The Marine wants to go out...

.....God help me.

While checking my email on the way home from work last night (seriously, someone surgically separate me from my iPhone. I may never actually read a book again), I noticed I had an email from the scary-looking Marine, who got in contact with me last month, and who I’ve exchanged friendly words with on and off since then.

He wants to meet for a drink next week, when he’s got a week off from firing missiles, or whatever it is he gets up to.

Gah!!

Well, this should be an interesting evening.... and before you ask, no, I am not going back to his house! Although seeing as he could probably pick me up with one hand and sling me over his shoulder, if he was really quite insistent, I doubt I’d have much say in the matter...

The Actor, and other women’s men

Maybe it was an over-euphoric reaction to the revelation that I am probably not with frogspawn, maybe it was a sign I need to work on developing my morals a little, but Saturday night was spent flirting rather shamelessly with an acquaintance of mine, The Actor. The Actor is a little older than me, makes me laugh, has a thoroughly engaging manner and absolutely stunning blue eyes.

Oh, and a girlfriend.

Now, before you form a lynch mob and burn me as a witch, let me say here and now that although I’ve never really considered my position regarding men with girlfriends, wives, etc (after all, the opportunity has never presented itself), I’m about 99 per cent sure I wouldn’t go there. It’s not a civilised way to behave, it’s potentially getting myself into all kinds of mess, it’s potentially causing pain to a total stranger, and also, I’m sure karma comes into play on some level. And while my entire ethos for this year is to get out there and have no-strings fun with men, I don’t think it can be considered ‘no strings’ if there’s an innocent third party involved.

(although, were something to happen with an attached man, it would be interesting to see which percentage of scorn or judgement would be directed at me as opposed to him.)

That said, The Actor ... oh my. We’ve met a few times before, the last time being at a mutual friend’s wedding last year, when, in a barely-enjoyable twist of fate, he wasn’t attached, but I was. I’d been with my then-boyfriend for well over a year, and while he was lovely, and things were basically fine, our relationship was in decline. It was partly my fault – I’d got so comfortable, I hadn’t stopped to think about whether I’d let it go on for longer than I should have done – and I had. While he and I were great friends, that’s all we’d pretty much ended up as.

But the thing that started that spark of doubt in my mind was a dance I had with The Actor at this wedding. We’d spent a lot of the night chatting, and it was friendly, and easy, and he was great company. Then the dancing started, and during one song (I can’t remember which, but how I wish I could!), I danced with just him. I’d like to say it was a deeply sensual experience, in which both of us communicated hopeless and frantic desire with our eyes and our bodies ...but I’d had a few glasses of wine, and I can’t dance for shit even when I’m sober (despite what I might think). But anyway, as this was a slow dance, one of his hands was holding mine. Which I didn’t pay much attention to until after the song finished and a faster one started. Everyone disengaged from their dance partners, as did The Actor and I. But his stunning eyes met mine, and he didn’t immediately drop his grip on my hand. That was it. That was all – and yet those five seconds made my heart beat faster and made my skin tingle with excitement more than it had in the entire time I’d been with my boyfriend. And when he and I went back to our hotel room that night and made love, I’m not proud to say that my mind was in a different room, with a different man.

So anyway, thus started the slow realisation that my boyfriend and I weren’t a fit, and eventually we broke up, and Saturday was the first time I’ve seen The Actor since then. And yeah... I was pretty shamelessly flirting with him. But then he’s a total flirt too, so it’s probably quite normal for him! I must point out his girlfriend wasn’t there. But if she had been, then obviously I would have behaved myself, and been friendly to her - I’m not a complete bitch!

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not hung up on him or anything – I’ve done that enough times to know what an utter waste of time it is. I just... would! And genuinely, I do wish him luck with The Girlfriend – although our mutual friend who was also there on Saturday told me:

a) "Yes, we ALL know you fancy ********" (gah)

b) That The Actor and The Girlfriend have already been together and broken up before, and he has his doubts as to the longevity of their newly-resumed relationship

Hmmm. Well, we shall see. Maybe one day, The Actor and I will both be in the same place, both be single, and my shameless flirting will pay off. I do hope so - not least because he and I happen to share the same star sign, whose subjects are notorious for being dark, passionate, seductive, sensual, incredibly sexual, borderline kinky and absolute tigers in the bedroom department.

Of course, I can only speak for myself.... ;o)

NEGATIVE!

Oh my God!

Completely, absolutely, utterly and unambiguously negative.

Thank Christ. Thank the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Thank God and all his angels, archangels, cherubim, seraphim, cloud-attendants and beard-trimmers *

(* and thanks to Helen Fielding for that rather brilliant last sentence.)

I bought a pack of two tests last night after work. The rain was hammering down, and I sat on the bus like a zombie, feeling so small and alone. Rather unhelpfully, as I approached the chemist, my iPod started playing ‘Footloose’. It was dark. It was raining. I was on my own. I was on my way to buy a pregnancy test. Somehow, ‘Footloose’ didn’t quite fit my mood. So I turned it off, entered the chemist, located the pregnancy tests, bought a pack of two, and earned myself pretty much the same disapproving look I got when I bought my first one at the age of 18. Nice.

