Liar Lady Luck. Fate, Fate, Fickle Fate. The stars. Conniving Cupid. Karma. Put your trust in what you like but there is only one true law of nature I believe in. Sod’s Law. For the uninitiated, or non-British, Sod’s Law (also called Murphy’s Law) follows the basic premise “if something can go wrong it will go wrong at the most inopportune moment and with maximum annoyance caused with a double dose of irony”. Look, I found a graph to prove it. The table on the right even explains how to make your own scientifically proven Sod’s Law rating out of ten. Irony, whined Alanis Morrissette “is meeting the man of your dreams and then meeting his beautiful wife”. That is a special sort of irony called Cosmic Irony and not the verbal irony the British love. Sod’s Law is pretty much Cosmic Irony. The Gods have decided to show what life could be if only you were perfect. But you’re not. So instead you can have this shit. Cosmic Irony is the gorgeous man on the internet dating site who is perfect in every way except under the heading of ‘interests’ he has written ‘steak’. How exactly can meat be of interest to anyone who isn’t a farmer or butcher? Sod’s Law is the only vegan I’ve tracked down so far is a nutter who doesn’t believe in global warming. Sod’s Law clearly stated from the beginning that searching for my perfect man would obviously bring up only one option – the guy Pippa already has her eye on. Damn. Maybe I should give up? But no. Sod’s Law says the day I stop my subscription is the day Alex, yes the real, Russian Alex, tracks me down and sends me an email beginning “we met in a dream.”
The winkers on the dating site have at least ‘entertained’ me for a week. If being equally revolted and horrified counts as entertainment. The Alex who asked to meet never got back to me. I suggested Thursday and that was the end of that. There is the guy in full combat gear posing with a gun. Oh attractive! The man with – is that six or seven?-chins. Another boy called Alex who is a special sort of ugly. Some guy who clearly wants to be Liam Gallagher…. And the list goes on. I’ve arranged to meet two of the others this week, have proposed to meet another (no reply as yet) and a fourth has suggested we meet for a one day festival in the near future. Not near enough so I shall schedule him in too.
That little lot were keeping my mind occupied. No more Spaniel. GM is totally loved up elsewhere. P/B and GM’s bands both had gigs on Saturday and I went to neither… just to get home and find I had got an email from P/B after all. Whoops. Still they’re all crossed off my list and I never have to see them again. Except… at my leaving do I was explaining to a teacher, the teacher Spaniel covers for, which school I was off to. “Oh, Daniel works there too,” she said. And Sod’s Law says I will be working very closely with him in the future too.
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
Love is a Noun and a Verb as well, you find it in the dictionary under L
I had a dream. It was 2004 I was doing my Masters Thesis and therefore going a bit mental when I had a recurring dream about a boy called Alex. He was tall, Russian. Dark haired, gorgeous, owned a pub (=endless gin) just perfect. In fact, he looked like Carl Barat from the back. I’m sure any sane person would come to the same conclusion: this was fate talking to me. My ‘one’ is out there and his name is Alex. All I have to do is find him.
Back in 2004 I was dating Matt the Twat. We met in our first year at uni in 2000 when everyone was a twat so it didn’t really matter. I ditched him because he just wasn’t ‘the one’. He turned up at my flat every fucking day til I agreed to give it another go. So we dated again, it was still awful. We got a flat together, that was rubbish. For a while I thought this was a s good as my life was ever gonna get. This was my route into a gingham curtained life with two cats, no children, a PhD and a non-descript job. I thought he might actually propose. He never did. I got bored of waiting. His lack of hygiene, obsession with Arsenal, love of the Beatles (possibly the worst band of all time), inability to get out of bed on a Saturday morning, wash bedsheets or vacuum eventually wore me out and I moved out. At the same time I met someone else I liked a lot better so while I couldn’t decide who was the greatest loser I saw them both at the same time. To be honest I wasn’t very subtle. Dim Tim knew about Matt the Twat and didn’t care. Matt the Twat amazingly never knew about Dim Tim even though I once kissed Dim Tim with Matt the Twat standing about two feet away. Amazing. OK so this little anecdote proves nothing other than I am not a particularly nice person. A few weeks later I split up with both of them. This is because Dim Tim bored me and Matt the Twat’s friend saw me kissing Stu with Odd Shoes (he wore one red and one brown shoe). I decided I didn’t need any of them; and acknowledged I didn’t deserve any happiness any more, ever again. And then I met Alex. Sort of.
