Out Of The Frying Pan…

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CC Image courtesy of DG Jones on Flickr‘Newsflash!’ I tell Perky, suddenly perky myself.

‘What is it?’

‘Actually… you might not have read this bit of the blog.  Do you know who I mean by Nice Guy?’

‘I think so.  I’ll have another read.  Send me the link?’

In the three minutes or so that it takes for her to get up to date, I run the gamut of possible explanations.  From the Occam’s razor, that Nice Guy sent a blanket invite to his London acquaintances of which I happen to be one; to my personal favourite, that after a summer of fun he is now ready for a serious relationship with yours truly, hence his inviting me to a house party.

‘Go, go, go,’ Perky sends back, when I tell her my reservations.  ‘Stop being a silly pumpkin!’

That’s a thought, except orange really isn’t my colour.

I text Beatrice, entreating her to tell me it’s just a casual invite.  Then I stalk Nice Guy to death, all the while hating myself for letting him get under my skin – again.  An hour later I call it a night.

 

The event crops up from time to time on my home page.  I put off making a decision.  There’s no decision to be made of course.  Curiosity will get the better of me, and I will cross London dressed as a bat/witch/cat in the vain hope that Perky is right; that my brother, mother, and flatmate are wrong; and that Occam doesn’t know shit.

CC Image courtesy of L. Marie on Flickr



The Bermuda Triangle

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‘So there are three reasons why he might not have got in touch. One… ’

My editor has never seen me so attentive.

‘ …he’s not interested.  That’s the – ’

‘Most likely,’ I say, ‘yes.’

‘Yes, the Occam’s Razor.’

Do I ask?

‘Occum resor?’

‘Yes, named after the Franciscan friar…’

And two?  What about two?

Occam gets his moment in the spotlight.

‘Now, two…’

Phew.

‘ …is he’s shy.’

‘Hmmm.  I don’t buy shy.  And neither do you!  You said the other day that even if you’re shy, if you like someone, you’ll overcome it.’

We do occasionally get some work done.

‘Y-es, but it’s still possible.’

‘Hmm well, he’s not shy.  I don’t think.’

‘OK.’

Dramatic pause.

‘Three, is he’s… ’

Another pause.  What is the man trying to do to me?!

‘Dead?’  I suggest.

‘Nooo, that’s five, or six.’

‘Oh.’

‘No, three is he’s lazy.’

Ah but lazy guys, when they meet someone they like, stop being lazy!  I bite my tongue, not least because Joe, by his own admission, is lazy, so this is looking promising.

‘And so he’s not going to do anything much…’ Sounds about right. ‘…but he is interested…’

I give him a grateful smile; it’s a good try.

Now, one question remains: noose or Occam’s razor?