A whole lotta Durex and a whole lotta fun

So, The Frenchman came, he went and I conquered. And we came. And came. A massive box of Durex, gone. Fun times. Right now, I’m battling against a cold and feeling a bit sorry for myself. The cold is courtesy of The Frenchman. He came down with it three days before flying in but hey, it’s a small price to pay for the fun we had.

 The weekend went without a hitch, despite the sky shitting snow all over London. I mean, really?! I had to adjust the plans I’d made a little but on the whole it went to plan. I was unbelievably nervous waiting for him at the airport. I have no idea why. But I was. Proper heart ricocheting in my chest, sweaty palms, sickly nervous. But then when I saw him, well, all was good. He looked deliciously handsome and was wrapped up in the scarf I’d bought him for Christmas. Looked good on him, too. On the drive into London, I showed him various sites – the Olympic Park, Canary Wharf, my house. Yep. We drove straight past it. And if it wasn’t for the fact I’m living with the ‘rents, I’d have been taking him there instead. Having said that, when we got to the hotel, it was clear I’d made the right choice. We got upgraded to a suite for no apparent reason (and I never get upgraded anywhere, on anything, ever). So, instead of just a room, we had a massive living room with a great view over London, massive bathroom with double shower, kitchen and bedroom. Nice. This clearly meant more surfaces to get dirty on. And get dirty we did. Bedroom, tick. Shower, tick. Bath, tick. Kitchen, tick. Sofa, tick. Up against the floor to ceiling height windows overlooking Waterloo station? Tick. Just, fabulous. I’m quite amazed at how good the sex actually is. Very cat that got the cream, I can tell you.

 So, the Friday, we went to look at Egyptian mummies and drink real ale in a chintzy Victorian pub and in the evening, I introduced him to Nandos. I cannot believe they don’t have one in France. I mean, seriously? What’s that all about? I adore Nandos. So we met up with Miss America and her husband, had some food and then headed into central London for some cocktails. It was a lot of fun. I love that The Frenchman loves to dance. I love that he’s so affectionate, even in front of other people. He’ll kiss me anywhere. Over the table in a restaurant, on the Tube, on the bus, in a packed bar. I felt thoroughly adored and I’m sure I was positively glowing. It was a lovely day and night. With the snowfall everything was coated in white and it was nothing short of romantic, walking around the near deserted streets of London at 2am after having argued about whether English or French McDonald’s was better…ahhh, l’amour. Saturday was a chilled affair. We had a long lie in and a nice lunch before wandering around Covent Garden, Soho and Carnaby Street. We stopped off at Yuautcha, a Chinese/Japanese restaurant in Soho and had coffees and macaroons (cola, hazelnut and parma violet flavoured. Just yum) and headed back to the hotel for a nap. That night we went on the London Eye, a first for the both of us, and then into Chinatown for dinner. I think it’s safe to say that his naughty side is definitely becoming a lot more pronounced now. As we were having a cigarette in the freezing cold, he told me he’d love to warm me up by pushing me up against the wall and fucking the life out of me. I almost choked on my cigarette. Not because I’m a prude, but because it came from him. He’s always sensitive, more romantic than aggressive in the bedroom, and even though I knew he had a naughty side to him, it took me by surprise coming from nowhere like it did. Yeah. That was a lot of fun.

 That’s what the weekend was. Fun. We didn’t have any heavy conversations, we just hung out. Enjoyed each others company. Took the piss out of my bad French and his dodgy English phrases. After talking about blowjobs, it transpired I can’t say ‘souffler’ (blow) and it’s a common term of endearment in French to call a woman ‘Ma biche’ (my doe). He calls me his little venison instead. We’re racking up the ‘in jokes’ and each of them make me smile. I didn’t repeat the L-Bomb but it took a LOT of restraint on my part. It’s incredibly hard for me to hold back on what I’m feeling sometimes but, I did it. And as he told me at the airport as he was leaving, ‘we’re strong’. That’s enough for me.

For the entire weekend, we were literally joined at the hip. So much so that I feel a bit lost now. As usual, it’s going to take a good few days for me to feel back to normal, get used to sleeping alone and waking alone. Total balls.

I go back to Marseille in four weeks time and I’m already marking the days in my calendar.

It.Cannot.Come.Quick.Enough.

