The Downfall of Mr #6

When I set out to attend St Thomas’s School of Pain, I had every intention of writing a weekly blog post, sharing the ins and outs and, most importantly, any amusing moments here. I even knew what they were to be called – First Term at St Thomas’s, Second Form at St Thomas’s, In The Third at St Thomas’s and Last Term at St Thomas’s. I suppose I may yet get to that last one, as it’s only week three now. However, when I set out to attend said School of Pain, I didn’t really know what I was letting myself in for. Sure, I said ‘oh it’s going to be tough’ and ‘I might keep a diary as I go’ but in all honesty, I had not the slightest beginning of a clue. Even after the first day, curled up in my room in a hospital flat with my bottle of ginger beer, I didn’t have any grasp of what lay ahead.

What I’m now going to do is probably both cruel and frustrating to you, dear reader; I’m not going to tell you about it. This course is not about getting rid of the pain I’m in, or even reducing it. It’s not, as I had thought, about different techniques to soothe the pain or to control it. Rather, what I have to try to get my head around – and to be honest I think it will take a little while yet – is that I suffer from chronic pain, and that it is incurable and will most likely be with me for life. Assuming I’m fortunate enough to live to say, 80, I over have twice the years I have currently lived still ahead of me, and for all fifty two of those years I will mostly likely be in pain. The goal of this course is to teach us is to accept the pain, and help us live a full and fulfilling life as independently as possible with that pain. We were warned that the approach taken may feel “proddy and poky” at times, but I had no idea quite how painful that prodding and poking would become. It’s less proddy and poky in a “you’ve got a bit of a belly” type of poke, and more in a “here’s a really tight, painful knot in your back that this super-duper deep tissue sports massage is going to knead out. And here’s another. And another. And another…” until you are tender as a ripe peach and feeling as bruised as an apple juggled by a fool with poor hand-eye coordination. Nerves have been hit again and again – mostly figuratively – and as such I feel tender, tired, vulnerable and raw, and I have little to no desire to share that. Ultimately, what I’ve been thinking, confronting, feeling, and coaxing out from under the emotional rug in the last two weeks is so very personal that I have little inclination to talk it through with close friends or family, much less write about it here for the titillation of the World Wide Web.

That said, all is not lost dear reader[i]. There are some things that have happened in the last couple of weeks that I can share and which will hopefully provide some degree of amusement to your good self (and in at least one person’s case, your good father’s self to boot.) Some of these Things are related to St Thomas’s – it’s not going to be kept a complete mystery forevermore – but for (my) sanity’s sake I’m going to save those up for another time, possibly when I haven’t had a tearful day in ‘class’ with two more to go this week alone – I am starting to think I should have taken out shares in Kleenex. Instead, for this post, I present to you the dramatic last episode[ii] in the current series,

 

Tinder Tales: The Downfall of Mr #6

Having met Mr #6 one weekend afternoon for a lovely, cultural first date involving the National Gallery and plenty of chatter about art and especially about literature, I was quite eagerly anticipating Date 2. The fact that he proved himself a more than adequate kisser at the end of Date 1 also boded well. I slightly misjudged my walk to the pub where we were to meet, but wasn’t more than five or so minutes late, and to my joy arrived to see him waiting with two glasses of red, and thankfully not both for him. Not that I keep score, but wine waiting on arrival is a good way of acquiring brownie points. Sadly things swiftly tumbled downhill from there. Table acquired, we began chatting. I feel should have a disclaimer or some such here to highlight that while I don’t expect all readers of this blog to agree with my political views, such as they are, your side of the bargain is to accept my political views and acknowledge that if you don’t like what I have to say, you’re probably reading the wrong post, if not the wrong blog.

Ensconced at a table for two, our introductory chat covered a cheerful array of subjects from work to chronic pain, as well as a more literary twist as he was carrying a copy of Charles Webb’s novella The Graduate, the book which brought to the world Mrs. Robinson – and if you’re not humming the Simon and Garfunkel tune now, shame on you. I can’t remember precisely how we got onto the subject, but somehow our conversation ended up venturing towards the dangerous waters of Politics. At the outset however, while I know this is considered an infamously poor choice of conversation topic for dinner parties, I wasn’t too worried. In fact, I was engaged and excited, and though that balloon was soon to be popped, it started its life happily inflated; we both studied politics as part of joint honours courses at university – and had both graduated, so on paper at least didn’t suck entirely when it came to understanding at least some elements of the elephantine subject. We had agreed on other, non-political things so far and during our last date I had come to fairly quickly respect his views on art and literature, even if I didn’t agree on all of them. Incidentally, around the time our conversation took its political turn, I also remember thinking how cute and romantic the couple two tables over from us were, curled up together and scattering affectionate kisses and hand-strokes throughout their little tête-à-tête. The relevance of that small, inadvertent observation shall later become clear.

