Not waving but drowning

Today I went to Buckingham Palace and saw the Queen. I waved at her, she waved at me. Well, she waved in my general direction. She wasn’t really looking where she was waving.

Later I realised I actually do fancy Mr N, the maths teacher, and not just because he’s the only man I know that I don’t already live with.

Later still, I had a drunken shower and noticed the bath taps looked like monsters’ eyes and nearly fell out the bath entirely.

I’m not yet sure which of these three things will become the most significant in the futre. I like to think it’s the bath taps. I was also asked to ‘save the date’ for a wedding. A wedding. My life is so far beyond being able to comprehend eternal married bliss I have yet to find a way to say ‘congratulations’ that doesn’t sound entirely sarcastic.

Anyways, we need some catching up. Since giving up on the boy whose name doesn’t rhyme with anything I also managed to give up on pretty much everything else. I saw him a few weeks later at the Offset festival. I was with 10 hot young indie boys. He was on his own and had dubious piss stains on his jeans by 3pm and was as drunk as a judge. We got on amazingly well. A little too well. Oh no! no kissing or anything like that. But after how badly it all ended we actually talked, and drank, and laughed and he kissed me on the cheek on the way home.

Since then I tried Speed Dating. Disaster. I tried Speed Hating. Disater. I tried speed wine drinking. Drunken Disaster. I had a date with my ex Rob the Knob that definitely wasn’t a date but I defintiely do still fancy him. Gardener Boy (my lust of last year) asked me out on a non-specified date which never materialised. A guitarist of an upcoming rock band also asked me out on a non-specified date which has also yet to materialise. And Stalker Boy is still stalking. What ho. But with a disatrous love life comes some funky homemade jumpers. Kissing goes down knitting goes up. It’s a strange karma seesaw.

And of course no story is a story without a dilemma. I’m not sure why but about every 7-10 days I feel the need to text the boy whose name does not rhyme with anything (lets just call him Richard). I think it idle curiosity. Will he text back? Do I care if he doesn’t? I have a destructive personality, what can I say? Rather shocked this time to have a sustained textual conversation with him. He had a hangover, I had a hangover, it was after all a Sunday. He was thinking of ‘debauchery’ (sex, in case you’re slow on the uptake). I’m not sure if he was thinking of me and debauchery in the same context or inidentally. I was invited to come over and ‘do his cleaning’. I was too hungover to entertain any such thoughts. He tried to be persuasive. I have no idea whether he wanted me to go over or whether he just wondered if I would. I didn’t. I sent one message since then and no answer. Hmmm. So now what?

And now what with Mr N, the maths teacher? I mean, he’s hot. But he’s a teacher. And I have to work with him. Eek.

And what about gardener boy? What about anything? Pass the Shiraz, I need a think. No, drink. No, think.