At the end of the day

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CC Image courtesy of Sue Hasker - Apologies to my followers for my rece on FlickrWhen I’m having a godawful day

With emails lining up like sentries

It is

Your smile

Your words that sustain me

Though they were brief

And unpremeditated

Given in passing as you left for the day

That brief minute

Minutes

When you stopped and chatted

About some fad or other

 

Each time I find we have less to say

And it matters more

CC Image courtesy of Rsms on Flickr

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What to Expect From Dating in Your 20s

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You will meet The One, the love of your life, the man you want to marry. Then a few weeks later, by which time you’ll have the order of his profile pictures by heart and all your friends will know his star sign – a few weeks later you’ll unexpectedly run into the guy and wonder what strong drugs you were on.

You will install every dating app known to man. After several weeks of Hinge-ing and Happn-ing you’ll start to wonder if the cute, sun-kissed guys on your screen actually exist… before remembering that cute and sun-kissed isn’t your type.

You will occasionally meet nice, attractive people the old-fashioned way – through friends. Nothing will happen with them either.

A painful experience of unrequited love in your early 20s will teach you precisely nothing.

If you don’t mind paying for his drinks you’re probably in love. If you keep the receipts in a box on your bedside table…

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Renaissance Man

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Perky looks thoughtful. ‘Remind me again what your type is?’

I resist the urge to nod in the direction of her best friend’s boyfriend.

 

Two hours earlier…

I enter the room and immediately fall into conversation with a charming Frenchman. Ten minutes later, a girl I recognise appears at his elbow. We exchange festive greetings then, gesturing towards Charming Frenchman, I say:

‘Have you met?’

She smiles, not unkindly. ‘Yes, we’re together.’

I resist the urge to grab the nearest bag of Kettle Chips and walk away.

 

Three glasses of mulled wine later, I’m standing opposite Perky asking if there’s anyone – anyone – she could set me up with.

‘Remind me again what your type is?’ she says.

‘Umm… the thing is, if I describe my type, I’ll just be describing the last guy I dated.’

But one.

‘That’s fine. Obviously that’s your type.’

Yes, but as my beloved mother has pointed out on numerous occasions, it’s probably not very realistic.

‘Hmm OK,’ I say, ‘well, the most important thing is that they’re very clever. And funny – we need to have the same sense of humour.’

‘OK, what about height?’

‘Not that bothered.’

‘But you wouldn’t want someone shorter than you?’

‘I don’t really mind. The last few guys I’ve dated have been the same height as me and that’s been fine.’

‘OK but you’re quite tall.’

‘Yeah I guess.’ I think for a moment. ‘Also… I’ve got a weakness for scientists who are also interested in the arts. So, a polymath. Basically,’ I laugh, ‘I want Leonardo Da Vinci, but alive.’

And straight. And fractionally taller.

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Happy New Year

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CC Image courtesy of Daniel john buchanan on Flickr

When you look through your 2016 diary, you’re annoyed to discover Valentine’s Day falls on a Sunday again. Even though you’re single, were single on the last Valentine’s Day and have no reason to suppose you won’t be single in a month and a half’s time.

You embrace the New Year as a clean slate in dating terms, an opportunity to start anew: to put aside bad dating practices such as reminding guys who have forgotten about you that you exist. That includes the guy from Tinder who sent you a ‘Happy Christmas’ message but won’t commit to a date.

At 5pm on 1 January you send him a message saying ‘Happy New Year’.

BUT you won’t be carrying memories of failed relationships over into the New Year. No. You’ve decided – and this applies to both parties, to another human being over whose feelings you have no control, as well as your own, over which you have possibly even less control – that feelings are like annual leave: they can’t be carried over.

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Maybe Baby

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I survey a broad cross-section of society i.e. Beatrice, Perky, my mother and Adrien, whose response is my absolute FAVOURITE. I print it off and flyer the flat with it, I love it THAT MUCH.

When I start to read your emails

So yeah, I survey my nearest and dearest, and there’s an overwhelming response of:

NOT OK

Which fortunately chimes with how I feel about the whole thing. I know I should be fine with it. I should be, like, that’s totally cool man, shrug it off and go out dancing with my girlfriends.

NOBODY DOES THAT.

But that’s not me. Maybe I’ve got too attached too quickly. Maybe I want a boyfriend so badly I’m ignoring all the reasons it probably won’t work long-term. Maybe this is more about pride and ego and wanting to feel special than my feelings for the guy. But whatever the reason, I’m not OK with it. So I tell him.

CC Image courtesy of Johan Larsson on Flickr

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