Cinder-fuckin-rella

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CC Image courtesy of auntie rain on FlickrSeven minutes and counting.  I stare at my phone, willing the digits not to change.

 

Earlier in the evening…

He comes over to me.

‘I think this is yours.’

My bracelet.  I left it on the piano during our first dance.

‘Oh!  Thank you!’  I say, slipping it on.

I feel like Cinderella.

Prince Charming says something about how he didn’t want me to forget it, and I agree that that would have been very sad.  (For the record, and because my mother is reading this, and she gave me the bracelet with the tender words, ‘if you don’t like it, I’ll have it’, I would not have forgotten it.)

 

Half an hour later, having interrogated friend of PC and established that he is single and decent (whatever that means), I’m in the pub.  I’m not talking to PC – that would be ridiculous – but I am in his general vicinity, chatting to Rachel.  He glances my way occasionally; Rachel, under strict instructions not to stare, is ogling at him.

I look at my watch.  ‘I can’t stay too long.  I’ve got to get this application in by midnight.’

Quick glance at PC.

‘I’m not a fan of ‘The Rules’ generally,’ I say, ‘but where do we stand on waiting for the guy to come to us, in this situation?’

Rachel wrinkles her nose.  ‘Hmmm nah.’

‘But, in my experience, if a guy wants to talk to you, he’ll make it happen – he’ll seek you out.’

I’m thinking of Joe – and look how well that turned out.

‘Y-es, that’s true,’ she says, ‘but nah.’

This doesn’t surprise me: Rachel is pretty, flirty, and vivacious, and smart and funny and has an incredible figure.  I must get some ugly friends.

At this point, we’re joined by a guy who evidently shares my high opinion of Rachel, and I head off in search of PC’s friend.  He’s surprisingly amenable to the idea of playing Cupid.  Five minutes later, PC and I are chatting at the bar.

‘Are you a Casualty fan?’

He looks surprised.  ‘No.  Why?’

‘Nor am I, but I’m having to fake it for a job application, and it’s proving quite tricky.  One of the questions is “which do you think has been the least successful storyline in the last twelve months?”‘

He suggests Google, putting an appeal out on Facebook (‘I tried that, but it seems my friends have taste when it comes to television!’), and every other shortcut known to modern man. I’ve neglected to mention that the application deadline is in less than an hour – at midnight. I should really be making a move. We start talking books: he’s going to a literature festival on the weekend. Another five minutes won’t hurt, right?

CC Image courtesy of jonas.lowgren on Flickr

I check my watch.  ‘I’d better go.’

‘Oh – well – good luck with it!’ he says.  ‘And I’ll let you know how the weekend goes.’

Weekend… weekend…

‘Oh, the festival!  Yes!’

 

En route to the tube station, it occurs to me that the journey time to get home is longer than I thought.  That there’s no internet signal between here and home.  That my phone’s nearly dead.  That PC has no means of contacting me to let me know about his weekend.  That I might not even fancy PC that much, in which case I’ve put my career on the line (slight exaggeration) for a guy I’m not even that interested in, and with whom nothing will probably ever happen.  That I had better bloody end up marrying the guy!  That even if I manage to get hold of my mum, a phone call which will very likely wake up my dad causing all hell to break loose, she probably won’t be able to access my account and submit the application in the course of the three minutes or so that I’ll have on the line before my phone dies.  And that, as we approach my stop, I can’t find my bloody Oyster card!

I run up the escalator.

‘I’ve got an emergency!’ I pant to the guard.

I’ve been watching too much Casualty.

‘And I can’t find my Oyster card!  Please let me – !’

‘Go on.’  He waves me through.

There’s a guy loitering outside the security gate.  As I approach, swearing and gasping for breath, he wanders off.  I enter the code.  Nothing happens.  I enter it again.  Nothing!  He must have disabled the keypad with the wrong numbers.  I’m looking around helplessly when the gates start to open.  I slip through the gap and make a dash for the front door.  Key in lock, lights on, collapse on stairs, power up laptop.  Two minutes to go.  Connect to network.  Ninety seconds.  Flatmate tramps downstairs to see what all the fuss is about.  Log in to account.  Error message.  Arghhh!  Flatmate brings my stuff in from the step and closes the door.  Tick box to complete final section.

‘I’m too late!’ I gasp.

The screen refreshes.

Would you like to submit your application?

That’s a stupid question.

 

I trudge back to the tube station, Oyster card in hand, and thank the guard.

‘Was – was everything OK?’ he says, looking concerned.

‘No, not really.’  I feel a bit ashamed.  ‘But I found my Oyster.’

He looks surprised but doesn’t enquire further, only swipes the card.

 

I emerge into the open air and glance at my watch: quarter past midnight.  My bracelet catches on my coat pocket.  I laugh, and head for home.

CC Image courtesy of disneyandy on Flickr



And So Much Wiser

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CC Image courtesy of sean_hickin on FlickrI’m marking my birthday – it’s this weekend, I’m registered at Waitrose – by becoming not older, but considerably wiser.  Keep your eyes peeled for mature dating behaviours:

Realistic expectations

Me: He hasn’t replied.  When do I give up hope?

Flatmate: At this stage, you shouldn’t have any hopes.

Me: No, well, obviously I don’t but…

 

… greater discretion…

Me: Did I tell you I asked Joe about his flatmate?

Mother (rolling eyes and sighing): No.

Me: That’s strange.  I told everyone else.

 CC Image courtesy of estimmel on Flickr

… and a stronger sense of self-worth…

Beatrice: I still haven’t figured out what your type is.

(Pause)

Me:  Male?

CC Image courtesy of Pensiero on Flickr



Blue Skies

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I’ve a couple of hours before meeting Joe. My phone flashes up with a message.

Are you around?

I smile and send back:

Yes, for a bit. Where are you?

In his office, just around the corner.

***

He waves, and crosses the street. His periwinkle scarf matches his eyes. His smile catches my mood.

Periwinkle_flower

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Bright Star

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I’ve asked Toby for advice about the whole ‘Joe’s flatmate‘ situation.  Or lack thereof.Thalia_sarcophagus_Louvre

‘What’s so amazing about this guy?’ he says.

Aside from the fact he’s not you?

‘Do you want to violently undress him?’

This, I ignore.

‘He’s funny…’ I say.

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

‘… and he seemed to like me.’

You should try it sometime.

‘Not to be sneered at, no?’

Toby’s verdict comes back:

‘Funny and into you: necessary but not sufficient.’

He also looks a bit like Ben Whishaw.  I rest my case.

CC Image courtesy of Rev Stan on Flickr

 



Mixed Media

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CC Image courtesy of You As A Machine on FlickrIt’s the SMS equivalent of hen’s teeth: a text from Joe. It begins:

Hey! I’m clearly rubbish at communicating by Facebook

Not as rubbish as you are at communicating by text!

… so I thought I’€™d text you instead…

I laugh.

He goes on to suggest catching up over a drink. I compose a mental list of questions to put to him:

  1. Is your flatmate single?
  2. Why isn’t your flatmate on Facebook?
  3. Or LinkedIn?
  4. Or…

He is on Google.

CC Image courtesy of cambodia4kidsorg on Flickr

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