Fade In

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CC Image courtesy of distopiandreamgirl on Flickr

After two weeks of not having heard from VP I’m finally starting to move on. No more waking up and glancing at my phone expectantly. I go whole days without looking at his profile or re-reading old messages. OK there might be the odd cry on the Northern line, and for ten consecutive evenings I do absolutely nothing with myself, and the irony of baking an elaborate cake on the day which happens to be his birthday isn’t entirely lost on me. But by day fourteen, I’m getting back on track. I even go on a date and resist the urge to compare it to the incomparable. That, I tell myself, was another life. A fantasy. And anyway, he’s gone. I have to get over it.

 

Monday morning. My flatmate is back from holiday and the creak of the bathroom floor wakes me. I put out my arm, a beam of sunlight catching the dial of my watch. Half an hour before I have to get up.

 

This was one of the things which, in the course of the past week, had gone back to normal. The Nytol I’d purchased circa Second Date was now gathering dust on the bedside table. In fact, things had gone to the other extreme: bed by ten and multiple snoozed alarms. An extra half hour of sleep would be enjoyed, luxuriated in.

 

I roll over and that’s when I see it, the small pulsating light. I run through a short mental list of people it might be, and an even shorter list of people it won’t, and swipe the screen.

(TO BE CONTINUED

CC Image courtesy of Anthony!! on Flickr

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Solitary Woman

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CC Image courtesy of Moyan_Brenn on FlickrMy online dating journey gets off to an inauspicious start.  The site invites me to write a profile.  I chew the proverbial pencil for a few minutes before beginning:

I like solitude.

Something tells me this isn’t a winning approach.  I think some more.  In the end I punch out a few lines indicating that I like dancing, writing, and cake, I don’t much like art galleries and museums, and, bottom line, we need to have a laugh together.

60+ messages in my inbox later I’m realising there are things I like even more than cake.  Things like punctuation, spelling, and not being addressed as ‘Babe’.

Things like real life.

And with that thought, I close the tab, shower, get dressed, and go out.  To a gallery perhaps, with a cafe that serves really good cake.

740px-Claude_Monet_022

This post is part of the 3 Dates, 3 Months! series.  Just Singles challenged its favourite dating bloggers to try three different methods of finding a date, and write about the experience.  

This month: Just Singles.

Last month: Argentine tango classes. 



Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps

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CC Image courtesy of Darice on FlickrI make a carrot cake for my colleague’s leaving party. At the end, there’s a quarter remaining. Take it home, someone says to me, give it to your flatmate.

‘No,’ I say, ‘we errr we don’t have that kind of relationship.’

Oh! is the reaction, more bemused than judgmental. I feel mean but can’t offer much by way of explanation.

Flatmate would say it’s because he’s very critical.  He might then describe how, in the early days of our tenancy, he pronounced the chocolate sauce on my profiteroles to be too bitter – which it was, but I’m never going to admit it to his face – and with those words forfeited all future offers of my cooking.
But his critical streak has its uses. The other day we’re talking men, or lack thereof. I’m arguing that a man who adds me on Facebook must have some kind of romantic interest in me: indeed I have empirical evidence that this is the case.

Flatmate looks amused. ‘Are you telling me you fancy all the guys you’ve added on Facebook?’

‘Yeah, pretty much.’

I’m exaggerating slightly, but only slightly.

He frowns. ‘I don’t understand why you never get any of them!’

I shrug. ‘Maybe they’re out of my league?’

I think of Nick, who incidentally isn’t on Facebook.

He shakes his head. ‘That’s not possible – statistically I mean. There are just too many of them!’

I laugh. ‘Sometimes it’s the same ones, recurring!’

Nice Guy, Nick…

He sighs. ‘So you don’t learn your lesson the first time round.’

‘No, it’s not that…’

He thinks a moment. ‘I can only think that you’re always going for the same type, and for whatever reason it’s not working. Does everyone you fancy have a posh accent?’

‘No.’

Yes, well, almost.  But I can’t help the fact that I find it sexy as hell, can I? Whilst I found Joe‘s pony club chat to be very annoying – but everything else about him was sexy as hell.

‘I don’t understand it.  You’re a nice girl….’

I make a mental note to start sharing carrot cake.

‘… you’re intelligent, funny, you’re good-looking…’

‘Aww you’re sweet.  Keep talking.’

‘… the only thing I can see which might be limiting you is that you’re quite tall, so you’d be too tall for some guys, but that doesn’t explain it.’

‘Perhaps I’ve just been unlucky,’ I say, with a shrug.

‘Perhaps.’

CC Image courtesy of cbgrfx123 on Flickr

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Love Poetry

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‘You’ve only come so you can write about it,’ the guy says, with an irritating smile.CC Image courtesy of dichohecho on Flickr

I scan the room.  ‘Hmm.’ 

It’s a birthday drinks.  I don’t drink, and I don’t like the birthday boy.  And the guy I’m speaking to, I was mildly obsessed with for about a year before he hooked up with my best friend – two days ago.  So I’m having a whale of a time.

 

The only dating potential I’ve found so far is propping up the bar.  He’s got a slight paunch – the mark of the mature student – and is wearing a t-shirt bearing the slogan ‘I love Cromer’.  Get too close and he starts spouting poetry.

 

I’ve had enough of ‘elephant in the room’ conversation with smiling guy.

‘I’m gonna head.  Goodnight.’

I do head, to the bar; I’m in the mood for a poem.  Since we last spoke, Paunch has communed with a couple of beers, and I find him in high spirits.  He might be gay – did I mention? – but he’s also frighteningly clever and well-read, and, well, you know what they say about opposites attracting.

 

Three missed Byron references later, I’m stammering out an apology/explanation, whilst he writes down, not his phone number, but a reading list.  Yep.  I leave the joint with the following prescription:

  • Geoffrey Hill
  • Kipling (not the cake – I checked)
  • Some obscure poet
And orders to watch Azerbaijan’s Eurovision entry.  Did I say might be gay?
CC Image courtesy of PanARMENIAN_Photo on Flickr



Socks and the City

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It’s 8.50am.  Commuters at Embankment station funnel onto the escalator from all directions, heading for the light.

This morning, I’m carrying pudding for a Thanksgiving supper.  A fellow commuter – attractive, suited – glances over at me.  I look away, and back.  He smiles faintly.  We board the escalator; he is just ahead of me, revealing, with each step, a flash of colourful striped sock above his Oxford brogues.  I’ve always liked statement socks…and Oxford brogues.

Escalator #2.  Normally I would walk up on the left hand side, but Stripy Socks is standing to the right.  He half-turns:

‘Have you made a cake?  Do you make a cake every day?’

I laugh and explain what it’s for.

We get to the top of the escalator.  I like him, but I’m not sure what to do next.  I never know what to do before 9am.  I feel it’s my turn to say something, but what?

‘I like your socks!’

He looks stumped.  I’m too embarrassed to say anything else.  Probably for the best.  The ticket barriers provide a welcome reprieve, but then we’re out the other side.  I root around in my bag for my iPod, all the while praying that he will give this pudding-laden sock-fancier the benefit of the doubt.  But no.

If you like the whole cake/public transport combo, check out this MBE classic.