Men: The Greek, The Brazilian, The London-Scot and The Albanian…

What is it about the sun? For the past couple of weeks we’ve been heatwaving in London. It’s been fan-fucking-tastic. I’ve got a nice tan, I’ve been in dresses non-stop…I love, love my city when it’s like this. Everyone’s happy, smiling, drinking and FIT. I’m telling you, all the hotties come out when the sun shines. It’s been aaaaages since I updated my blog and this is a long arse post – but then I have been a very busy girl 😉 So…lowdown:

Following my last post, I met with The Greek on that Friday night. I was pretty adamant I wouldn’t fancy him. Way too cocky for my liking, not tall enough, too young (25) list goes on. About 10 minutes after we met, I realised I fancied him. Balls. We had a really good laugh. His banter was good, though not as good as mine, and he was very cheeky and flirty. We ended up out until about 3am drinking and dancing, before chilling out on the steps of St Paul’s Cathedral. It was fairly obvious there was an attraction there (what with me having unleashed my inner sex goddess over the past few weeks) but I didn’t go back to his. Instead we chatted about all sorts of things. His past, my past, his fucked up childhood (abuse etc) and my less fucked up childhood. But it wasn’t like, really intimate – there was no feeling of ‘I really like you in a romantic way’ more of a ‘I want to fuck you’ sort of way. He asked if I wanted to meet up the next day and I said maybe, depending on what happened with meeting up with a mate. So, I behaved. Took his hoodie (it had got a bit chilly) and went home. The next day however……yeah. Not so much. Went to his to ‘watch a film’ – we all know what that means. He’d talked a bloody good talk about his mad skills in the bedroom so he had a lot to live up to. I’d give him an 8/10. Easily the best foreplay I think I’ve had in a very, very long time. But, there was no orgasm for me. He found that quite fascinating, and I told him it wasn’t that easy for me. Think he feels it’s a bit of a challenge now. So, yeah that was interesting. I stayed the night and then left about midday to rush home, shower and go to meet….

The Brazilian. Yup. We’d arranged to meet to go to London Zoo. I had an hour to go from East to South London, shower, eat, and then jump on the tube up to Camden to meet him. It was roasting. I think that was the first day of the heatwave and I remember standing outside the tube station, waiting for this hunk of a man to appear. And appear he did. And we set off to go look at animals. And I was massively disappointed because…there was just no spark. Goddamit! The man is beautiful. I made sure I touched those abs at every opportunity when I laughed, trust me, they were like bloody rocks. His teeth were pearly white. It was one of those situations where I could see women looking at him and his biceps but for me, there was nothing going on. I don’t know if it was a language barrier thing, or just him. We had a nice day anyway, wandering around in the heat, taking the piss out of the monkeys and then went for a drink. Funny enough, he just messaged me on Facebook to go for a drink in the sun next week. I said yes, because he’s a really nice guy, even if there’s no spark there. So, as I left him to go home, my mobile beeped and it was….

Mr Poker-Face (this is the guy I met when The Brazilian was supposed to come out but didn’t). We’d been texting regularly since we met, which was unexpected and nice, because I really didn’t expect to hear from him. It did catch me off guard though. He kept asking questions about me – I know this sounds weird, but it’s true. They were really silly questions like, which biscuits were best, bourbon or custard cream. Totally silly, but the way he asked seemed very…probing. I liked it.

I have to say, it was starting to get to a point where I was having to double check what I was texting to who, to make sure I didn’t say the wrong thing to the wrong guy. Really?! This is me! When do I ever have a string of men in my line of sight? Thank god for inclusive text, calls and data otherwise my bill would be horrific.