That, sadly was a self fulfilling prophecy in that I never have had a properly committed long term relationship since. Just lately a number of factors have come together; every boy I like already has a girlfriend; one of my best friends Pippa is off to France for the summer; when I was a student most of my friends were male. Now I work with women and children most of my friends are female. I don’t seem to get out much anymore. I mean I go to gigs regularly and dance lessons, but when was the last time I just went to the pub? No idea. So partly to make friends and partly because I am easily persuadable I created a profile on an internet dating site. I had absolutely no idea what to write. “Ladies! Imagine what it is men find attractive about you. Best not to mention your prizewinning knitting skills” said the advice page. Bollocks. That rules out my opening blurb. Fuck it. Alex would be impressed with my knitting. “I just want a boy who appreciates a hand knitted jumper and a home baked cake” I write. And I find a pic where I don’t’ look wholly deformed. That’s pretty much it apart from the compulsory information and stressing how indie I am. Within a week I have 46 winks. A wink is when someone sort of expresses an interest without talking to you. Winking is free. If I want to read my 14 emails I have to pay up. I give it a few days. Pippa moves back to France. I have the dawning realisation I am gonna be short of gig buddies this summer so I duly pay my £23. Twenty three pounds! I feel like a whore. Well the reverse of a whore, I’m the one paying. A pimp? No, that’s not it. What are those men who pay for sex called? Apart from just “cunt”? Anyway I feel like a man. Out of my 46 winkers only one is not a wanker. That’s a 98% wanker hit rate. 2% acceptability rate. Those statistics are not worth £23. Let me give you some examples:
Man with a twisted face. Attaction is 90% physical 10% intellectual. YOU do not cut the mustard. NEXT!
Overweight baldies no. 2-6. NO to all five you. I find fat repulsive and a little bit frightening. NEXT!
You sir are not 30. You are at least 46. NEXT!
No.8 is wearing a baseball cap and doing a rapper pose. NEXT!
No.9 is wearing the same bag in 7 photos and is standing in the same pose = lacks imagination. NEXT
No.10. Now I regret deleting this guy. He was at least funny. He is 56 (my profile is quite clear about the under 32s) he owns a helicopter, a yacht and appreciates fine dining. Me too. But I’m vegan and strongly suspect you used Google images to acquire that chopper. On reflection anyone even pretending to be that rich would have to buy me dinner at Saf (exquisite Raw Vegan gourmet restaurant) with cocktails before I suddenly realised age was an issue after all.
No. 11- 28 don’t seem to have read my profile at all. One of them thought my name was ‘indie’.
And well it doesn’t get any better. There is just one hopeful candidate at this point. Yup, just one. He is a drummer in a band and sadly looks like Paul Weller. Bleeeeuuuuuurghhhhhhh.
Another week on and I have had a few more winkers and a few more wankers but the pace has slowed considerably. I have now whittled it down to four to exchange emails with:
1. Weller-esque drummer. Apart from the appalling hair seems reasonably normal, well adjusted and likes a gin or five. Turns out also I own one of his band’s cds. I got it as a promo to plug his band and never did. Small world.
2. Gerbil faced Alex. A boy called Alex emailed me, what was I supposed to do? I got all excited he had dark hair and dark eyes and can tell his Balloons from his Bagpipes (probably. He hasn’t been made to sit A-Level Math Rock yet). Too late! I replied to him without looking at ALL his pictures. Now I realise he has what he must think of as a wistful pose into the middle distance but everyone else thinks makes him look a bit incontinent and confused. Now he wants to meet. Next week. I’m ignoring that while I try to work out how horrific a drink in Camden can be with a man who has the face of a small furry rodent.
3. A lawyer with no picture but definitely a decent record collection. I was intrigued. I asked for pictures. I don’t like what I see one little bit, but then he owns a rare Bis cd and he’s seen Pains of Being Pure at Heart live … so… I can date a guy for his record collection, right?
4. I can barely remember him now. He has dark hair, acceptable looking and a fairly decent taste in music. I would meet him if he ever asked.
So none of these guys will ever be my Alex. But one of them might be cool enough to go out with for a few drinks and bands. So here it is; do I take the risk of meeting internet nutters and being bored to tears (the horror of my last date with Mr I-Like-Meat still makes me shudder) or do I finally shout from the rooftops “YES! I am a SPINSTER! Get over it!” ? What would Morrissey do?
Back in 2004 I was dating Matt the Twat. We met in our first year at uni in 2000 when everyone was a twat so it didn’t really matter. I ditched him because he just wasn’t ‘the one’. He turned up at my flat every fucking day til I agreed to give it another go. So we dated again, it was still awful. We got a flat together, that was rubbish. For a while I thought this was a s good as my life was ever gonna get. This was my route into a gingham curtained life with two cats, no children, a PhD and a non-descript job. I thought he might actually propose. He never did. I got bored of waiting. His lack of hygiene, obsession with Arsenal, love of the Beatles (possibly the worst band of all time), inability to get out of bed on a Saturday morning, wash bedsheets or vacuum eventually wore me out and I moved out. At the same time I met someone else I liked a lot better so while I couldn’t decide who was the greatest loser I saw them both at the same time. To be honest I wasn’t very subtle. Dim Tim knew about Matt the Twat and didn’t care. Matt the Twat amazingly never knew about Dim Tim even though I once kissed Dim Tim with Matt the Twat standing about two feet away. Amazing. OK so this little anecdote proves nothing other than I am not a particularly nice person. A few weeks later I split up with both of them. This is because Dim Tim bored me and Matt the Twat’s friend saw me kissing Stu with Odd Shoes (he wore one red and one brown shoe). I decided I didn’t need any of them; and acknowledged I didn’t deserve any happiness any more, ever again. And then I met Alex. Sort of.
