Handsfree

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‘Hello!’  Wandering Hands is on ebullient form. ‘How are you?!  I haven’t seen you in forever…’

No, not since that time we went for a drink, and at the end of the evening you said ‘we should do this again’; then you texted the next day, I replied, and… nothing.

‘… but that’s probably my fault!’

Probably.


Fallout

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You’re probably wondering what happened with Thursday Guy post-Perfect Message.  (Don’t worry, he didn’t order ice-cream.  And if he had, Exception #1 closely followed by #3 and #4 would probably have applied, since he took me to a Michelin-starred restaurant for our first date.)  Well, Wandering Hands is what happened, and we know how that one panned out.

Pass the Ben and Jerry’s.

CC Image courtesy of theimpulsivebuy on Flickr

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The Exception and the Rule

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I came home the other day to a Facebook message from Thursday Guy.  It was perfect, except that it had taken four days, and four (for me) sleepless nights, to materialise. In that time, I had been through the gamut of possible reasons for lack of response, and come to the following conclusions:

  1. Sudden death – even at 38, this was unlikely.CC Image courtesy of David Masters on Flickr
  2. Amnesia – just unlikely.
  3. No internet access – he works in London, at a computer …
  4. Lovely weather so he is not on his computer in the evenings because he wants to make the most of the sun – see my earlier post, Cruel to be Kind.
  5. Something involving secret agents/localised power failures…

Thus I powered up the laptop with next-to-no expectations (wevs) to find a message beginning ‘Sorry, been home, out of internet range…’.  No. 3, I’m sorry I doubted you.  It transpires that there are pockets of rural England which the internet has not yet reached.  Like I said, the message was perfect.

 

With Wandering Hands maintaining radio silence, I am telling myself that Thursday Guy – with his lack of internet access – was an exceptional case.  W.H. texted on Sunday evening.  I replied a couple of hours later (the root rot was terminal).  It’s now Friday morning and I haven’t heard back.  Common sense tells me it’s a dead duck.  My promise to you is that if he hasn’t replied by midnight tonight, I will delete his number from my phone and its owner from my thoughts.

00:21  The number has gone.

CC Image courtesy of Flood on Flickr

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“Manners Makyth Man”

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CC Image courtesy of hfb on FlickrWandering Hands and I went for coffee the other day.  First impressions: prettier but more arrogant than I remembered.  The waitress appeared, notepad in hand.  I said a little prayer that he would be polite; clearly I’m short on credit with the man upstairs.

‘What can I get you?’

‘The chocolate cake.’

There was no ‘please’, rather his tone implied that the waitress was an imbecile for not knowing he was a coeliac and bringing him the only gluten-free option on the menu.  I should at this point have remembered that my houseplant needed feeding – which, incidentally, it did, and still does – and headed for the exit; but the cake called.  I ordered.

An hour or so later, W.H. and I were kicked off our table by Vengeful Waitress.  We set off in high spirits for a nearby wine bar.  Keen to avoid a repeat of earlier (there was more at stake now), I insisted on getting the drinks whilst my date found us a table.  The evening ended well, with W.H. starting to live up to his nickname, but far too early as we both had places we needed to be.

The consensus is, go out with him again, if the opportunity arises.  95% of the date was fabulous and that’s pretty good for starters.

CC Image courtesy of myvanillaworld on Flickr

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The Most Important Question in the World

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Saturday, midday.  Vibrating phone.  It’s a text from the guy I met Tuesday night, the guy I really like but had (almost) given up on.  I am now faced with The Most Important Question in the World: how long to wait before replying?  More than an hour, obviously.  I’m a busy girl, with a houseplant to water, rinse aid to buy….  I’ll draft something now and let it rest.

By 2pm I have put the question to three friends.  Google tells me the average female response time is 1 hour 19 minutes.  Huh?

Three hours and an increasingly crowded draft folder later, I’m sitting on my hands.  At 3.30 I crack.  Send.

Sunday evening.  The houseplant is showing signs of root rot.  Its owner is also in a bad way.

He did reply of course.  28 Hours Later.  Is that his idea of a joke?

 

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