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The problem with people today…

Ok. Extreme rant coming. So I was on the bus on my way home today and an old man gets on. He clearly has trouble walking, let alone standing and yet nobody gives up their seat. He’s looking around for somewhere to sit. I was sitting at the back where there were a couple of seats spare but at the front, nobody has the impetus to offer their seat. Because I was brought up right, I get up and head towards the front to tell him he can have my seat.

At the same time, someone else gets up to get off the bus towards the front. Fabulous, the old man has somewhere to sit, right? Wrong. A woman sitting with a kid in her lap and another kid on the seat next to her gestures to her third child (around 7 or 8) to take the newly available seat. So I step in and say that maybe the old man should sit there instead. After all, her child is perfectly capable of remaining standing, more so than the old man. An argument ensues.

In the end I told her to do one and pretty much ordered the old man to sit down. Meanwhile, I’m getting a torrent of abuse from this woman. She resorts to personal insults (obviously highly intelligent) but I get the last word, telling her she should be ashamed and should be more concerned about setting a good example to her kids. That shut her trap.

It makes me so angry. What the actual fuck is wrong with people these days? How can you have no respect for your elders? And in giving her a piece of my mind I hope everyone else who stayed seated felt ashamed. I am NOT a racist person, not by any means, but the area I live in is heavily populated by people from a cluster of African countries. And it’s probably the only area in London I’ve seen where people actively push you out of the way to get on an empty bus and other such unsociable things, shout, spit and snort snot from their noses onto the pavement, or floor of a bus/tube. It might be normal where she comes from to behave like that but for me, it’s not.

How’s about learning some respect for other people and your surroundings. This is what’s wrong with society today, people just don’t give a crap about anyone else. I hope when she’s old and decrepit that she’s the one standing on a full bus with a driver who thinks he’s in the formula one.

Twat.

Rush Hour Crush

In London and some other cities in the UK, we have a free newspaper – The Metro. Every day, there’s a little feature called ‘Rush Hour Crush’ where people write in a short message to someone they’ve seen who’s piqued their fancy, usually on some mode of transport. In today’s, someone wrote in about someone who works for my company and it made me think. Sure, it would be flattering to have an admirer out there, but I wonder what’s meant to happen next.

Imagine there’s someone who gets the same train as you every day. Maybe you both always sit in the same carriage and maybe you even flash that ‘hi, we see each other every day so let’s be polite’ smile. No harm in doing that. But imagine that person is slowly developing a crush on you. It’s sweet, but then imagine opening the paper and reading a message that’s obviously meant for you. What then? Most of the time, the person its meant for will have been described – the clothes they were wearing, their hair etc, and usually there’s a hint as to who its from. Are you meant to seek that person out, catch their eye across the crowded carriage and then start chatting? I’m not sure.

I think, if it were me, I’d be a bit weirded out. Flattered, but weirded out all the same. I get that people can get shy, but it reminds me of the notes we used to pass to the boy we fancied in primary school. The ‘do you want to be my boyfriend, yes, no or maybe’ kind.

I wonder if anyone who’s ever contributed to it has had a good response and ended up in a relationship with their ‘Rush Hour Crush’?

Strange things are happening…

This is a very quick post, but something strange happened last night. After work I went out for drinks with colleagues to celebrate Miss Comeback’s birthday (amongst others) – happy birthday Miss C! Anyway, the strange thing was, I didn’t dance all night! Maybe because we were tucked away by the bar where the acoustics were, shall we say, crap. But I didn’t dance at all. Not even a little wiggle. I just couldn’t get into the swing of things and ended up leaving with some of the girls at 10pm. Sober as a judge. I was in bed by 11pm.

What the actual fuck?

Strange.

Today I’m meeting up with a group of girls I’ve been speaking to online in our writing community for a couple of years – it’s the first time we’ve all met up together. I think it’s fair to say there’ll be lots of wine consumed.

Well, I have to make up for last night!

Always Expect The Unexpected

It’s always the way that when you’re least looking forward to something, you have the most fun. Miss Sunshine set me up with her current beau’s (if that’s the right word) best friend. I’ll call him Mr Grey. We’d swapped text messages for around a week and then he asked me out for a drink. When the day rolled round, I’d been at work since 7am and didn’t really feel any excitement at the prospect of going on a date, despite our messages being full of banter. We’d arranged to meet on the Southbank, and he’d inadvertently mentioned what he was wearing when we’d delayed meeting by an hour due to the torrential British Summertime rain. I got to the meeting place and saw someone walk past a few metres away from me. Now, I should say at this stage that we already knew what
each other looked like since we’d seen pictures, my first thought was, ‘oh no.’