That, sadly was a self fulfilling prophecy in that I never have had a properly committed long term relationship since. Just lately a number of factors have come together; every boy I like already has a girlfriend; one of my best friends Pippa is off to France for the summer; when I was a student most of my friends were male. Now I work with women and children most of my friends are female. I don’t seem to get out much anymore. I mean I go to gigs regularly and dance lessons, but when was the last time I just went to the pub? No idea. So partly to make friends and partly because I am easily persuadable I created a profile on an internet dating site. I had absolutely no idea what to write. “Ladies! Imagine what it is men find attractive about you. Best not to mention your prizewinning knitting skills” said the advice page. Bollocks. That rules out my opening blurb. Fuck it. Alex would be impressed with my knitting. “I just want a boy who appreciates a hand knitted jumper and a home baked cake” I write. And I find a pic where I don’t’ look wholly deformed. That’s pretty much it apart from the compulsory information and stressing how indie I am. Within a week I have 46 winks. A wink is when someone sort of expresses an interest without talking to you. Winking is free. If I want to read my 14 emails I have to pay up. I give it a few days. Pippa moves back to France. I have the dawning realisation I am gonna be short of gig buddies this summer so I duly pay my £23. Twenty three pounds! I feel like a whore. Well the reverse of a whore, I’m the one paying. A pimp? No, that’s not it. What are those men who pay for sex called? Apart from just “cunt”? Anyway I feel like a man. Out of my 46 winkers only one is not a wanker. That’s a 98% wanker hit rate. 2% acceptability rate. Those statistics are not worth £23. Let me give you some examples:
Man with a twisted face. Attaction is 90% physical 10% intellectual. YOU do not cut the mustard. NEXT!
Overweight baldies no. 2-6. NO to all five you. I find fat repulsive and a little bit frightening. NEXT!
You sir are not 30. You are at least 46. NEXT!
No.8 is wearing a baseball cap and doing a rapper pose. NEXT!
No.9 is wearing the same bag in 7 photos and is standing in the same pose = lacks imagination. NEXT
No.10. Now I regret deleting this guy. He was at least funny. He is 56 (my profile is quite clear about the under 32s) he owns a helicopter, a yacht and appreciates fine dining. Me too. But I’m vegan and strongly suspect you used Google images to acquire that chopper. On reflection anyone even pretending to be that rich would have to buy me dinner at Saf (exquisite Raw Vegan gourmet restaurant) with cocktails before I suddenly realised age was an issue after all.
No. 11- 28 don’t seem to have read my profile at all. One of them thought my name was ‘indie’.
And well it doesn’t get any better. There is just one hopeful candidate at this point. Yup, just one. He is a drummer in a band and sadly looks like Paul Weller. Bleeeeuuuuuurghhhhhhh.
Another week on and I have had a few more winkers and a few more wankers but the pace has slowed considerably. I have now whittled it down to four to exchange emails with:
1. Weller-esque drummer. Apart from the appalling hair seems reasonably normal, well adjusted and likes a gin or five. Turns out also I own one of his band’s cds. I got it as a promo to plug his band and never did. Small world.
2. Gerbil faced Alex. A boy called Alex emailed me, what was I supposed to do? I got all excited he had dark hair and dark eyes and can tell his Balloons from his Bagpipes (probably. He hasn’t been made to sit A-Level Math Rock yet). Too late! I replied to him without looking at ALL his pictures. Now I realise he has what he must think of as a wistful pose into the middle distance but everyone else thinks makes him look a bit incontinent and confused. Now he wants to meet. Next week. I’m ignoring that while I try to work out how horrific a drink in Camden can be with a man who has the face of a small furry rodent.
3. A lawyer with no picture but definitely a decent record collection. I was intrigued. I asked for pictures. I don’t like what I see one little bit, but then he owns a rare Bis cd and he’s seen Pains of Being Pure at Heart live … so… I can date a guy for his record collection, right?
4. I can barely remember him now. He has dark hair, acceptable looking and a fairly decent taste in music. I would meet him if he ever asked.
So none of these guys will ever be my Alex. But one of them might be cool enough to go out with for a few drinks and bands. So here it is; do I take the risk of meeting internet nutters and being bored to tears (the horror of my last date with Mr I-Like-Meat still makes me shudder) or do I finally shout from the rooftops “YES! I am a SPINSTER! Get over it!” ? What would Morrissey do?
Wednesday, 17 June 2009
My heart still misses a beat, every time
Not so long ago ten days was a very, very long time with no Spaniel to pine after. Two week’s later I am so over him. The very next time I saw him after reality came along and slapped me in the face I saw him rather a lot. First of all I was trying to do a playground observation, who was on playground duty? Yup, Spaniel. Then I wanted to observe one of my children in her literacy session to work out how well she was functionally reading. Who does lunchtime literacy? Yup, Spaniel. I learnt very little about how much my student can read but an awful lot about how little Spaniel can teach literacy. I wanted to give him some feedback. You know, basic stuff like “‘durrrrr’ is not the sound D makes /d/ is the sound D makes”. He couldn’t have been less interested. OK so can I see her records of achievement? What? Why doesn’t she have one? Why don’t you have a record of how much she is doing? How do you know what she has achieved? He virtually shoves me out the door. Useless wanker. I can’t believe you blog about language and yet don’t understand the difference between a phoneme and a grapheme.
