So tell me, what is a girl to do on a Saturday night? When the Saturday night in question was the impending date night with a certain buff builder; not to mention the not-so-shock of the cancellation of that already-postponed date, a mere few hours prior to meeting, by text message. Angry doesn’t quite begin to cover it. Not because I especially wanted to even date Bob by that point, but because his patronising text seemed to suggest I had wanted something from him that he couldn’t give due to having ‘a lot on at the moment’. Not true. Well mate, I too have a lot on, too much writing, too much work, too much fun and too much daydreaming BUT, would still have tried to make time in my life for you had I deemed you worth it. Thank the Lord I realised you were perhaps either a player or clinically insane before your cruel brush off on Saturday. I retract all worried and self-abasing statements from my last commitment-phobic post, I only wish I had got up to all sorts of no good with The Fit Toff on my stockroom futon whilst Bob was busy making all sorts of plans and promises that, it now appears, he had no intention of keeping. The truth is, in my come down, I decided that he was either too insecure to actually go through with a date or perhaps someone closer to his hub of a hometown had come along; either way, he was clearly a waste of my time and phone bill. And no Bob, I won’t be continuing to ‘talk to you and see what happens’, I would rather spend my time getting to know someone who actually intends to get off their arse and develop something on a face to face basis, either that or eating my own pancreas. Bob= Fin, Miss Musing = Actually Quite Relieved.
If there is one thing I have learnt in my turbulent 27 years on this good Earth, it is that there is nothing more reliable than trusting your own gut instinct. I wrote my last post with a twist in my stomach and a sincere uncertainty about Bob and all his wonders, not to mention developing yet another inappropriate crush on someone else. Yes, he was saying all the right things, yes, the conversations were regular and it felt good to have attention from someone like him. Then came a rather domineering and drunken phone conversation, which solidified my inkling that Bob was, perhaps, slightly twattish after all. I’m not one to be told what I should be doing, so was not prepared to accept comments on my social living arrangements from someone whose job consisted of running Mummy and Daddy’s construction business. You bought your own house when you were 25? Good for you, didn’t put yourself through Uni though did you, or up and leave your home town at any point to experience the big wide world, so up yours. It seemed to me that Bob, in all his bulky and dominating glory, was used to dating girls with less personality or interests, someone who would worship the ground him and his t-shirt designing, marketing-strategy-endorsing, charm-oozing ego walk on. Not for me I’m afraid, not with that need to tell me what to do and how to live any way. I was already turned off by his sheer intensity, this almost completely killed it.
Still, on it went, against my better judgment and much with my daily distractions of Fit Toff and my work’s Brand Day, a day where each and every saliva-inducing article from the upcoming collection is dangled in front of our beaming faces, with the texting dwindling and a half-arsed apology for the ‘relentless calling’. No no Bob, it wasn’t the ‘relentlessness’ of the calling, more the inappropriate content and the dickishness of your questions really. Friday, the original date night, was postponed AGAIN and the knot in my stomach grew ever tighter, needless to say the final text was no shock to my system, just an annoyance that I had sought to arrange an outfit and dinner plans around my date. Still, I didn’t dwell on it, the usual cutting remarks in an intelligently-typed text message and I was near enough forgetting his name. Your loss Bob and Islington’s gain as it happened.
So right about the time I should have been nuzzling on the bearded Bob in some secluded bar with a old-school Jukebox, I was actually out at Feeling Gloomy (which, surprisingly did not reflect my mood) – the sophisticated, Indie big Brother of the O2 Academy’s Club Du Fromage. The Reason? It was the Young Cherub’s Birthday and I planned on jacking in my Alcohol-Free August and partying like it was, well 1997 actually, with plenty of Ash to go round. Unfortunately it was not just Ash, but also Jagermeister, they had in abundance, cut to a stumbling 4a.m finish and revenge is sweet, especially when downed with Red Bull, apparently.
Wonderfully, there was the also return of Random Northerner, now no longer so random, perhaps I should change his name? Indeed we’ve talked of many things since our first meeting, he had even convinced me to send him bits of my novel. I guess it remains to be seen what sort of critic he can be, or just how un-random he can be too.
I did decide, in a rather unkempt state on Sunday morning, that it was best to steer clear of men-folk for a while. Truth is, they don’t get any easier, even the ones with houses and innate maturity are often just as problematic as the younger ones, with the innate need to act like schoolkids. You just don’t know where you are with them, the chancers whom everyone thinks you kissed when you didn’t, the ones with and without other halves, the ones who you think really like you often don’t and the ones who you think hate you are probably in love with you. By Monday morning, however, I retracted that statement once again, aided by the sight of Fit Toff sipping his coffee and reading his high-brow newspaper in the window of Starbucks, oh what a toff-like sight for sore eyes he was, the urge to write my phone number on a napkin becomes ever more unbearable.
So day off today, and I’m off to get a few provisionals, before going to my friend’s gig this evening in Camden. But, to be honest, looking out at the grim weather, there is nothing I would rather be doing more than snuggling up with a True Blood marathon and a box of Malteasers. I’m sorry this hasn’t been a more positive dating experience for you all, but then if you wanted to be inspired by accounts of someone’s perfect dream-life, then you wouldn’t still be reading mine! If, however, reading how to eff it up, or have it effed up for you time and time again is your thing, then, as always, I look forward to our next rendezvous. And rest assured, the magical day that it does finally turn around, you will all be cordially invited…
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