Anyway, the following week, amidst all this action, The Greek asked if I wanted to go over again, but of course, Aunt Flo decided she wanted to pay an early visit. I was most unhappy about that. But there was always the weekend Um. No. I happened to see him comment on a Facebook event for his birthday house party, but he kept telling me he wasn’t doing anything at all which pissed me off. I’d never expressed an interest in being anything more than casual with this guy, but you still need to have an element of honesty I think. Don’t out and out lie about it, just say, I’m having a birthday party, so I won’t be around. It’s not like I know his friends or even him all that well for that matter. In any case it didn’t matter, because I had plans to go to a BBQ with my French friends. The day of the BBQ it was insanely hot, and so….

The Albanian from across the block texted to see if I wanted to sunbathe up on the roof. I had a couple of hours to kill before getting ready to go out, so I went. Wish I didn’t. He’s a nice guy, but talk about smarm. At one point, we were both looking over the side at the view and he came up behind me and put his arms around my waist. Ermmmmmm. Considering I literally hadn’t given him a single come on, and he was topless and sweaty it was most unpleasant. I pretty much scarpered straight away. I know I’ve been told I give off a sensual vibe but dude, please. Off I went to the BBQ and had a great time, thank you very much. And then who texts but The Greek, asking what I’m doing, do I want to come over? I called him out on the party and left him hanging for a bit. I eventually rocked up there when I’d drunk way too much at the BBQ and only a few people were left at his house. And I made sure to string him up about the party thing too, especially when he said it happened ‘kinda last minute.’ My arse. He seems to bring out a side to me I’d not known before. I get super fiery with him which of course leads to great sex. Which we had. In the garden. I think I got home at around 4pm the next day, all the while texting Mr Poker-Face who’d also been on a night out.

Fast forward a week, and Mr Poker-Face suggested we meet up. So we met up. In Manchester – roughly equal distance for the both of us between our respective cities. While I was on the train (first class, as you do) who texts me but The Greek. He’d been fairly quiet all week and now he wanted to know if I wanted to come spend the day and night. Told him I was off to Manchester for a night out and he told me to get a train back to London when I arrived there. Yeah, right. I *do* have a life, thank you. Bit more notice next time? So I told him I wasn’t available and let the train carry me up north to meet Mr Poker-Face. And you know what? He’s actually really nice. He’d cut his hair, which I was a bit miffed about because it was kind of Harry Styles nice and curly before, but whateves, he was still cute and super funny. We had a couple of drinks in the sun before checking in at our plush hotel. I have to say, hands down, he has THE best arse I’ve ever seen on a guy. Wasn’t expecting it whatsoever, but my god. It was like a literal peach. In fact, he had a nice body all over. But. And there’s a but. I think he was a bit…shall we say…nervous. The sex wasn’t bad, it was just….I dunno. It seemed like he couldn’t make up his mind exactly what he wanted to do. Hmm. But that aside, it was good. And as time went on, he got better, so I’m putting it down to nerves.

We headed out to eat at a funky bar with molecularly mixed cocktails and then down to the locks for drinks. I was looking exceptionally hot, I must say. See through blouse, high waisted tiny shorts and killer heels. And he looked good too (gets top marks for trendiness). We had a great time. Drank way, way too much and danced a lot. And more with the questions. We played a game where we took turns to ask each other questions that had to be answered honestly and couldn’t be asked again by the other person. He asked me things like, if I could repeat any day in my life, what would it be. And then progressed to things like, had I ever cheated in a relationship, and how many men had I slept with (ahem). I actually underestimated the answer to that question slightly, but it was a real honest mistake. Oh well. He seems like a normal, nice guy so far (apart from being an Aquarius). Privately educated but not posh, geeky (maths degree and masters in electrical mechanical engineering or some such), good job in banking. Like I said, nice guy with good credentials. We went back to the hotel, had more sex and crashed out. The next day, we checked out, had a mahoosive breakfast in an Alice in Wonderland themed cafe in the gay district of Canal Street, before sitting out by the canal with a couple of jugs of Pimms under the blazing sun. It really was an awesome weekend. And then when I got back to London, I headed straight out (after a shower). 