The start of the conversational rapids was fun in a mild-mannered, gentle way, and suggestive of an exhilarating course ahead. Slowly however, I started to become aware that the waters of the colloquy were in fact far murkier than I had anticipated. Murky and, you know, racist. And sexist. And homophobic.

As I have shared previously, one lesson learned from a previous Tinder Tales date (#2? #3? I forget) was that “You don’t have very long fingernails,” isn’t a great statement to make on a date, even if you attempt to prompt a response from your short-talonned companion by adding “do you?” after a hesitation that would have Nicholas Parsons taking the subject off you to pass to Gyles Brandreth[iii]. To build on that lesson, Tinder Tale #6 teaches us that something to add to the list of Things Not To Say On A Date – at least a date with me – is,

“I voted UKIP. Twice.”

Now, I am not quite naïve enough to assume that I shall end up one day happily settled down with a person who shares every iota of my political viewpoint (not least because I don’t know my own opinions to a level of detail such that I could check), I would at least like to find myself with someone whose political opinions I can respect. And this isn’t as hard as some may think it should be – ‘respect has to be earned’ – because my respect tends to be something a person has by default, in virtue of their being human. That person has to actively do something in order to lose my respect. I shan’t be so cruel as to scar you with every detail of the conversation that followed, but suffice it to say that if you ever try to seriously explain to me not only why the borders of our country should be closed, but how immigration should be “reversed” by sending home people who aren’t British, I may start to struggle to maintain my respect of your political opinions. If you go on to explain how second generation immigrants, whom, if I am to offer a sweeping statement, I take to be as British as myself, should be sent back to “their home country”, I will struggle still harder, and may also begin to call into question your judgment in general. Though to be fair, we would agree that they should live in their home country, just disagree rather strongly on which country that is – and to my mind, I would be 100% right in saying that country is Britain.

Things that will continue to aid you in your quest to lost my respect include then explaining how thousands of years of English heritage grant one a greater right to reside on British soil than those who also live, and have only ever lived, in this country and whose parents travelled here decades ago – especially if you cannot trace your own lineage back despite declaring yourself to be one of those with thousands of years of English heritage. How would your Britain-residing ancestry, claimed to be ‘pure’ over thousands of years, be affected if you were to discover that your grandfather or great grandfather lived the entirety of his life in The British Raj? You also could also strengthen your case for loss of respect by using the words ‘English’ and ‘British’ interchangeably – or does your English heritage grant you a right to live on Scottish or Welsh soil? Are inhabitants of the United Kingdom to consider ourselves interchangeable (as to be (un)fair often seems the case when, for example, Andy Murray, the Brit, wins a tennis match while Andy Murray the Scot loses a match) or are English, Scottish and Welsh forced to be eternally separated by invisible borders; daffodils, roses and thistles segregated in their separate flowerbeds, while the poor Northern Irish are beyond the reaches of even a friendly cross-border wave, separated as they are by that all-too aquatic barrier, The North Channel?[iv]

I digress. Let’s imagine for just one moment that you fear (erroneously) that your views on the importance geographic ancestry and its associated rights aren’t doing the job when it comes to eroding my respect for your political opinions. Why not try another tack; sexism. Raising this topic of conversation is to conversation with Emily as waving a red flag would be to a bull – especially if that bull had a metaphorical soapbox and a history of using it. So things you could say to help your respect-reducing efforts do indeed include suggesting that heterosexual relationships where women earn more money than men are doomed to failure.[v] But if you really want to put your all in and do your damnedest to lose my respect as quickly as possible, I can tell you that there is one simple sentence that will do the trick and do it most succinctly, as it drops down into the chasm opening between us like a tonne of bricks thrown into a river with concrete shoes and an anchor for a necklace;

“Feminism is a trade union for fat chicks.”