Also in those ten days I had my band night, saw The Horrors (perfect remedy to a bruised heart/ego), New Islands, Table Manners and Friendly Fires in a Pitch Black gig (hmmm free wine!), went to a photography exhibition, a Bollywood dance class and had a very expensive day in a spa being scrubbed, pummelled and rubbed. Not entirely sure why I had to be topless for a face mask, but meh. So yeah ten days is a very long time. Long enough for fresh heartbreak.
This will come as NO surprise to regular readers but I ended up quite fancying one of the bassists from one of the mathier bands playing my band night. Every time I turned around he was there trying to talk to me. He made fun of the DJ’s manboobs. I had a sudden flashback to snogging the DJ many years ago in his pre-manboob days in a sleazy Soho club. He looks revolted. He asks a lot of questions, more questions than casual interest would ask. At the end of the night Pippa and I agree one band will stay at my house, and the mathy band will stay at her house. Math Bassist (lets call him…. P/B = photographer/bassist) tries to find any excuse to stay at mine. I try to explain the illogic of the plan. He doesn’t buy it. Pippa tries to explain the geography of this to him. He doesn’t get it. Everyone else tries to explain to him the illogicality of squeezing eight bandite boys into my tiny flat and their equipment and the resultant drive half way round London in the morning before home on the south coast. He still doesn’t get it so I leave him and Pippa to argue and scarper with the first band. Before I leave he invites me to his photography exhibition a few days later. Oh I wonder…. Ok I promise not to get Spaniel stalker crazy this time.
In a fit of curiosity, or poor judgement, I post a profile onto a dating site. Oh I’m so bad at these things, what can I possibly say? I like knitting and baking and basically want to date some indie geek. Simple, honest and probably ineffective. More of this to come later.
The day of the exhibition arrives. My hayfever is so severe I look like I’ve had a pretty good cry. I’ve had a nosebleed for several days and I’m choking on the constant stream of mucus in my throat. It’s not a good look. I duly attend (with moral support). I see P/B he looks through me. He doesn’t speak two words to me. Literally not two. I got “hello” so he did actually see me. Thankfully his friend is a sweetheart. He shows me around and is lovely. And he’s very hot. Maybe I’m backing the wrong horse. An hour later the rest of us head to a club in town. I leave directions with his mate so they can catch us up. It gets to midnight and I’m in danger of choking on mucus so I head home. As soon I get home I get a text. “sorry I got mixed up. Where are you?” Yup, its P/B. Tut tut. We have a brief textual conversation. I’m a bit confused. I thought we were arranging to meet on Sunday. But by the end of it I’m not sure if he was just asking for my advice. By Sunday afternoon its pretty clear he might not have wanted to meet up with me. So in the evening I let him know we’re off to see a band in the evening and he should come join us if he’s free. He actually turns up. I am so easily persuadable we end up in a dead night club. The bouncers are incredibly unfriendly people. The six of us squeeze into a tiny booth. P/B has his leg pressed against mine for the WHOLE evening. If he didn’t like me he would move, yes? Oh I don’t know. The other five come from the West Midlands. I have nothing to contribute. We get kicked out of a club for the second time that night (24 hour drinking is such a MYTH) so the others decide to head homeward to New Cross. As I live in the other direction and have work in the morning I bail out. He hugs me rather closely and holds my arm firmly while giving me the date of his next gig. Hmm. Hopeful.
The next day I get a text from one of the others present breaking the bad news: "i'm sorry sweets! i don't kknow how to tell you- he already has a girlfriend". he shoudl have mentioned that earlier *sigh* But it's ok. I'm well acquainted with the familiar gut-punch of disappointment.
Also in those ten days I had my band night, saw The Horrors (perfect remedy to a bruised heart/ego), New Islands, Table Manners and Friendly Fires in a Pitch Black gig (hmmm free wine!), went to a photography exhibition, a Bollywood dance class and had a very expensive day in a spa being scrubbed, pummelled and rubbed. Not entirely sure why I had to be topless for a face mask, but meh. So yeah ten days is a very long time. Long enough for fresh heartbreak.
This will come as NO surprise to regular readers but I ended up quite fancying one of the bassists from one of the mathier bands playing my band night. Every time I turned around he was there trying to talk to me. He made fun of the DJ’s manboobs. I had a sudden flashback to snogging the DJ many years ago in his pre-manboob days in a sleazy Soho club. He looks revolted. He asks a lot of questions, more questions than casual interest would ask. At the end of the night Pippa and I agree one band will stay at my house, and the mathy band will stay at her house. Math Bassist (lets call him…. P/B = photographer/bassist) tries to find any excuse to stay at mine. I try to explain the illogic of the plan. He doesn’t buy it. Pippa tries to explain the geography of this to him. He doesn’t get it. Everyone else tries to explain to him the illogicality of squeezing eight bandite boys into my tiny flat and their equipment and the resultant drive half way round London in the morning before home on the south coast. He still doesn’t get it so I leave him and Pippa to argue and scarper with the first band. Before I leave he invites me to his photography exhibition a few days later. Oh I wonder…. Ok I promise not to get Spaniel stalker crazy this time.