It was Bastille Day and long story short, the group I was with ended up back at one of their houses for a BBQ. It was a nice evening with yet more alcohol. I ended up walking home in the balmy heat at around 11:30 along the Thames and over Tower Bridge. It was one of those evenings where I felt nice and content. It had been a mental weekend but all was good with the world. I was walking in the heat (about 25 degrees) along the river with the twinkly lights of London’s cityscape in the bakground. Pretty damned perfect.

I’m expecting a nice, quiet week now. The Greek and Mr Poker-Face both went on holiday today, so I can rest my text thumbs for a bit. I say quiet, but I ended up completely shit-faced last night after meeting a friend for drinks (too much wine), rocked up home at 12:30ish, put the kettle on and promptly fell asleep. Fear not, I woke up again at 2:30 to finish that tea and then back to bed.

As a side note – a mutual friend of mine and The Ex’s told me he honestly still thinks I’m sitting around pining after him. If only he knew! I’ve given her carte blanche to show him my Facebook photos, just to put his mind at ease. Hehehe.

Life is bloody hectic right now, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

x

 

And then there were three

It’s been a busy day. Not work wise thankfully, but man wise. So.

The Brazilian messaged me, apologising for not coming out on Friday. He said he was gutted not to have been able to make it but wanted to know when the next one was. I told him I didn’t have anything planned yet but I’d let him know and asked how he was. Not good, he said. He keeps getting lost as he didn’t have a ‘nice navigation’ of London yet. Would I like to be his tour guide, winky face? Obviously I said yes and reeled off a list of things to do in and around London. I should point out I was being a bit cocky here because I’ve not actually been to any of the places I pointed out. When you’ve lived in a city so long you tend to skip the touristy stuff. I’d mentioned a trip along the Thames into Richmond or Kew. Didn’t expect him to actually ask if I was free on Sunday for a day out. Oh balls. Of course I said yes. So now I have to actually look into it properly. On the plus side, I’ll spend the day with a hot bloke (still thinking about those rippling abs) in nice surroundings.

Then, as I signed off that conversation, The Greek messaged me. We’d both been struggling with our uni assignment so we chatted a bit about that. Then he asked me out for a drink on Friday night. So I said yes to that too because fuck it, why not?

Ten minutes later, I got a message from Mr Music. Remember him? He’s going to be in London in a couple weeks and asked if I was free for drinks. And we all know what happens when we meet and mix alcohol. Said yes to that too.

As I say, busy day. The guy from Friday night has been messaging too. I didn’t really expect him to but he seems a nice bloke. So that’s been nice.

Honestly, men are like bloody buses.

Nymphomaniac

I’m not. But I feel like one. I don’t know if it’s because of the heat (the sun since run away) but all the hotties are out – or at least they were on Saturday.

I had a great weekend, actually. On Friday, I bypassed the gym after to meet my old work colleague for drinks. This is the one who took me out a while back and told me to dress to impress. I don’t think I named him, so I’ll call him Mr Arrogant (in a nice way. sort of). So when he texted me I left the office and ambled down to Clapham in the blazing sunshine feeling all summery – bright vest, turned up jeans, sunglasses on – it’s summertime bitches. I get there and he’s suitably summery for a bloke i.e. he had his shirt sleeves rolled up and RayBans on. He was there with a friend, classic banker type, except Ugandan. Nice enough bloke. So we had a few drinks in a few bars before grabbing some food and the night drew on. I actually hadn’t intended to stay too long since I had to be up for 8am for uni the next day but…well…I got persuaded to go to a late night bar and, oh well. Swiftly told Mr Arrogant that since I’d have to get a cab home he could very well pay for my drinks. Of course, he did.