 

But what, I hear you cry, if casual racism just isn’t your cup of tea, or sexist undertones, overtones, and steamrollerthroughthemiddle tones just don’t hit quite dickish note you desire? Never fear; there is one more thing you can try: homophobia. Now, remember the cute couple across from us? Well, what will make this all the more potent is if that adorable canoodling couple are both women. To avoid traumatising you with too much detail, I shall cut to the chase. One efficient way to finish your pitch for my incredulous repulsion is to exclusively refer to gay marriage in a derisive tone of voice while using air quotes. Alternatively, the words “gay adoption is abhorrent” will do the trick even more effectively. Or, just to be safe, do both.

Needless to say, despite interesting opinions on literature and an impressive knowledge of art history and how to make it interesting to his companion on a first date, there shan’t be a date 3. I can only hope that the couple across from us heard either none, or all of the conversation held that evening; at least if they heard all of it, they would know quite what a bigoted idiot he was.

When I explained that I didn’t think a third date would work, he was surprised and disappointed in my decision, but stated that morals were important to him (and from my perspective a very strange set of morals they are too) and he was respectful that it was my choice to make. So kind of him not to try to date me by force. He also sent a final text stating,
“Never known a straight person so committed to gay ‘marriage’!”

And that, dear reader, was two inverted commas too far. End of conversation. Number: deleted.

 

downfall of Mr #6

 

[i] It’s not obvious I’ve been reading Jane Eyre, is it dear reader? No, I thought not.

[ii] There may yet be an epilogue, but if it comes into existence it will be in another post. Not this one. Yes, I am being lazy.

[iii] Or Paul Merton. Or Susan Calman. Or one of the many other contestants of Just A Minute. If you’ve not heard it before, you’re missing out (currently on BBC Radio4, 6.30pm on a Monday. Go, now, and download.) And if you want to be absolutely blown away, then first try talking for sixty seconds on the subject of ‘Exit, Pursued By A Bear’ without repetition, hesitation or deviation. Once you’ve most likely failed at this, then listen to David Tennant’s first go on his first appearance on the showand prepare to be amazed.

[iv] Yes, that is indeed a rhetorical, not to mention wordy and long-winded question.

[v] Incidentally, the expansion of this idea on our date seemed to me to be more offensive to the male gender in its suggestion that male egos are quite so fragile. If you read this Mr #6, then I invite you to contemplate whether this is simply a reflection of your own fragility you are mapping onto your gender to avoid any sense of individual ownership?

The Mean Reds

Hello, and welcome back! I said the Tinder Tales would continue, and I did not lie…

Tinder Tales #4

With number four, the awkward moment actually came on our second date. The first date went well; we chatted about ourselves, had a couple of drinks, and there was even a bit of chemistry. He walked me back to my car and – for the first time ever on a first date – we kissed. It was quite a good kiss, and I headed home with a spring in my step.

In fact, Mr #4 threw a spanner in the works that I had never even contemplated. We met for our second date at a restaurant local to me, a chain I believe, called Cleaver. He arrived a little flustered, but kissed me as he sat down – hello butterflies. But from there things got a bit awkward. There was chemistry, oh yes, but conversation was reluctant to flow. I turned to that old fail safe, the menu, and asked if there was anything he didn’t eat. I was contemplating various sharing platters – chicken wings, chilli nachos and the like – or a proper, hefty steak. Decisions, decisions. I knew he had a sweet tooth so was confident that a warm chocolate brownie would be appearing in front of me before we left the restaurant. He paused, menu in hand, and then uttered words I never expected to pass the lips of the 6ft something blonde ice hockey player next to me.

“I’m a vegetarian.”

Such simple words. Such a small thing – no meat. I have friends who are veggie, who eat kosher, and I can go for days inadvertently meat-free, simply because I like vegetarian food. The problem is, I also love meat. Suddenly a potential future together flashed before my eyes; nut roasts at Christmas, steak-free 14th March, no hearty beef stews in winter, or Moroccan pulled lamb shoulder with friends, slow-cooked pork sizzling on a BBQ… I’m salivating just thinking about it. Add in that that I have both shot and manually dispatched game birds, and I’m possibly not his type.

He went to Florida for a while. He may even have got back by now – I know he was due to be away for a few weeks – and while a part of me would like to see him again, I know I care too much about food and cooking. It’s not about what he does or doesn’t eat, nor is it about the reasoning behind it. It is about the opportunities and experiences it would close off to us were we a couple. I want to be with someone who actively enjoys food and cooking, and will be adventurous in what they try, both to eat and to prepare. Vegetarianism had never entered my mind as a possibility.

