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.