I don’t know what it was that made me think it, but I did. But when I went up to say hello, I thought the opposite. He was cute, and turned out to be a great laugh. Nice and tall, salt and pepper hair, very cheeky smile and a very filthy mouth. We ended up walking along the Thames for a while before stopping off for a drink and a bite to eat. He had me in stitches the entire night. He’s a massive romcom fan which could scream ‘I’m a closet gay’ but didn’t. We had a lot in common and the conversation bounced from one topic to another. In fact, I had such a good time that I forgot to message my girlfriends with an update and it wasn’t until I went for a toilet break a few hours later that I remembered thanks to their prompting.

When the time came to leave, we headed back up the Thames, stopping to take pictures along the way. Which resulted in him missing his last train. Oops. He lives out of London too, which would have meant a hefty cab fare. So, me being the nice girl I am, offered to drive him home. Thank God for Zipcar. And so it was that at around half midnight, we headed up the motorway to Hertfordshire. When we pulled up outside his house, he asked if I fancied a coffee. Hehe. Cheeky git. But it really was just a coffee, since I had to drive back home. His house was nice and clean, and he did offer me a spare bed if I didn’t fancy the drive back, but since it was a Zipcar, it would have cost way too much. There was no lip action either, just a nice peck on the cheek. (see, told you I’d behave). When I got back to London, I had a text message waiting for me – thanking me for dropping him home and he wanted to see me again. He’d nicely listed some suggestions, based on the things we’d spoken about during the date – going on the London Eye, Madame Tussauds – things I hadn’t got round to doing.

And so we’re meeting up tonight, just two days after the first date. And we’ve already got tickets booked for a fancy retro cinema this Sunday. Of course he comes with a package. He’s separated and has two kids, but as I said in a previous post, at my age I’m likely to come across this. He’s 33. Some feedback from Miss Sunshine (through her manfriend) is that he enjoyed the date and is excited and nervous about tonight. Aww. We’ll see how tonight goes.

As for The Frenchman, he sent me some pictures of his weekend with his family yesterday. I actually feel a bit guilty about going on dates with Mr Grey. But, like I said in my Playing The Game post, I need to get out of this mentality. Besides the fact
that he lives in the south of France, we’re not in a relationship. I’m going to just see what happens when I go there for the weekend in little over two weeks.

Exciting times!

Why I’ll Be Supporting a Truly Multicultural Olympics

Ha. If you thought I was really going to write about something so serious as the title suggests, you’d be wrong. You should know by now that this is a light hearted (for the most part) blog. No, this blog comes courtesy of Miss PortuGirl who has fully been initiated into the Freechick world on account of the complete man-feast she provided earlier today. All I can say, is ladies…enjoy! I’ve posted my favourite pics below, for ease of reference 😉

All images come courtesy of the following blog, and there are loads more hot athletes to ogle at: http://wheelr.tumblr.com/post/27937753079/hotlympics-the-hunks-of-london-2012

p.s. – please can someone tell me how to do short, neat links???

Oscar Pistorius – South African sprinter, 25. Apart from being the first Paralympian to compete in the Olympics, he is seriously hot. And he has quite a (ahem) package.

Anthony Ogogo – Team GB Boxer, 23. Scrumolicious and flying the Union Jack.

Tervel Pulev – Bulgarian Boxer, 29. Two words: Yes. Please.

Clement Russo – Italian Boxer, 35. Just divine. Looks like he’s drag you to the side and do all manner of wicked things.

Phillippe Beaudry – Canadian Fencer, 25. Il est tres beau!

Marcelo Chierighini – Brazilian Swimmer, 21. O-M-Actual-G. He looks like the guy from the Dolce & Gabbana ad. Scrumptious.

Luke Rowe – New Zealand Footballer, 20. He’s below my age limit, but I so would.

Hugo Parisi – Brazilian Diver, 27. We know Brazil produces gorgeous women but…hello??

Helge Meeuw – German Swimmer, 27. Pure perfection.