Sigh. Maybe I’m just too fussy.

 

Tinder Tales #5

First date easily 9/10, absolutely swept off my feet. I’d had some bad news the night before, and wasn’t fully feeling in the mood, but decided to go along anyway. We met by the flower stall outside Liberty’s, and he explained he’d booked a table at a bar nearby – number eight somethingorother road. We found the road. I saw a building with a number 8 on it. Eat. The sandwich chain. I looked next door. Agent Provocateur. Wasn’t sure either of these were really suitable first date material, but I swallowed my bad mood and went with it. What I’d failed to notice was an unmarked doorway between the two. With some irritation, trepidation and hyperbolic visions of underground muggings, gang rape, and murder, I followed him down the dark stairway. Far from the perilous site of a fatal attack, I was presented with a beautiful bar full of nooks and crannies in which one could curl up and sup on nought but exquisite cocktails and mouth-watering desserts. We whiled away hour upon hour – and cocktail upon cocktail – with conversation ranging from school (we went to secondary school fairly close to each other) to Plato (he was reading The Republic, or something like that). We shared a couple of desserts and sipped on cocktails containing liqueurs I’d never heard of, amontillado sherry, peat, and all sorts of other surprising things that tasted incredible. He offered me the chance to play a ‘Get Out Of Jail Free’ card and leave, and I declined. At that, he kissed me, mid-date. Chemistry? Yes, so very yes. We carried on, dotting our constant conversation with kisses here and there, for hours more. Rather than nearly missing my train á la numéro deux, I actually missed it this time[i], and he hosted me for the night – accepting that I wouldn’t sleep with him on the first date, and not once trying to twist my arm. The second date was less than a week later and involved homemade chilli (cue text to a friend: “He eats meat!”) and a bottle of red with philosophical debates on the sofa. Third date lasted over 36 hours.

Over the next few weeks, we danced, we brunched, we drank wine, debated politics and philosophy, he tried – adorably – to make me breakfast and I subsequently taught him how to poach an egg, we dunked giant Bourbon biscuits into mugs of Earl Grey over a game of Scrabble, we watched Audrey Hepburn eat her breakfast at Tiffany’s while we ate brunch. He seemed funny, respectful, ambitious, hard-working, good fun. Possibly an over-thinker, but let’s face it I am the blackest of pots where that kettle is concerned.

But. But. There’s always a ‘but’. The last of this series of wonderful dates, I had a particularly painful arm on a day we had brunch at Seven Dials. The next evening, he called me to explain that he’d been thinking about the future and wasn’t sure he wanted any potential children we may one day have to inherit my genetic condition. We did talk over it all, but really truly, what it all boils down to is one simple answer: “Fuck You!”

***

I’ve been on one other date since that fiasco, and I hope to see him again so I shan’t jinx it by giving you details here. But Mr #5 has left me with some scars; I’d never before perceived my genetic condition, painful as it may be, to be a barrier to a relationship. Most of the time I have a strong enough perception of my self-worth to realise that it’s his loss, and if he’s flaky enough to turn me down because of the 1 in 20+ chance that any future kids – if we ever got that far ­– would inherit the more painful version of this condition from me, then he’s probably not the best person with whom to entertain the idea of a relationship. I mean, imagine something actually went wrong – not just a ‘maybe one-day’, but an ‘actually now’. What if a pipe burst, or the car broke down, or one of the kids got measles? It’d be a veritable Armageddon! I want to meet someone with whom I can face the challenges life brings hand in hand, all the stronger for having each other. But still, it stung, and on those days when I’m cursed with H. Golightly’s patented Mean Reds, it’s a new, looming spectre in the back of my mind.

“Every cloud has a silver lining” and this cloud was no exception. “Dickface”, as he’s affectionately known by some of my friends, has provided me with a lovely segue to bring me to the next, short but exciting chapter of my life: today was my first day at the INPUT Pain Management course at St Thomas’ Hospital in London. I have fondly nicknamed it St Thomas’ School of Pain, a name that brings with it images of a slightly twisted, Tim Burton-esque version of Mallory Towers. I might even have to get some ginger beer for a midnight feast. My goal is to try and expand the parameters of my life again, to re-encompass into it things I used to love but may have let go, and to do this independently, not having to rely on anyone else to help me cope with the pain. I’ve written before about depression, and I’ve written about the emotional reactions I have to parts of my body when they cause me pain. Those are just two of the experiences that will be covered on this course, and much more, in much more depth. It’s going to be a tough four weeks, but we’ve been told to approach it as an experiment, and in that spirit I shall be documenting some parts of it here. In addition, the philosopher in me is intrigued to see how others with chronic pain refer to themselves and their bodies: as one unit, or as two distinct entities?

