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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No Man’s Land

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CC Image courtesy of rafa59(II) on Flickr

Rachel takes my arm.  ‘Soooo what’s new?  Tell me about the love life!’

I spread my hands.  ‘There’s nothing.’

And for the first time in a long time a) I mean it, and b) I don’t mind.  Really.  It’s bliss: no frantic checking of the phone, no sleepless nights, no frittering away hours on Facebook.  I spend my evenings seeing friends, running, dancing, and writing.  Life is good.

I say nothing.  What I mean is that I’m enjoying what can only be described as a low-level crush.  It barely impacts on my day-to-day life; it is merely a pleasant thought which drifts in and out of my mind.  Admittedly, it helps that Crush isn’t on Facebook (what IS it with these guys?!), so I can’t stalk him. I have his number but don’t feel tempted to use it, ever, perhaps because I know I might see him soon; or perhaps because I’ve learnt something in the course of the past year, namely that if a guy is interested he will make it happen. So I don’t think about it..  I have his number but don’t feel tempted to use it, ever, perhaps because I know I might see him soon; or perhaps because I’ve learnt something in the course of the past year, namely that if a guy is interested he will make it happen.  So I don’t think about it.

‘It’s so liberating,’ I say, ‘not being hung up on someone!’

Rachel smiles.  ‘Mmm.’

We walk on in silence down The Mall, heading for Victoria.   It’s a beautiful, balmy September evening.

As we pass the palace I wonder idly if Harry is home.  I keep this thought to myself, for Rachel is currently of the opinion that I am grounded and sensible – she hasn’t seen the blog – and, for one night only, so am I.

CC Image courtesy of Niquinho on Flickr



The Chosen One

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CC Image courtesy of jeffcapeshop on FlickrI’m engaged.  Not like that.  I’m reading, and I’m engaged, hooked even.  It’s a think-tank report on ‘choice architecture’.  This would be out of character in every respect were it not for the fact that… I’ve got a crush on the author. 

To meet, he seems like a really normal guy.  Softly-spoken, polite, gentle: there’s nothing about him which points to the truth. 

But this is a man with actual Google results.  We’re not talking Facebook (he’s not on it, hence the googling), LinkedIn, or… OK so he is on Twitter. But the majority of the top ten results distinguish him from your average Johnny in so much as people are writing about him: people other than me.

I pull up the first link, a profile in a national newspaper, and read a few choice phrases out to Beatrice.  She rolls her eyes.

I scroll down and laugh.

‘What is it?’ she says.

‘Someone’s commented on the article saying, “this guy is a god”.’ 

I shake my head, but not because I disagree.

CC Image courtesy of halilgokdal 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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