In a fit of curiosity, or poor judgement, I post a profile onto a dating site. Oh I’m so bad at these things, what can I possibly say? I like knitting and baking and basically want to date some indie geek. Simple, honest and probably ineffective. More of this to come later.
The day of the exhibition arrives. My hayfever is so severe I look like I’ve had a pretty good cry. I’ve had a nosebleed for several days and I’m choking on the constant stream of mucus in my throat. It’s not a good look. I duly attend (with moral support). I see P/B he looks through me. He doesn’t speak two words to me. Literally not two. I got “hello” so he did actually see me. Thankfully his friend is a sweetheart. He shows me around and is lovely. And he’s very hot. Maybe I’m backing the wrong horse. An hour later the rest of us head to a club in town. I leave directions with his mate so they can catch us up. It gets to midnight and I’m in danger of choking on mucus so I head home. As soon I get home I get a text. “sorry I got mixed up. Where are you?” Yup, its P/B. Tut tut. We have a brief textual conversation. I’m a bit confused. I thought we were arranging to meet on Sunday. But by the end of it I’m not sure if he was just asking for my advice. By Sunday afternoon its pretty clear he might not have wanted to meet up with me. So in the evening I let him know we’re off to see a band in the evening and he should come join us if he’s free. He actually turns up. I am so easily persuadable we end up in a dead night club. The bouncers are incredibly unfriendly people. The six of us squeeze into a tiny booth. P/B has his leg pressed against mine for the WHOLE evening. If he didn’t like me he would move, yes? Oh I don’t know. The other five come from the West Midlands. I have nothing to contribute. We get kicked out of a club for the second time that night (24 hour drinking is such a MYTH) so the others decide to head homeward to New Cross. As I live in the other direction and have work in the morning I bail out. He hugs me rather closely and holds my arm firmly while giving me the date of his next gig. Hmm. Hopeful.
The next day I get a text from one of the others present breaking the bad news: "i'm sorry sweets! i don't kknow how to tell you- he already has a girlfriend". he shoudl have mentioned that earlier *sigh* But it's ok. I'm well acquainted with the familiar gut-punch of disappointment.
Thursday, 4 June 2009
Everything's gone green
Hope is the cruellest emotion. When Pandora let the world’s greatest evils out of the box she let out hope last of all. You could interpret that as hope was the remedy in the bottom she nearly missed. Hope is the tonic that gets us through ills and burdensome labour. Or you could interpret that as hope is the greatest evil of all, the one entity that will crush you and break you and shred you into a thousand painful pieces and melt you into a million tears.
So I had my training course with Spaniel. The other trainee didn’t turn up. So this is meant to be. I get Spaniel to myself for an hour. Not the best start. I can’t find the right CD, I can’t log into the computer, now I’m flustered. In comes Spaniel. I fall over a chair. Great. How to be a twat in one easy movement. He laughs, “someone shouldn’t have left a drill trailing over the chair” then he untangles me. Oh gosh. “What are they even drilling?” I squeak. Oh gosh my voice is doing the high pitched squeaky thing it does when I’m all flustered, or talking to rock stars, or people I fancy or my boss. My face is most probably red. Damn. Ok once we’re over the first hurdle I manage to get started with the training. Except this isn’t the computer programme I was expecting. Right package, but different version. I could do with five mins to have a quick go myself but Spaniel is straight in there, pressing any old buttons, not doing things in my order, asking questions ahead of the game. Hmmm. Ok so you obviously know computers and you think you’re clever. Lets put you in your place. I ask a few difficult questions around semiotics and linguistics. His turn to be flusterred. He comes up with a bollocks answer. I put him straight. Balance of power restored. Possibly. If he actually recognises I’m the one that’s right. So moving on. He draws me a picture of a squirrel. And a frog. And he makes me laugh. Ok are you trying to show off because:
a. you’re a boy and boys can’t help it
b. you’re arrogant
c. you trying to impress me and indirectly flirting.
Oh I do like C. A tiny little seed of hope has been planted in my heart.
Its half term. I’m not going to see him for ten days. In those ten days I manage to have an entire imaginary relationship with him. He even imaginarily dumps me. I am imaginarily crazy. Oh no, that bit should be “I really am a little bit crazy”. This is so, so wrong. I mean what do I really know about him? I need stop getting obsessive and remember he is just a normal person. Perfection does not exist. And all I need to do is find a way to talk to him. I have four weeks left in school. I see him only on Wednesdays. Therefore, I have four more days to see him, four opportunities to suss him out and ask him out.
Ten days later a plan has hatched. I’m going to invite him to my band night at the weekend. Nothing weird about that. I have asked other people at work. He likes good music. I know because I spoke to him at Beach House. He might not remember, but it happened. So all I have to do is find a time to start a conversation that goes “oh by the way, you like good music yes?” etc, etc. The opportunity doesn’t arise. He is always with children (and how unprofessional would it be to talk in front of them) or with adults (who will earwig and gossip). Damn. I successfully manage to find out his surname. Small score I suppose.