Anyway, I digress. Today was Day 1, and in all honesty not much happened: a lot of introductions, to each other as well as to the staff; an outline of what to expect; initial assessments (I had to walk up and down a corridor for five minutes); and not forgetting lunch. Tomorrow is when the fun really begins. That said, it has  already got emotional a couple of times, and I predict that will only increase as we all start to realise we have four weeks ahead of us of facing up to that which we normally try to sweep under the rug. I might buy shares in Kleenex this evening.

And my love life? Well, I intend to see Mr #6 again – and soon if I can – but unless it goes tits up I’m unlikely to write about it for a while. All I hope for is some fun experiences, more intriguing conversation, someone to eat meat with, to feel a few fireworks, and to get through it all without being cast aside as damaged goods. Because I am one hell of a catch – I mean, even as I wrote the first draft of this in Leeds station, the cute barista in Starbucks came over to where I was sitting for a brief natter, then made me a free drink to make up for my train being cancelled.

If only I lived in Leeds…

IMG_1793    IMG_1795    IMG_1870

[i] Note to self: ask for watch for Christmas.

Letting in ‘la vie en rose’

I realised recently that I seem only to have written for this blog recently when I have been particularly down or irritable about things – if indeed any of the last few posts can be called ‘recent’. This was not why I started writing this blog. Or it was, but not as a vehicle to share my woes, but rather as something to distract me from those woes and encourage me to focus on the bright side of life (cue Monty Python whistle) by sharing funny moments and yummy cakes as I learned more and more about country life. The problem with this theory, I thought, was that as I became more acquainted with mud and any terminology associated with it and its world, the fewer and further between the anecdote-worthy moments came. I have realised that I was wrong; in fact, firstly I became less embroiled in country life when I got a job in the wine trade, a distinctly less tweedy industry than the shooting one. I also broke up with Mr Farmer, meaning no more weekend jaunts on Sally the Combine Harvester. Secondly, upon leaving the shooting trade and joining the wine trade, life just got busier. And moving from WineWorld to Unilever only intensified that busyness.

Amid this busyness, life, to paraphrase a postcard I saw recently, is trying not to pass my family and me by so much as to run us over – and then reverse just to be sure. Despite this, I don’t want to turn this blog entirely into a portal of doom and gloom. I think as it evolves, this blog will become a blend of woe and (I hope) wit, of complaint and cake. In short, it will continue to be an outlet for whatever is on my mind. But I want so very much to push and push and keep open the door that life is trying so hard to close, and to let in la vie en rose as Miss Sabrina Fairchild would put it. And as such, I want to refocus on why I started writing here – to refocus my outlook on life, to see the Mississippi pie amid all the mud. As such, I have been wracking my brains to think of something positive or at least humorous to write about, say a scrumptious new recipe I’ve tried, or an amusing anecdote to share. One of the few new recipes I’ve attempted in recent months, I sadly cannot claim as my own – I followed someone else’s recipe, almost verbatim – but it WAS a cake and I DID make it, so I figure it counts. It was also my little brother’s wedding cake. (My ‘little’ brother is in fact a great dangling thing of almost 6ft 4, with arms too long for his already-overly-long self.) That cake was by far the most all-American thing I’ve ever cooked, in honour of the all-American bride. It was baked to welcome Ariel into our family and, at least as far as I was concerned, to cement her role as ‘sister-in-law’ in my life (because let’s be honest; that was the point of it all!) with as much chocolate icing and peanut butter cookie dough as it is possible to fit into one cake. As such, it deserves a post all of its very own – so you can be confident that the future of this blog does still hold some cake.