Dating exploits and chick-lit cliches

I’ve been a busy bee since coming back from Ireland. After Mr Double-Barrel’s radio show, I’ve kept a low profile with him and as is always the way, he’s increased the communication. Facebook poking, messaging – you get the drift. We met up on Friday as planned to watch the football and I was as blasé with him as I could possibly be. The compliments were rolling off his tongue. I looked nice, I smelled nice, it felt like he hadn’t seen me for ages. I replied ‘well it has been 3 weeks.’ He was touchy feely and for once, I felt like he was on the back foot. I guess it helped that I got chatted up by a rather hot guy who was there with his friend. When Mr Double-Barrel and I left, he told me that the hot guy had asked if we were together. Mr Double-Barrel said ‘not exactly’ and when the hot guy asked if he could ask for my number, apparently Mr Double-Barrel said no. Dick. The hot guy was, well, hot and told me to come back to the bar the following Tuesday to watch the next match. I didn’t end up going, but he served his purpose. Mr Double-Barrel was reminded that I’m not reliant on him for a love life. We went back to his and I took full advantage of the situation. He asked when he’d see me again and we made loose plans to watch the next match on Tuesday. I’d call him I said and didn’t speak to him any more after that.

I suppose I should admit that I’ve signed up to eharmony. The reasons are threefold. One, Miss Sunshine and Miss Comeback are on it, and I thought I’d keep them company. Two, a character in the new book I’m writing joins a dating website so it’s research (kind of) and three, it’s keeping me busy and when it comes to dating I guess practice makes perfect. So I’d started chatting to a guy. Italian, chef, pretty cute in his pics. We met up on Sunday and all I can say is ‘yawn’. He spoke about food the whole time and was not as cute in reality. On the upside he was a genuinely nice person and introduced me to a new bar. Not a bad way to spend a Sunday night.

So when Tuesday rolled around, it was time to meet up with Mr Double-Barrel again. I knew straight away there was something up and when I asked him what it was, it turned out he’d had a crap day. First off? His ex, the one who I was stressing about, had a go at him. When I asked why, he said ‘because of you.’ Oh joy. Apparently, she saw the picture I posted of us on Facebook from Friday night. Now, it’s not like we were all over each other in the picture and it included the hot guy and his friend. But she didn’t like it, and apparently had a go at him. I took this as my opportunity to get some answers, so I asked what the deal was with her. I mean, she practically jumps on his facebook as soon as he posts anything. He said she’s still in love with him and he just wants to be friends. Apparently they were together for 3 months (so not as long as I thought) and it ended because he didn’t want a relationship. And he added that he still wasn’t sure he did. Next up, the girl his brother was hoping to start a relationship supposedly turned around and said it would never happen because she likes Mr Double-Barrel. So he was down because his brother hadn’t spoken to him since. To say the guy has baggage is an understatement. Proper Terminal 5 syndrome. I just kept asking questions and soaking it all in.

I told him he was going in the commitment-phobe box and he said he isn’t, he just doesn’t know what he wants. He’s a toxic guy, like the ones I read about, and I told him so. He said he likes me, blah blah, and ‘it can’t be easy for me not knowing what’s going on.’ What did I say to that? I said that if we’d have been having this conversation a couple of weeks ago I’d be upset, but since listening to his radio show in Ireland, I wasn’t actually that bothered. I added a nice little ‘no offence’ to that. Once I feel slighted, I can do a 180 lightening quick and it takes a LOT for that person to get back into my good books. Don’t get me wrong, I like the guy. He’s a good laugh, very fanciable, all those good things, but he is just too damned complicated for his own good and right now I’m not looking at him with doe-eyes for a relationship. In any case, we had a bite to eat, watched the match and then he invited me to a business meeting with a friend of his afterwards.

One thing that I do have to give Mr Double-Barrel props for is that he knows some interesting people. The guy he was going to meet was this American media mogul and I figured, why not? That and the fact their ‘meeting’ was on the roof terrace of the private members club, Soho House. Cue wine and lemon drop shots on the roof until 2.30am. Mr Double-Barrel took me back to his because the buses were likely to be full of drunken England fans, and we collapsed on the sofa to sleep. I had a slight variation on the walk of shame (even thought I’d done nothing remotely shameful. Not a drop of saliva was shared) the morning after in that I had to get from his flat in West London to mine in South, grab a shower, change my clothes and then head into work. I have to say, this year, I’ve lived out a few chick lit clichés and as a writer, this is all great stuff to use in my next masterpiece. He’s currently on holiday at that festival with the ex who loves him and who he’s leading on. I kinda feel a bit sorry for her actually.

Hm. What else? Oh yeah. The Frenchman. We’ve been messaging each other since Ireland and it looks like I’ll be going away for the weekend in August. And why the hell not?