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?’


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.


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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.’

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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.


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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An Idiot Abroad

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CC Image courtesy of erin_everlasting on Flickr

‘He said hello and then ignored you the rest of the night?’

Ever the optimist.

‘No, because… that would have required him to turn up!’

Flatmate laughs.  ‘Oh God.’

I follow him upstairs.

‘But it didn’t matter!  It was such a good night – probably the best night I’ve had since moving to London!’

Flatmate sighs.  ‘Who did you meet?’

‘No one!  That’s what’s so great.  It was the first party I’ve really enjoyed where I didn’t meet anyone!’

I do a little dance in front of the mirror.

‘That’s not entirely true…’

He rolls his eyes.

‘… there was someone, but there’s a girlfriend.  But it wasn’t just him – it was just a really fun night!’

Flatmate is looking at something on his computer.  ‘I hope you realize now that this guy is a complete idiot.  I can’t believe you’ve liked him all this time.’

‘I didn’t!  I was over it, and then – he invited me to this thing.’

‘Which he wasn’t at–.’

‘He didn’t know I was coming.’

‘I thought you said he invited you?’

‘Yeah, but on Facebook.’

‘Ohhh it was a Facebook thing.’


I do a pirouette in the doorway….

The flatmate was dreamy though.’

… and skip downstairs.

What an idiot.

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New Initiative

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CC Image courtesy of Hialean on FlickrI have – or had, until recently – exercised a ‘no initiating’ chat policy on Tinder.  A very different approach from Beatrice

‘I message everyone I match with,’ she tells me over Facebook one evening.  ‘Then I see if they can spell.  When they can spell, even if not attractive, I continyue writing…’

And learning to spell, presumably.

So my complaint that the only two matches I’ve been tempted to contact in as many weeks, I am not allowed to, doesn’t meet with much sympathy.

I explain my logic, that if they’re not interested enough to chat to you and you initiate a conversation, it’s unlikely to go anywhere: the same logic which this blogger, my mother, and my flatmate apply to real-life situations, and which I buy into on the whole.   Beatrice is unimpressed.


That being so (which it isn’t), nothing would induce me to contact Simon, NOTHING.  If he can initiate a chat with Beatrice (which he did, but that’s another story), he can do the same with me.  And since he hasn’t… The capital letters make another appearance.


Am I rigid?  No, just doing what’s required to avoid unnecessary pain, rejection, and disappointment – and yes, the slim, nay, minute possibility of something really good.

And it’s probably that slim minute possibility bollocks which makes me do what I do next: pick up my phone, open the app, and scroll down to the only other match I really hoped would get in touch.

By this stage in the game, I’m pretty jaded about the whole thing.  I’m bored of openers like, ‘Hi, how are you?’ (bored), ‘Exciting plans for the weekend?’ (no, I prefer boring plans), ‘what are you up to this evening?’ (I’m not going to sleep with you just because we live 3 miles apart) – and the rest.  And I have no reason to suppose that this guy will be any different, none at all.  But he is attractive, our mutual friends are what Freddie would call ‘sound fellows’, and his Facebook profile, which I might have had a quick look at, is better than good.  So what’s the worst that can come of dropping him a line, besides pain, rejection, and disappointment?

‘You’d be proud,’ I tell Beatrice later that evening.  ‘I sent the only other viable prospect a message.’


Does she know Caps Lock is on?

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Hopeless Situation

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CC Image courtesy of ulterior epicure on FlickrThis has been going on for about three days when I decide to do the one thing which I know will stop it in its tracks.  I ask Flatmate.  Not ask so much as, tell him the situation and assure him that I know what he is about to say, but go on, spoil a girl.

‘Don’t read anything into it.’

‘No,’ I say.

‘He might get drunk and try it on.  He might want a one night thing…’

A girl can dream.

‘… but don’t hope.’

But – but – where there’s life, there’s hope.  Hope springs eternal in the human breast.  Hope is what gets me out of bed in the morning.  That and breakfast.

‘But…’ I begin.

How to phrase my next question without sounding hopeful?

‘Do – do you think… do you think there’s such a thing as wrong timing?  As in, can you like someone but it’s just not the right time?’

He looks thoughtful.  ‘I personally think, no, but…’

This is new.

‘… I know some people say there is.  I’ve heard girls say, ‘it’s not the right time’ or–.’

‘Have you ever heard a guy say that?’


‘Then, I’m not convinced.  If you say that, it means it’s not the right person or you don’t want to go out with them badly enough.’

‘I would agree,’ he says slowly, ‘but conceivably it could be that it’s not the right time, for whatever reason.  It might be you’re not ready for a relationship blah blah blah….’

This is worrying: the man’s starting to sound like me.  I tune back in for the reassuringly familiar conclusion.

‘… but yeah, don’t hope.’

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