Since moving to my new cottage in Cobham – yes, Cobham, and no, I can’t afford it – I have noticed that I seem to have succumbed to a Waitrose infection; the only recipes I’ve really tried other than the wedding cake have all felt deliciously middle class. I sometimes feel I should be somewhat ashamed of this, but I’d be foolish to pretend I’m not middle class, surrounded by matching tea towels, oven gloves and apron, with my yoga mat out in the sitting room. So instead I’m choosing to embrace it! I’ve tried cooking quinoa, but as I’ve not yet really created a recipe using it worth sharing, that’s pretty much a dead-end (or more of a cul-de-sac?) I have made rosemary-roasted almonds, which have potential to be absolutely delicious, but I’ve not yet executed them to a standard to make it a recipe worthy of sharing. I’ve made hazelnut granola, but it’s a similar situation there as to the almonds with regard to the standard of execution. This whole non-Aga oven thing takes some getting used to. The homemade granola was attempted partly to avoid the extortionate prices of this newly-fashionable breakfast fodder[i], and partly so – I kid you not – I could add soya powder to the mix to get more protein into my breakfasts. I’ve made peanut butter Overnight Oats as per the minimalist baker’s recipe, fed to me via a friend. In fact, I’ve made them regularly and am about to whip up another batch to take to work tomorrow. I may not be dating a Chelsea footballer, but I am still feeling remarkably Cobham.

At dating footballers I may have so far failed, but at just plain dating I have… well, so far, also failed. My ‘single’ status indicates fairly accurately that every attempt I have made at a relationship has not exactly gone veil-inducingly well. Since Easter however, shortly before the aforementioned move to Surrey, my love life has been as unsuccessful as any moment in my romantic life.[ii]

After my best friend, her boyfriend and I has between us consumed more than a bottle of wine a piece, I decided she was right that after over a year single online dating was a great idea, especially as I was moving to a new area where I knew no one. This moment of enlightenment was followed by the two of us (she and me) composing a lengthy and beautifully written Ode to Me with which to grace my shiny new dating profile. Once done, and thrilled with our masterpiece, we submitted it to be reviewed and edited by her lovely boyfriend. What had been a number of paragraphs of positively stunning prose describing every favourable aspect of myself (at least if read through rosé-tinted spectacles) was streamlined down to about five lines. And while I say ‘edited’ I’m pretty sure our original version didn’t include the line,

“Good brain, good eyes, good abs, good c*ck = a good start!”

But, while it may deceive potential suitors into thinking I have the ability to be succinct (HA!), we decided to go with it. They say ‘in vino veritas’ so I’m not sure what this says about my friend’s boyfriend. However, given that subsequent male friends’ amendments to my profile include clog-dancing, bear wrestling and intergalactic conquest on my list of hobbies, I’m not sure I’ll take any of them too seriously.

While the online dating site in question wasn’t actually Tinder, a friend of mine has taken to posting Tinder Tales on Facebook, and I am going to steal borrow his title for the anecdotes that now follow – so thank you James for being my inspiration. If I’m really lucky, a little extra humour from your original posts may have become mixed up with the plagiarised titles.

Tinder Tales: #1

My first date actually didn’t go too badly. It was spur of the moment – always good – with one of two guys with whom I’d been chatting a day or two. He offered to drive to my neck of the woods – apparently a good start. He could only make it quite late, but as it was near me, I wasn’t too fussed. He said he’d be wearing a red jumper – so I was now only going to be peering curiously at every guywearingred alone in the pub, rather than every guy; a marked improvement. I couldn’t get the pub on the phone, so set out a bit early with a book to secure a table. On walking in, the pub confirmed that they had plenty of tables available – because the kitchen was closed. Sunday trading. Bugger. Never fear, I had an idea; I drove quickly to another pub nearby, and confirmed that they had both space and an open kitchen. Brilliant. I quickly texted my date, hoping to God that he would illegally check his phone while driving.

Installed in a comfy window seat, I wait…

I read my book.

I hope he got the change of venue.

I order a drink.

Please don’t let me have been stood up.

I read more of my book.

Lucky it’s a good book.

The barman comes over. The kitchen will be closing in five minutes.

I order two burgers – you can’t go wrong with a burger, right? Is this confidence or arrogance? Or foolishness?

Please God don’t let me have been stood up.

I read some more.

The food arrives.

Oh god, I can’t eat two burgers.

Well, let’s be fair, I can – but it wouldn’t make it any less embarrassing.

At that moment, a guy with a familiar face walks in. Is that him? He’s wearing a red jumper, and he’s evidently looking around for someone, but he’s not who I was expecting to meet. But he’s not the guy I thought I was waiting for. Didn’t he say he was 6ft 2? Oh shit. Of the two guys I was chatting to, he’s the other one. Hmm. I evidently haven’t quite got the knack of this online dating thing yet.