It was fun. Apart from the times I got pushed to the side when Mr Arrogant decided to chat up seemingly endless bits of skirt. I don’t care that he chatted up these women, but I did care that I was left with his random friend. I mean, if you’re gonna invite me out then bloody well don’t forget I’m there. Ruhuude. I didn’t say anything though, at least, not straight away. And so the pattern continued. He’d chat to some girl, take her number, come back, pick me up, spin me round and buy me another drink. And then his friend asked if we were seeing each other. I nearly spit out my drink. Erm. No, we’re not. I’ve never even kissed him. He asked why and I told him that I’d known My Arrogant for something like 10 years. I know what he’s like –  a dirty, dirty dog. I hated him at first for that very reason. Then, he said that Mr Arrogant had told him he was ‘seeing me’, therefore his friend wasn’t allowed to make a move on me. What’s wrong with this picture? His friend is married. This is what these guys are like. By the end of the night I’d had enough. At one point, I came in from having a smoke and he was chatting up yet another woman. He gestured to his mate in a way that (to me) said ‘get her out of the way’. I had a proper barney at him outside the bar at the end of the night because of that. He said his gesture meant ‘make sure Freechick’s not on her own’, and he’d never try to get rid of me. The conversation went something like this:

Me: I’m only going to say this once, so sober up and listen. Don’t ever invite me out again and then just fuck me off. I can be a great wingwoman if I’m at least prepared to know that’s what the night’s about (instead of cockblocking him which I did towards the end just for fun).

Him: I’m really sorry, it wont happen again. 

Me: Good boy (squeezed his cheeks). I’m going to get a cab.

Him: No, just come and stay at P’s (his friend).

Me: Can’t. I’ve got to be at uni tomorrow.

Him: It’s fine, you can go there straight from P’s.

Me: No, thanks. I don’t want to wake up to you trying to stick your cock up my arse.

I got in a cab and left. The next day he texted me to say he finished his triathlon, blah blah blah. He’s a bell-end but it was still fun.

Saturday, I met up with Miss Yoyo after uni. We were meant to just get some lunch, have a catch up and then I’d go home, study and chill. What happened was:

1. We met up. Had lunch.

2. Wandered through Covent Garden and randomly saw hundreds of naked people riding bikes. Literally. I’ve never seen so many cocks and vaginas in my life. Some of the guys were super hot too. There were penises bouncing around everywhere. And some that just looked like belly buttons. 

3. Went for cocktails (I had apple and cinnamon margaritas. To. Die. For)

4. Ogled at the fittest guy ever in the outside area of the pub opposite. 

5. Drained cocktails and headed to the bar with the fit man.

6. Edged my way into the group with the fit man on the pretext of needing to rest my bag on the table in order to roll a cigarette so Miss Yoyo and I could ogle more blatantly. He was in a group on a stag do. Out of the group I identified 6 shaggables. 

7. Sat and people-watched. The pub had a higher than average fit-man ratio.

8. Took the piss out of people with dodgy dress sense. In particular, men who think it’s acceptable to wear SUEDE LOAFERS WITH NO SOCKS!! Gah! Seems like everyone thinks they’re TOWIE rejects these days. And, there was also a guy with denim pedal pushers on. I kid you not.

9. Bantered with a group of guys about places I could arrange a holiday for my 30th. The conclusion was Miami. Or Panama. I’m erring towards Miami, bitches.

10. Drank Long Island Ice Teas that actually sobered me up (while Miss Yoyo drank a green concoction that needed an umbrella and sparkler. She didn’t have the umbrella or sparkler, but the drink soooo deserved one).

11. Went down to the basement to listen to the live band.

12. Ended up talking to a hot Brazilian dude. I went old school and gave him a receipt from my purse and a pen to write his name on since my phone was dead (so modern I didn’t take digits, just his name for Facebook. He asked me but my name is so common he’d never find me.)

13. Almost came on the spot when he did some weird samba thing and looked at me like he wanted to eat me.

14. Left the pub and walked to the tube station, and saw a woman who was in the bar with her head INSIDE a bin, chucking up while her boyfriend rubbed her back. At like, 11pm. Sad times.

15. Got the bus home and went to bed.

Safe to say, my head was fucked the next day. 4 hours sleep in two days and copious amounts of alcohol…hmm. And I had to study the next day too. Boo. But then I looked this guy up on Facebook. His profile picture was decent. And I flicked through to the rest. One of him on a beach, rippling six pack, tattoo, brighter than bright smile. Fuck yes.