I did need to know his surname for work, but now I know would it be so wrong to Google it? Hmmm, just a little peek at facebook. I just need to know the essentials, age and whether he is in fact single. Is that so bad? Could save us both a lot of embarrassment in the future. Here goes. First off there are not too many Spaniels in the world. Pleasant surprise. But an awful lot of this can’t be his… can it? A blog about language. I start reading. I start to think this is sexy, I mean a boy that likes good music and linguistics. But then the more I read the more I think this is pretentious toss and some of it isn’t even factually correct. Right ok… lets assume that’s not him. Oooh myspace! Good. He’s 27. NICE. Still younger than me. Just. But I can settle for that. In summary (I will spare you the details of my MI6 standard spying) I know most of his life history thanks to his blog (turns out that was his blog), all the books he’s read, exactly what he has listened to in the last month, seen the holiday pictures and even a video, he’s doing a Phd, he likes cats and metaphors. I think he might actually be perfect. And he smiled at me today. A lot. Maybe he does like me? But remember perfection does not exist, there must be a flaw.
So now I have three options. I want to invite him to my band night because that’s in the realms of normality. But to do so in time I would have to send him an electronic message. As we have no mutual friends it would be fairly obvious I went to the effort of looking him up in order to invite him. There it is. I can pretend it’s a casual as I like, “oooh I’m inviting everyone!” I could say. But he would know. My cards would be on the table.
a. fuck it. Invite him. Its not *that* weird is it?
b. don’t invite him. Wait for the next Wednesday for another opportunity to not speak to him and let the sands of time slip through my fingers.
c. do nothing. Give it up as a bad neurotic mistake. Anyone who makes me feel this ill cannot be good for my mental health. Lovesick. That’s what it is. I always feel a little bit sick when I think of him.
OK I seek advice. The general consensus is “what do you have to lose?” Answer: my self respect! When he laughs in my face and tells everyone the weird ugly girl asked him on a date, what a loser! Fuck it. Option a, you’re a winner. But not right now cos its 1am and I don’t want him to think I’m drunken stalking him. I want him to think this is a perfectly reasonable, rational decision. That little seed of hope has just grown a shoot.
I struggle through another day of work feeling sick every time I think of him wondering if this is such a great idea. No-one this perfect exists. He is either actually a massive wanker or some other blonder, prettier, more petite girl got there first and isn’t gonna let go for me. *deep sigh* ok I need one last look at a photo so I have a very clear picture of how stupid I sound in order to draft an email. Oh wait, wha’ts this? Flickr pics? Erm… I shouldn’t. oh go on then. Oh fuck. There are hundreds of pictures of the same pretty, petite blonde girl. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. Oh wait 2007! Maybe?? Dare I think it… they might have split up? Hope blossoms forth. Recent pics please! oh last weekend, that’s nice and recent. Oh DOUBLE FUCK IN A SHIT SANDWICH. They are still together. Posing on sunny days in the park. Feeding ducks by ponds. Watching bands (is that Jenny Lewis?) Look at them there, snuggled up in matching Christmas jumpers. They’re so fucking happy. Hope sheds its seed, spitting its vitriolic poison straight into my weak, weak heart. I am choked in its bile. I cough and splutter, with bitter tears running down my face. I am such a terrible person that I begrudge them this happiness because I dared to hope.
So I had my training course with Spaniel. The other trainee didn’t turn up. So this is meant to be. I get Spaniel to myself for an hour. Not the best start. I can’t find the right CD, I can’t log into the computer, now I’m flustered. In comes Spaniel. I fall over a chair. Great. How to be a twat in one easy movement. He laughs, “someone shouldn’t have left a drill trailing over the chair” then he untangles me. Oh gosh. “What are they even drilling?” I squeak. Oh gosh my voice is doing the high pitched squeaky thing it does when I’m all flustered, or talking to rock stars, or people I fancy or my boss. My face is most probably red. Damn. Ok once we’re over the first hurdle I manage to get started with the training. Except this isn’t the computer programme I was expecting. Right package, but different version. I could do with five mins to have a quick go myself but Spaniel is straight in there, pressing any old buttons, not doing things in my order, asking questions ahead of the game. Hmmm. Ok so you obviously know computers and you think you’re clever. Lets put you in your place. I ask a few difficult questions around semiotics and linguistics. His turn to be flusterred. He comes up with a bollocks answer. I put him straight. Balance of power restored. Possibly. If he actually recognises I’m the one that’s right. So moving on. He draws me a picture of a squirrel. And a frog. And he makes me laugh. Ok are you trying to show off because:
a. you’re a boy and boys can’t help it
b. you’re arrogant
c. you trying to impress me and indirectly flirting.
Oh I do like C. A tiny little seed of hope has been planted in my heart.
Its half term. I’m not going to see him for ten days. In those ten days I manage to have an entire imaginary relationship with him. He even imaginarily dumps me. I am imaginarily crazy. Oh no, that bit should be “I really am a little bit crazy”. This is so, so wrong. I mean what do I really know about him? I need stop getting obsessive and remember he is just a normal person. Perfection does not exist. And all I need to do is find a way to talk to him. I have four weeks left in school. I see him only on Wednesdays. Therefore, I have four more days to see him, four opportunities to suss him out and ask him out.