In fairness, I would still have agreed to meet up with him had I correctly associated profile-to-person, so decide to go with the flow. And – yesss! – he likes burgers. It was purely confidence after all (or so I tell myself.)

We eat our burgers, we chat, we have another (now non-alcoholic) drink (we’re both driving) and we’re getting on quite well. Then they start stacking the chairs upside down on tables around us. Oh yes. Sunday trading. We have now been on this date for less time than it took him to drive to it.

Date 1: 4/10, though not actually in virtue of anything to do with him. Fanciable, easy to talk to, no immediate spark fireworks. Would probably have scored the date a 6 if it hadn’t been for the series of organisational debacles. We have actually stayed in touch, so who knows? As yet, still firework-free, but maybe one day things will change (and we’ll remember to have dinner on an evening when pubs are open normal hours.)

Tinder Tales #2

Having agreed to meet Date 2 in a wine bar in St Pancras on my way back from a meeting in Bradford, I am a bit flustered and hot after rushing around to find the place having got off my delayed East Coast train. But he’s wonderful. We get on like a house on fire, the wine is good – and he’s not put off by my interest in it. The bar lets us order by the carafe – perfect for trying a couple of different bottles without having to get through a couple of different bottles. We venture into the treacherous waters of politics, and survive! We get into philosophical debates that at no point evolve into arguments, and yet are utterly absorbing. He isn’t afraid to disagree with me – bliss – and can actually hold his own in terms of number-of-words-spoken-per-minute – no mean feat. The words ‘awkward’ and ‘silence’ did not feature in our language. I glance at my phone – and gasp when I realise I’m going to miss my train if I’m not careful. We carry on nattering on the tube to Vauxhall. And, upon saying goodbye, I realise the fatal flaw. He’s really, truly great. He’s interesting. He’s attractive. But I’m just not attracted to him. We go to say goodbye, and as he leans down, I find myself figuratively scrunching my eyes closed and wincing, desperately thinking ‘don’tkissmedon’tkissmedon’tkissme’. I spend the train journey home feeling such a bitch – as though I’d led him on my enjoying myself. Turns out enjoying someone’s company does not chemistry make.

After I let him down, I received a message saying that he was already considering me “the one that got away.” Slightly scary. Slightly glad he doesn’t know where I live. Still, a lovely evening. (5/10)

 

Tinder Tales #3

This date could not have been more cringeworthy. I’ll spare you the finer of the details, but after much optimism-inspiring Whatsapp chat, my balloon was burst with a sharp pointy thing. Or, to be more precise, a dull instrument.

He wanted to meet in Wimbledon, because there were ‘nicer bars’ than in Epsom. I’d not been to Wimbledon since a shopping trip at about 16, so I went along with it. On the train on the way there, he asked me if I was “classy”. He also joked that if I wasn’t attractive enough, he’d pretend I was his sister when we were having a drink. Nice start.

We met outside the station. He didn’t know where we were going. Thought All Bar One would be a good place to start. Wasn’t sure where it was. He wasn’t pretending I was his sister. A compliment? With a bit of help from Siri, we got to All Bar One and at the bar, I ordered an Old Fashioned. He didn’t know what it was – ‘cause cocktails are a bit girly for him.

Hmm.

The Old Fashioned wasn’t on the menu, but classic that it is, the barman offered to make me one anyway. I said thank you. The drink I was presented with had bourbon in. That’s about the only resemblance it bore to an Old Fashioned. It also contained fruit juice, a wedge of lime, and a good head of froth after being traumatised in a cocktail shaker. Call me a stickler for the rules, but that just isn’t an Old Fashioned.

I’ll spare you a blow by blow account, but as the evening progressed, conversation proved to be painfully slow moving. But never fear; he’d obviously read some advice on dating, including that it was a good idea to ask your date questions about themselves. Phew! Cue his question:

“You don’t have very long fingernails, do you?”

