Reeves." They were both liars. And very, very drunk. But she was only 15 so we'll let her off).
Let's see where this takes us. Get ready for a bumpy ride...
LLx
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