Ten days later a plan has hatched. I’m going to invite him to my band night at the weekend. Nothing weird about that. I have asked other people at work. He likes good music. I know because I spoke to him at Beach House. He might not remember, but it happened. So all I have to do is find a time to start a conversation that goes “oh by the way, you like good music yes?” etc, etc. The opportunity doesn’t arise. He is always with children (and how unprofessional would it be to talk in front of them) or with adults (who will earwig and gossip). Damn. I successfully manage to find out his surname. Small score I suppose.
I did need to know his surname for work, but now I know would it be so wrong to Google it? Hmmm, just a little peek at facebook. I just need to know the essentials, age and whether he is in fact single. Is that so bad? Could save us both a lot of embarrassment in the future. Here goes. First off there are not too many Spaniels in the world. Pleasant surprise. But an awful lot of this can’t be his… can it? A blog about language. I start reading. I start to think this is sexy, I mean a boy that likes good music and linguistics. But then the more I read the more I think this is pretentious toss and some of it isn’t even factually correct. Right ok… lets assume that’s not him. Oooh myspace! Good. He’s 27. NICE. Still younger than me. Just. But I can settle for that. In summary (I will spare you the details of my MI6 standard spying) I know most of his life history thanks to his blog (turns out that was his blog), all the books he’s read, exactly what he has listened to in the last month, seen the holiday pictures and even a video, he’s doing a Phd, he likes cats and metaphors. I think he might actually be perfect. And he smiled at me today. A lot. Maybe he does like me? But remember perfection does not exist, there must be a flaw.
So now I have three options. I want to invite him to my band night because that’s in the realms of normality. But to do so in time I would have to send him an electronic message. As we have no mutual friends it would be fairly obvious I went to the effort of looking him up in order to invite him. There it is. I can pretend it’s a casual as I like, “oooh I’m inviting everyone!” I could say. But he would know. My cards would be on the table.
a. fuck it. Invite him. Its not *that* weird is it?
b. don’t invite him. Wait for the next Wednesday for another opportunity to not speak to him and let the sands of time slip through my fingers.
c. do nothing. Give it up as a bad neurotic mistake. Anyone who makes me feel this ill cannot be good for my mental health. Lovesick. That’s what it is. I always feel a little bit sick when I think of him.
OK I seek advice. The general consensus is “what do you have to lose?” Answer: my self respect! When he laughs in my face and tells everyone the weird ugly girl asked him on a date, what a loser! Fuck it. Option a, you’re a winner. But not right now cos its 1am and I don’t want him to think I’m drunken stalking him. I want him to think this is a perfectly reasonable, rational decision. That little seed of hope has just grown a shoot.
I struggle through another day of work feeling sick every time I think of him wondering if this is such a great idea. No-one this perfect exists. He is either actually a massive wanker or some other blonder, prettier, more petite girl got there first and isn’t gonna let go for me. *deep sigh* ok I need one last look at a photo so I have a very clear picture of how stupid I sound in order to draft an email. Oh wait, wha’ts this? Flickr pics? Erm… I shouldn’t. oh go on then. Oh fuck. There are hundreds of pictures of the same pretty, petite blonde girl. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. Oh wait 2007! Maybe?? Dare I think it… they might have split up? Hope blossoms forth. Recent pics please! oh last weekend, that’s nice and recent. Oh DOUBLE FUCK IN A SHIT SANDWICH. They are still together. Posing on sunny days in the park. Feeding ducks by ponds. Watching bands (is that Jenny Lewis?) Look at them there, snuggled up in matching Christmas jumpers. They’re so fucking happy. Hope sheds its seed, spitting its vitriolic poison straight into my weak, weak heart. I am choked in its bile. I cough and splutter, with bitter tears running down my face. I am such a terrible person that I begrudge them this happiness because I dared to hope.
Monday, 1 June 2009
everyday is like sunday
Last Friday night I got the train to Plymouth to see my ex-landlady, Ruby, for a much needed beach break. I have never been to Cornwall or Devon before, this is *excitement*. I arrive about midnight. Back at Ruby’s we have a bottle of wine and catch up on the goss. Its amazing how time flies when you’ve got a full bottle.
So in danger of oversleeping the next morning I am rudely woken by tiny paws jumping all over me. Dear lord, my head. There was a lot of clattering downstairs. Can’t believe Ruby is awake already. Ten more minutes. That’s all, ten more minutes with cat and I’ll come down. Then I fall asleep again. Woken later by a ring at the doorbell. Ruby goes to answer. Cat is still sleeping on me. Upside down on his back with his cute little back feet in my face. Bless him. Bloody hell, its only 8.30. What time did Ruby get up? Eventually, about an hour later, me and pussykins get up. “Who the bloody hell, is that?” asks Ruby. What? I know I look like shit first thing in the morning but come on, I’m not unrecognisable. “Where did that cat come from?” wow, I thought it was Ruby’s cat. Apparently not. Apparently, he had broken in through an open window and found the nearest snugly bed with me in it. Purrrr.