Pretty much since then I’ve had the horn. If I was a guy, I’d be walking around with a permanent boner. I so need to get laid it’s ridiculous. I’m out this Friday and next, and also meeting up with an old friend next Thursday (last time we met up turned extremely messy and we ended up chatting up half the bar). I might invite the hot Brazilian to this party I’m going to Saturday. I only know the host and she’s said to bring someone. And I have the feeling I could do some serious flirting at the very least. And I need to get laid.

Never had a Brazilian before…

Dying Alone

It’s been a busy week. I went out for dinner with some girls from work tonight and came home to watch a film. Instead, I watched Dreams of a Life,  a documentary I’d found on Netflix. It was shown on Channel 4 last night and I thought, I’ll watch that instead.

Its about a woman who lived in London, Joyce Vincent. She was beautiful, sociable and had a full life, meeting amongst others, Nelson Mandela, Isaac Hayes and Stevie Wonder. Yet she died aged 38, alone in a bedsit in Wood Green. And worse, her body was undiscovered for three years, lying on the sofa with the tv still on, surrounded by wrapped christmas presents she’d bought.

Three. Years.

I remember reading in the paper in 2006 about this and thinking, how on earth could this happen? How could nobody notice? Her friends? Her family of four sisters? She was discovered by bailiffs due to unpaid rent. Her neighbour attributed the smell to the communal bins. It’s crazy and very, very sad. The documentary was contributed to by ex colleagues at Ernst and Young, a major global financial company where she worked for four years, old friends and ex boyfriends. And none of them could believe the effervescent girl they knew could have ended up like that, with a cause of death unknown due to extreme decomposition and only being able to be identified by comparing her teeth to an old photo.

I know this is an extreme case, but it’s so shocking to me. I’d like to think that could never happen to me, or any of my friends or family.  That I’d know if someone I cared about had died, let alone lying dead for three years. There are people I’ve fallen out of touch with, it’s a part of life for majority of people, but the thought of it makes me feel sick. I don’t understand how in today’s society,  something like that could really happen. It’s stranger than fiction. By all accounts, the documentary revealed a woman shrouded in mystery, who never revealed much about herself, a chameleon who fixed herself into the lives of the men she dated. Clearly she had some demons but then, we all do. And that’s what makes me so uncomfortable. That could be any one of us or someone we used to know.

When I was with The Ex, we used to go to Wood Green all the time. We’d go shopping in the centre adjoined to her block of flats. We’d sit in the car literally metres away from her block while he and his mates got stoned. It wasn’t until I watched the documentary that I realised just where she was, and while she lay there, decomposing, everyone went about their daily lives,  walked past her door, without knowing what happened.

Its left a bitter taste in my mouth. The pictures of her and the video footage of her at a speech given by Nelson Mandela are on repeat in my head. In this age of social media – twitter,  Facebook, blogging – it’s so easy to just write a message to someone instead of picking up the phone. You think, I’ve not heard from so and so in ages, but when they don’t write back, we just attribute it to our busy lifestyles. One of the boys I grew close to before I moved back to London was a friend I’d speak to every day until it petered out after I moved. I last saw him randomly on a night out back in my hometown and he looked great. We became Facebook friends, probably around 2008. Then, when I logged into Facebook one day,  I was reminded it was his birthday. When I went to wish him a happy birthday, I learned that he’d died from aerosol abuse. He was the same age as me. He was my friend. I’d partied with him, cried with him when I was dumped by his best mate, stayed at his family home when I went back to visit – yet I didn’t know he’d died.

The world is a strange and sometimes fucked up place. Bonds can be formed so easily with people thousands of miles away, while those who live down the road fall by the wayside.

All I can think is, how sad.

http://www.joycevincent.com/

http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2011/oct/09/joyce-vincent-death-mystery-documentary

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.

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.

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!