Administrative Error

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My initial response is laughter, followed by disbelief.  My father is first on the scene.  I bring him up-to-date on Tinder, and my association with it, before reading from my phone.

I laugh.  ‘Does he think I’m a complete idiot?!’ 

I run a quick Google search.

‘I thought so,’ I say, reading.

‘What is it?’

‘The period between Christmas and New Year is the busiest time for dating sites.’

‘Really?’

‘Yep.’  I pick up the phone.  ‘It kind of smacks of someone – I dunno….’ I re-read the message.  ‘He must be very bored!’

‘Yes.’  My dad laughs.  ‘It’s like he’s catching up on admin!’

Sensitively put.

‘Yeah, well, I’m not impressed – and I’m not going to reply!’

‘It is a bit… insulting.’

‘At least this other guy had the decency to get back in touch before Christmas – that takes a bit more effort!’

But still.  Admin?  I don’t want to be someone’s admin.

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Out Of The Blue

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‘What do you make of Tinder?’ CC Image courtesy of ant217 on Flickr

I take a sip of mulled wine.  ‘Hmm not a fan.’

‘Oh – why?’

Tinder Guy, Simon, Viable Prospect, and Daniel.  Especially Daniel: that made no sense.  But because I don’t know how to articulate this within the accepted time frame of a drinks party conversation, I say:

‘I think the emphasis on location means it lends itself more to casual hook-ups, and if that’s what you’re looking for then fine, but I’m not….’

No, I’m looking to meet the love of my life on an app, which is much more realistic.

We’re interrupted.  A short while later I head home.

*

Be-ep. 

I shut the front door behind me.

Be-ep.

I find my phone in my bag, and bring it to life.

You have a new Tinder message from Viable Prospect.

Huh?

‘How’s your Christmas prep going?’

I scroll up.  Two months have passed since my last message.  He must be either very bored or very drunk.  I consider not replying.

Tapping on his profile picture brings up the strangely familiar set of photos.  Clear blue eyes, and the bright white smile of someone who always brushed their teeth when they were younger – or just has good genes.  He’s cute, no two ways about it.  I consider making some kind of witty reference to his poor response time in my reply, if I reply.

The next day, I reply as if no time has passed.

‘I give him a week – two because it’s holiday season – to suggest meeting in person,’ I tell Beatrice that evening.  ‘After that, I give up on him.’

Him, Tinder, the lot.  Until next year.

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2013: The High (and Low) Lights

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CC Image courtesy of hoangnt on FlickrFor me, the best part of blogging, aside from writing the wretched stuff, is hearing that someone enjoyed a post.  So today, because I figured I deserve a holiday, I’m posting the best bits of 2013 according to you, my beloved (and for many of you I mean that quite literally – be worried) readers.

 

First up is Bright Star, a favourite of James’, in which I explain to Toby why I like Joe’s flatmate

‘He’s funny,’ I say.

Or rather he thinks I’m funny, which is much more important.

A grilling from Sandwich comes a close second.

‘I thought you were great friends.’

He actually said great chums, but it wouldn’t do to alienate readers.

 

Glossing over the surprised tone with which he said it, Flatmate pronounced No Sex and the City to be ‘quite witty’:

‘He doesn’t believe in sex before marriage,’ I say.

‘Oh God.’

‘He’s kinda the problem.’

CC Image courtesy of knowhimonline on Flickr

New Initiative made Lucy laugh out loud, twice:

Beatrice is Tinder-happy…

When they can spell, even if not attractive, I continyue writing.’

And learning to spell, presumably.

… whilst MBE is feeling increasingly cynical about the whole thing.

I’m bored of openers like ‘How are you?’ (bored), ‘Any exciting plans for the weekend?’ (no, I prefer boring plans), ‘what are up to this evening?’ (I’m not going to sleep with you just because we live three miles apart) – and the rest.

 

A compliment from my harshest critic always makes my day.  My mother’s top 3 for the year:

Story of My Life, in which Beatrice and I join stalking forces.

Flatmate gives me a dose of reality On The Couch.

And,

Love Poetry, in which I fancy a gay man.  Like you’ve never done the same thing.

 

So there you have it.  Written (fittingly) proof that this writer is neurotic, needy, insecure, and in dire need of validation and praise.  And that’s just the writing.

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In Sickness…

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Ill.  That must have been it.  I hadn’t been on Tinder in ages, had written it off, but then the lurgy hit.  I’d already watched everything on iPlayer, twice, so there was nothing for it.  Death by boredom or… Tinder.

No, no, no, no, no….

Turns out the two options aren’t so different.

…no, no, no….

Lunch at 4pm.

… no… no…

Immediately followed by tea because it’s teatime.

The no’s keep coming, X Factor-style.

Over supper, three hours later (I don’t know how I did it), I get a message from Daniel.  Daniel?  Daniel?  It vaguely rings a bell, not least because I’ve only matched with three people in as many hours.

I open the message.

The first thing I notice is that he hasn’t said hello, asked how I am (ill) or what I’m doing (Tinder, cos I’m ill).  One gold star to him.  (I’ve just watched Notes on a Scandal, though just the once – it’s hardly feel-good.)  Secondly, it’s kind of funny, his message.  No, actually it is funny.  And original.  And the punctuation is… oh for crying out loud.

A short while later, I reply, and a few minutes after that I get another message.  He must be ill too.

This one is genuinely laugh-out-loud funny.  In a collapse on the sofa and not because you’re ill kind-of-a-way.  Banter ensues.  What does he look like?  Oh, nice-looking.  The suit in the second picture, I would burn, but other than that… oh and the t-shirt in the fourth photo.

We discuss housework.  It turns out we both hate ironing, washing up, cleaning… glossing over the fact that, when we move in together, the house will basically be a pigsty, he’s quite fun.  And he even displays a disconcerting level of interest when he follows up the next day with a cleverly re-worded ‘so, what do you do?’

I – and this might be a terrible idea – tell him.  Oh don’t worry, I don’t mention the blog, but I’ve decided there’s no point denying I’m a writer.  I mean, sooner or later they’re going to find out that a good weekend for me is one spent, well, typing.  And since I’m quite up for dating a fellow writer (an in-house editor, just imagine!), it can’t hurt to lay my cards on the table.  Can it?

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Adverse Conditions (Freddie, Part 1)

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CC Image courtesy of Erik Mallinson on FlickrI’m really bored at work.  ‘Talking to the plant’ kind of bored.  The kind of bored which makes you do things which you know are a bad idea, but, because they provide momentary relief from the boredom, you do them anyway.  Like texting Sam and suggesting he discreetly asks Freddie what he thinks of me, at a party they’re going to that evening.  Half an hour later, following consultation with plant, I realise this is a stupid idea, and send a follow-up text saying not to bother.

The next day, I hear from Sam.

‘Did try.  Think I aroused his suspicions though.’

That’ll teach me – except it won’t.

I request details.  Nothing.  Eventually he replies:

‘Just asked which of our mutual acquaintance he fancied.’

‘That’s not a bad approach – well done!  Why do you think you aroused his suspicions?’

There’s clearly more to it.

‘He didn’t answer immediately so I asked if it was you.’

Great.

‘He was cagey but not adverse.  I hope I haven’t panicked you.’

‘No, don’t worry,’ I say. What is panicking me is that you’ve used ‘adverse’, when I think ‘averse’ is the more appropriate word.’ 

It’s a miracle I have friends.

‘You’re right,’ he says, ‘meant averse.  You coming this eve?’

Freddie will be there.

‘Yep, see you later!’

I’m not panicking.

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