This is silly

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CC Image courtesy of Urban Sea Star on FlickrI bought that scarf


Because it reminded me of you.

Yes I did.

And the scent
Orange blossom
When the bottle ran dry
I bought another
Because you said ‘Very much’
To my question
Do you like it?

What else?

I told you that I moved,
But not that it would be easier to love you in a double room.
That that is why I moved.

The job – taking the job was prudence
But also I fancy I thought you would like me better in it
Or that I would like me better in it
And so,
So would you

Like the scarf.

CC Image courtesy of Romana Correale on Flickr


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Bloody Buses: Part II

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(Continued from Bloody Buses: Part I)CC Image courtesy of Duncan Brown (Cradlehall) on Flickr

I can dance rock ‘n’ roll.’

Accountant is full of surprises.

‘You’re on!’

Next thing I know, he’s jumped ship to head home to his girlfriend.  Ben too decides to call it a night.

This leaves the less enthusiastic dancers, and me.  I’d be happy enough dancing alone in the corner, but the music is so bad even I don’t recognise it, and there’s a constant stream of traffic knocking my elbows.  I can see Michael and Eligible Bachelor sitting at one of the tables and go over to them.

‘I think I’m going to head,’ EB says, rising.

We kiss on the cheeks. ‘Good night.’

I flop down next to Michael.

‘Everyone here’s very tall,’ he says, looking around.


And very young too.  I glance at my watch.  It’s past my bedtime.  ‘How are you getting back?  Night bus?’


‘This is us,’ I say, rising.

We find seats at the top.  A space that would normally easily accommodate two adults, suddenly feels very snug.

‘You should go back on Tinder,’ Michael says, giving me a nudge. ‘I might like you!’

‘Hmm. I am on a dating site.’

‘Which one?’

I tell him.  ‘But only because I was paid to do it!’

‘That’s the best reason,’ he says, gravely.

‘Is it?!  Yeah, well, I haven’t been on any dates from it…’


‘I noticed there are no typos in your texts.’

FFS slows his walking pace. ‘Well, I don’t remember any in yours.’

‘No, well, when you spend most of your time editing what you write…’

It’s the blog I’m thinking of, but I might as well be referring to my texts: the drafting process isn’t so different.

‘… and commas are important!’

He’s almost at a standstill.  ‘We had a lecture on punctuation the other day.’

‘Really?!  I’d have liked to have given that!’

He laughs and turns to face me. ‘Really?  We’d have hated you if you had!  It was really boring.’

I swat his shoulder. ‘But you don’t know what I’d have said!’

Which is when he kisses me.

CC Image courtesy of Leo Reynolds on Flickr

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: A night out.

Last month: Just Singles.

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Bloody Buses: Part I

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Sweet Like Chocolate

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SIX MONTHS EARLIER…CC Image courtesy of niallkennedy on Flickr

‘They’re like paving slabs!’ I say.

We peer in at the display of tarts, cupcakes, and giant brownies.

Would it be weird if I said it matters which brownie you choose?

‘You have to choose the right one,’ he says.  ‘That one there, top left.’  He points.

I laugh.  ‘The corner?!  No!  You want a middle bit!’

‘You’re not serious?!’  He gives me a playful shove.

We argue all the way to the bakery opposite, where I’m buying a present for my mother.

‘One sec,’ I say, ‘I’m just gonna have a look in the window.’

‘Which one is it?’ he says.

I point.

‘“Vanilla, chocolate and pecan brownie”,’ he reads.  ‘Sounds good!’

‘Yep, except,’ I feign a disapproving look, ‘it’s not vanilla, it’s Valrhona.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A very expensive chocolate brand – one of the best.’

He looks sheepish.  ‘I should know that, being a Swiss national.’

Inside the shop, I ask to have a closer look at the brownies, before choosing a centre piece.  Swiss National makes tutting noises.  Laughing, I pay.

CC Image courtesy of EverJean on Flickr

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A Single Man

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‘Did you hear?’ Hannah says.  ‘They split up!’CC Image courtesy of Owen Benson Visuals on Flickr

‘What?!’  I’m not proud, but I might have clapped.  ‘No!  Really?  When?!’


‘Blimey.’  I sigh.  ‘I used to fancy him.’

‘So did I.’

I laugh.  ‘I think everyone did, at some point!’  A thought occurs to me.  ‘That explains why he was at dancing the other day….’

‘He was in town?!  He’s never in town!’

This single man of large fortune.

‘He must have been practicing for the ball.’  I laugh.  He must be the most eligible bachelor in town – or not in town!’

‘Yes.  I suppose… he must have a title.’

I smile, remembering a somewhat surreal conversation we’d had on the drive up to Scotland in the summer…


Freddie pauses, finger poised over the dialing pad.

‘If the dad picks up, how do I address him?’

‘By his name?’ I say, a touch sarcastically.

Hannah explains the situation to me.  My knowledge of titles is limited to what I’ve learnt from Jane Austen, Downton Abbey, and a brief training session at work, so I keep quiet.  Freddie and Hannah debate the issue at some length from positions of marginally less ignorance.


‘His father’s a ‘Sir’, right?’ I say.  I think that’s what they’d decided in the car park of the service station.

‘He’s a baronet.’

‘Oh, so… is that different?’

She gives his full title.

‘This is all very Jane Austen!’ I say.

We laugh.

‘So,’ I say, thoughtfully, ‘he’ll be a baronet.’

I’ll take that.


Quiet Carriage

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CC Image courtesy of pareeerica on Flickr

No mutual friends, apparently.  I scroll through the photos.  He looks nice, intelligent… why not?  We match and start chatting, despite technology’s best efforts to lose my messages in the ether.  I can’t know for sure that he’s not deleting them on receipt, but ever the optimist I apologize and send fresh replies.

He suggests drinks.  I get flu.  We reschedule.  I’m forced to cancel once again, and the next day ring to apologize/reassure him I am a real (and female) person.

In the meantime, I’ve entered his first name into the search bar on Facebook, expecting to draw a blank.  But there he is, top of the list, 1 mutual friend.  Huh?  And not a scary mutual friend either, but someone I added out of genuine Platonic – he’s gay – affection.

I click on my match’s name, and start reading.  It’s one of those painstakingly detailed profiles, chockfull of likes and interests and groups and more likes.  There’s nothing to dislike, it’s just a bit worrying how much I know about the guy.  I’ll have to watch what I say.

The phone conversation goes without a hitch.  He’s… great, but I don’t get too excited.  He might be a dwarf to my 5’10, though the photos – and statistics – suggest this to be unlikely.  More to the point, and this is irrespective of height, he might not pass the acid test.

Saturday arrives.  Now that we’ve spoken, I’m less concerned about letting something slip, but still…  And then there’s the blog.  My track record on that front isn’t good.

I needn’t have worried.  Occasionally I volunteer a comment or remark, or fragment of personal information, but for the most part I listen and nod and smile.  I wouldn’t have minded (so much) had he looked like this:

CC Image courtesy of Nostalgia-domas on Flickr

Or this,

Or if his chat had put

CC Image courtesy of DPMS on Flickr

To shame.

But he doesn’t, and it does not.

I pay my share – not bitter – and he walks me to the station.  We say a hurried goodbye and I stride off in the direction of the ticket machines.

Through the crowd I see a familiar face, and my expression brightens.  I run over and give my brother a gigantic hug.

‘This is a nice surprise!’ I say, giving his arm a squeeze.  ‘I thought you were getting an earlier train!’  I rest my head on his shoulder.  ‘I’m so happy to see you!’

And I don’t draw breath until we reach home.

CC Image courtesy of Kai Hendry on Flickr