It’s not often that I’m stumped for words, but that did the trick. At some point, we set off to head to our second bar – somewhere he apparently really liked. We went in, I went to look for seats while he went to the bar. There were no seats. I got back to the bar. He had decided it was too loud, so why didn’t we go back to a pub-y place we’d passed on the way? And without so much as a drink, onto bar three. In fact, bar three/the pub (and yes, the pub-y place was in fact, a pub) brought with it the highlight of the evening – a live guitarist complete with some pretty good acoustic covers. I hummed along as we attempted to make conversation, until a game of Name That Tune evolved. This was going quite well, relatively speaking, until Mr Guitarist decided to play his joker and switch to a medley. I got quite excited with the first couple of lines and explained it was a track from one of my favourite albums (Woodface by Crowded House if you’re interested.) I carried on singing along to the medley, and he said something along the lines of ‘wait, I do know this’ at which point I turned and explained that was because this part of the medley was Rhianna. Mr Guitar continued to chop and change songs and track after track, mostly well-known, passed by prompting no response beyond a frustrated and/or bemused look from my date, who didn’t understand how the guy was getting through the songs so quickly. I tried to explain the concept of a medley. I gave up. I heard a few chords from Wonderwall and thought we were on to a winner. And yes! Sure enough, he says “Wait… I know this one…”

At this point, the guitarist is singing the word ‘Wonderwall’. My date turns to me blankly; he in fact does not have it. I tell him it’s Wonderwall by Oasis. Oh yeah. He paused. Yeeaah I knew I knew it. Silence. Increasingly awkward silence, but thankfully the guitarist continued. My date then made the awkward silence more awkward, if less silent, by saying,

“I really think I’m more intelligent than I’m coming across.”

Lost for words twice in one evening. A record. I told him musical knowledge didn’t equate to intelligence, which is true even if both tend to feature relatively highly in guys in whom I’m interested. But he may have very different musical taste to Mr Guitar. But then again, doesn’t everyone know Wonderwall?

I’d have given him the benefit of the doubt, even if not a second date, until he turned to me and asked rather pointedly “so do you consider yourself quirky?” I don’t know why this got my shackles up, but it really did.

Two days later I get a message from him. There was apparently something he didn’t like about Saturday night. Morbid curiosity got the better of me and I asked what. I wondered which, of the many, many awkward moments had irked him most. His answer was that he couldn’t stop thinking about me. This took me by surprise, and was in a peculiar way even quite sweet. I told him I was surprised, that I hadn’t thought he’d had a great time and that I’d felt he thought I was a bit odd.

“I do think you’re odd. It’s endearing.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was one slightly patronising step too far for me. We haven’t stayed in touch.

Score out of ten: two, because I didn’t go home crying, it wasn’t so bad that I couldn’t stick it out for good manners’ sake, and if I’m honest 1.8 of the score is for the guitarist and the fact he included It’s Only Natural in his medley.

At this point I’m going to pause with the Tinder Tales, and shall resume another time. Please be reassured that a) there aren’t too many, b) I will tell you all about the wedding cake just not right now, and c) I actually went hedgerow-harvesting today, and have bowls of ‘hips, haws, sloes and even a few blackberries scattered around my kitchen, so will be playing with those in coming days – and will do my bestest to write about those escapades.

To end my post, I want to gift to you one further dash of la vie en rose, by sharing with you one of the stories that has made me laugh the most in recent months.

Last year, a friend of mine ordered an almond hot chocolate in Starbucks as a treat for himself. He paid, likely chatting with the baristas as he’s a nice guy like that, and knowing him very sweetly thanked the person who handed him his hot chocolate. He took a sip, right there and then… and pulled a disgusted face. As the barista hurriedly queried if anything was wrong with the drink, his expression melted into dejection and disappointment – in himself, as well as his drink. “No, there’s nothing wrong with it,” he said, “I just forgot I don’t like almonds.” The barista, at least in my imagination, tried to hide her smile as she asked if he would like another drink instead. But, never wasteful, he told her he would keep this drink as a punishment to himself, so he wouldn’t forget next time. I don’t know why this anecdote tickled me so much, but it had me in fits when he first told me, and still makes me chuckle every single time I think of it.

[Exit stage right, whistling:]

Quand il me prend dans ses bras…

 
           Slightly overdone Hazelnut Granola   The Wedding Cake   Peanut Butter Overnight Oats

[i] Or lunch. Or dinner. Or dessert. Or whenever you’re peckish, and have a large spoon to hand.

[ii] … except for one misguided relationship towards the tail end of my time at university that included letters exchanged between solicitors, 4am texts to my boss at the time threatening to end the relationship if I didn’t leave work early, being kicked out of the house, buckets of tears, and briefly an unwelcome third party briefly getting involved (a very pretty English Lit student. Not my favourite person in the world) and the hideous moment where you realise HE is breaking up with YOU. Resulting note to self: even doormats have too much self-esteem to put up with that shit. Rinse (very well), but do not repeat.