We spend the day at Tintagel Castle pretending to be Arthurian knights charging about the place, thankfully minus the chain mail. Well, bored of that the rest of the day is spent in glorious 23 degree heat picnicking in Merlin’s cave. Well, this is the life. If it wasn’t for the factor 30 I might actually be in danger of getting a tan.
No trip to Plymouth is complete without a gin or two. However, attempting to drink all the gin in Plymouth is probably a very poor idea. Thankfully, for the good people of Plymouth the gin distillery is closed for business. It all started off brilliantly, but five hours later some Scottish man is pinching my drink in a blues bar and I’m rather pissed off. I might be too pissed to drink it myself but you cannae have it, lovey! The next thing I can remember is getting home in cab and realising we have no cash. So that’s a drive back to a cash point and a u turn home again. £45. fuck. Ooh! There’s some gin. Yum yum. We have a conversation that started about food, moves on to the sensory integration issues of the cat (my theory is he was taken away from his mummy too early in life and now has a few attachment problems) and ends somehow with me crying. Not just weeping drunkenly. Crying in full mourning. God knows what that was about.
The next day I am once again woken by the stamping of hefty paws all over me. Oh hello! He (now called Michael) looks rather shocked to see a human in his bed. I lov you Michael but I am just way too fucked to tickle your chin. I wake up sometime later with Michael determined to get under the covers with me, closely followed by Ruby. I’m not sure I can move. There is some sort of small, furry creature burrowing in my brain and its killing me. “Zilpha, we have to get up! Its 12.30!” oh fuck. I tried to move. It bloody hurt. Michael isn’t impressed; cat wants cuddles. Hang on, where the hell did cat come from? All the doors and windows were locked. Hmm…
Sometime, just before 3pm Ruby and I managed to choke down enough pain killers to be able to stand up without swaying under the heavy, heavy pain of hangover. 45 minutes later we arrive on a beach. A quick strip off, run into the sea like a pasty white whale, splash about, run back to our towels and have a ten minute sunbathe. No kidding, its now time to drive all the way back to Plymouth to get my train home. The sea is exactly the best cure for an evil hangover. We should have done this earlier. Five hours of train journey back to London grime. Can’t wait to come back.
So in danger of oversleeping the next morning I am rudely woken by tiny paws jumping all over me. Dear lord, my head. There was a lot of clattering downstairs. Can’t believe Ruby is awake already. Ten more minutes. That’s all, ten more minutes with cat and I’ll come down. Then I fall asleep again. Woken later by a ring at the doorbell. Ruby goes to answer. Cat is still sleeping on me. Upside down on his back with his cute little back feet in my face. Bless him. Bloody hell, its only 8.30. What time did Ruby get up? Eventually, about an hour later, me and pussykins get up. “Who the bloody hell, is that?” asks Ruby. What? I know I look like shit first thing in the morning but come on, I’m not unrecognisable. “Where did that cat come from?” wow, I thought it was Ruby’s cat. Apparently not. Apparently, he had broken in through an open window and found the nearest snugly bed with me in it. Purrrr.
We spend the day at Tintagel Castle pretending to be Arthurian knights charging about the place, thankfully minus the chain mail. Well, bored of that the rest of the day is spent in glorious 23 degree heat picnicking in Merlin’s cave. Well, this is the life. If it wasn’t for the factor 30 I might actually be in danger of getting a tan.
No trip to Plymouth is complete without a gin or two. However, attempting to drink all the gin in Plymouth is probably a very poor idea. Thankfully, for the good people of Plymouth the gin distillery is closed for business. It all started off brilliantly, but five hours later some Scottish man is pinching my drink in a blues bar and I’m rather pissed off. I might be too pissed to drink it myself but you cannae have it, lovey! The next thing I can remember is getting home in cab and realising we have no cash. So that’s a drive back to a cash point and a u turn home again. £45. fuck. Ooh! There’s some gin. Yum yum. We have a conversation that started about food, moves on to the sensory integration issues of the cat (my theory is he was taken away from his mummy too early in life and now has a few attachment problems) and ends somehow with me crying. Not just weeping drunkenly. Crying in full mourning. God knows what that was about.
The next day I am once again woken by the stamping of hefty paws all over me. Oh hello! He (now called Michael) looks rather shocked to see a human in his bed. I lov you Michael but I am just way too fucked to tickle your chin. I wake up sometime later with Michael determined to get under the covers with me, closely followed by Ruby. I’m not sure I can move. There is some sort of small, furry creature burrowing in my brain and its killing me. “Zilpha, we have to get up! Its 12.30!” oh fuck. I tried to move. It bloody hurt. Michael isn’t impressed; cat wants cuddles. Hang on, where the hell did cat come from? All the doors and windows were locked. Hmm…
Sometime, just before 3pm Ruby and I managed to choke down enough pain killers to be able to stand up without swaying under the heavy, heavy pain of hangover. 45 minutes later we arrive on a beach. A quick strip off, run into the sea like a pasty white whale, splash about, run back to our towels and have a ten minute sunbathe. No kidding, its now time to drive all the way back to Plymouth to get my train home. The sea is exactly the best cure for an evil hangover. We should have done this earlier. Five hours of train journey back to London grime. Can’t wait to come back.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
