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.’

CC Image courtesy of knowhimonline on Flickr

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.

And,

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.

CC Image courtesy of PRINCESS THEATER - Raising the Curtain on Flickr


Striking Match

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CC Image courtesy of A.J Photo on FlickrI get in from dancing.  With no romantic prospects on the horizon, I decide to browse Tinder.  A succession of no’s later, I’m about to call it a night, when a familiar face floats into view.  I hesitate, finger poised over the screen.

Simon is Toby‘s best friend.  It used to be a running joke between Toby and I that he would set me up with Simon, which he never did.  His excuse was that he didn’t think we were a good match.  Oh the irony.

I scroll through the photos.  He’s attractive, no question.  And funny: that I know from when we did finally meet at a party early in the summer.  Toby had texted after the event, asking what I thought of him.

‘Nice guy.  Why?’

‘Well I know you were keen to get to know him.’

‘So it’s not that he’s declared his undying love for me?’

‘Well I haven’t seen him since.  I’m sure he would if he had the chance.’

That was the last time we spoke.

I hit ‘like’.  A few seconds pass.  The now familiar screen sweeps into view.

Excitement quickly gives way to feelings of trepidation.  I drift off to sleep wondering how, if we were ever to meet in a date scenario, I would explain, well, everything.

CC Image courtesy of Katie & Ian on Flickr



No Regrets

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CC Image courtesy of ezioman on FlickrI wander in the direction of the floor, and the man I’m dying to dance with.  He’s wearing trousers in a glorious clear bright red – not the classic Chelsea colour, brighter – and spins you like nothing on earth.

At the start of the evening I made a promise to myself, two in fact:

  1. I would not ask men to dance (test-driving the ‘don’t take the initiative’ theory), and,
  2. I would not dance with men if women asked me on their behalf, which seems to happen a lot, often without the woman first consulting the man. Awkward.

The net result of this is that I don’t dance.  That’s not entirely true: so far one man has asked me…

I’m standing chatting to a girlfriend and a guy I know through of the next dance, that the cold war comes to an end.

‘W-ell,’ he says, looking down at the floor, ‘I can’t really ask you to dance now….’

My friend crosses her arms.  ‘Nope.’

And he turns to me.

So, with the end of the evening in sight and just the one dance under my belt, I decide to break the rules.  I tell myself Red Trousers is shy (word on the street is he’s a terrible flirt), that I’m a good dancer so he won’t find the experience too awful, and… to hell with rules!  OK, so I won’t appear hard to get, but right now I care more about getting a good dance.  And I don’t regret it as he spins me down the room; or when he turns me, his arm at my waist in the way I love; or when he asks me to tell him off if he puts me in the wrong place (he never does); or when our eyes meet across the set.

Or when we say goodnight.

‘Thank you for the dance.’

‘No, thank you.  I really enjoyed it,’ his arm at my waist.

‘Me too.’

CC Image courtesy of hannes.a.schwetz on Flickr


Autumn of My Life

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CC Image courtesy of Sarah @ pingsandneedles on FlickrIt’s starting to bear too close a resemblance to the Toby saga, with the notable exception that this guy invariably wears the right colour.  Unusual, for a redhead.

Otherwise it’s a similar story: he’s funny, not interested, and, all of a sudden, everywhere I go.

Like at a friend’s party the other day, I walk in, and he’s the first person I see.  It’s not surprising really.  The guy’s wearing yellow: you can’t miss him.

After our last meeting (tomato red) I’d decided he doesn’t fancy me.   Unfortunately I still fancy him; of course I do.  He’s funny – I might have said – and, well, what more do you need?  Physically, he’s not my type at all, but as we know, I don’t have a type.

So yeah, I’m pretty certain the guy isn’t interested, unless he’s playing that old game of avoiding speaking to you because he err likes you, which for the record isn’t a game at all but a theory which women made up to give themselves hope.

Things don’t improve when, at the party, I find myself in a group with Toby, Redhead, and a girl (a religious reader of this blog, I should get her cloned).  I can’t remember what Toby says, but I jump down his throat, as is my tendency since… anyway, so I suspect this makes me look prickly and not very nice, which can’t do me any favours in the (brown) eyes of Redhead.

So it seems Toby has inadvertently prevented me from doing another Toby.

Just as long as I do someone, soon.

CC Image courtesy of hannah8ball on Flickr


Wouldn’t Work

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‘He talks about you all the time!’CC Image courtesy of Sandy Austin on Flickr

I bite my tongue and look down at the menu.  Charlotte’s not to know that I am kind of sick of hearing this!  I decide against ordering a sandwich. 

In such situations, I find it’s helpful to remind yourself why you and the other person would not work. 

Toby, for instance, thinks it’s OK to name children after weather patterns. 

Joe was disappointed to discover I had gone to private school, but not to Pony Club.  Huh?

Freddie.  Now, Freddie is a social animal.  He’ll talk to anyone, about anything, for any length of time.  It’s very annoying when you’re in a hurry.  He’s universally popular, which is just annoying.  He’s dependable, and loyal, the kind of guy you’d turn to in a crisis… moving on.  He says things to me like ‘you don’t enjoy anything!’, and ‘you’re never impressed!’.  For the record, what he means is that I need to lower my expectations and chill out a bit more.  So he knows me too well.  He’s basically like a brother to me – and you shouldn’t bang your brother.

CC Image courtesy of rolands.lakis on Flickr