I was sceptical about doing the test in the evening, as I’d repeatedly read, during my near-obsessive Googling the last couple of days, that a you get a more accurate result if you do it in the morning. Plus, I’d drunk about 2 litres of water and several cups of tea at work, so I imagined I was pretty ‘diluted’, shall we say. All the same, I couldn’t wait, so the second I got through my front door, I flung off my coat and my boots and vanished into the bathroom.

Now, the instructions seemed pretty straightforward. Hold stick like so, pee on this bit for five seconds, put the cap back on, put it down, amuse yourself for three minutes, then cry/whoop/faint with relief/scream in horror/suffer brain embolism as appropriate. So I did. The leaflet, which I also read obsessively,  said it would show one pink line if I wasn’t pregnant, and two if I was:

I had four lines. FOUR. 

How very helpful.

One totally obvious standout dark pink line (which would suggest ‘not pregnant’) and three very very barely perceptible palest pink lines (which would suggest ‘what the fuck?!’). Now I just didn’t know what to think, so, on H’s advice, decided to wait until the morning. I couldn’t concentrate on a thing and was beginning to go out of my mind, so I went to bed, feeling more alone and frightened than I’ve ever felt.

I woke up at 6am today, my bladder raring to go. I sleepily repaired to the bathroom to do the second test that was in the packet, and this time...

One dark pink line against a totally brilliant white background.

I am sans frogspawn.

And also, I am SO going back on the Pill. If I have to spend another week worrying like this, I’ll end up having a stroke.


Oh, and incidentally, when I left my house this morning, 'Footloose' was resumed at full volume.

In which I am clearly unfit to produce offspring

Texts between my chum, H, and I last night:

At 8:12pm
Me: Having a lovely distracting night, quaffing free champers. Die, frogspawn, die!!! xx

H: He he! u’ll be fine lovely, just have fun and party hard

At 9:12pm
Me: Thanks poppet! May grab a test from the 24hr pharmacy on way home....xx

H: Let me know if u need me and don’t do it til the morning. xx

Me: Well no, have had that much champers and wine, wouldn’t trust the result anyway!! (yeah, am pissed, so can’t  talk ...)0

At 9:42pm
H: He he! Good way to take ur mind off it! xxx

Me: well...kinda!Mind still p

.......clearly I am not fit to bring human life into this world.

Last night was spent being basically a terrible potential mother, drinking far too many glasses of champagne and eyeing up potential frogs (it’s OK, I don’t approve of myself very much today either). This was a party to celebrate the engagement of a girl I work with, and was held in a dinky little wine bar near Borough Market. I had a lovely night, but I was silly to get as alcoholically compromised as I did, as I ended up sitting on a tall, rickety stool, in my killer but utterly impractical heels, with my back about half a metre from endless shelves of wine bottles, and a tall glass cabinet filled with vintage Armanac from 1917. Translation: if I had fallen backwards, I would have either been killed instantly and in spectacularly bloody fashion, or I would have had my arse sued off.

Anyway, speaking of bloody displays, there is still no sign of the elusive ‘men in red coats’. And while I’m trying to stay calm, and not get in a total flap, I’ve been very unhelpfully worrying myself by endlessly Googling ‘pregnancy signs and symptoms’. Which, as a whole, has been basically reassuring:

Implantation spotting
No

Missed Period
I wouldn’t call it missed just yet, but it’s just under a week late.

Frequent Urination
I drink about three litres of water a day, so I’m pretty much on the loo all the time anyway. But I haven’t noticed any increase.

Morning Sickness
No, although today isn’t the best day to answer that, as I’m a little hung over. (See? TERRIBLE mother!)

Breast Changes (becoming larger, more tender, or darker in appearance)
Not at all.

Fatigue
No more than I would expect, given how busy I’ve been recently. But as I understand it, this is fatigue as in even performing the simplest tasks can leave you feeling utterly wiped out. I haven’t had that.

Body Discomforts (headaches, backaches, acne, constipation, heartburn, mood swings, constipation, diarrhea, bloating, indigestion, and abdominal cramps.)
Headaches yes.
Back’s a bit creaky, but I think that may be from going back to the gym for the first time in a fortnight.
Chin has been particularly pustule-ridden this week, but that’s normal for me when I’m premenstrual.
None of the others, especially not bloating. If anything, I feel quite svelte this week.

Food Cravings
No.

Food Aversions
No. Although I feel I can't really win with these last two signs!

Smell Aversions
No.


Altered sense of taste (particularly a metallic taste in the mouth)
No.


Elevated body temperature
Not in the slightest - in fact, I've been bloody freezing this week.

Baby Movement
If I am currently with frogspawn, then I imagine it’s only the size of a pinhead right now, so quite frankly, it could be breakdancing in there, and I wouldn’t feel a thing.

Intuition (some women, just ‘feel’ pregnant)
My intution – my gut feeling – says I’m not pregnant. But if I may borrow from Nick Hornby, I’m not entirely convinced that my guts don’t have shit for brains.

Positive Pregnancy Test
As much as I can’t face it, I’m going to buy one tonight if nothing happens today.

And this on the day the Frenchman flies back to London. Oy vey...

umm... hello?

Something, referred to in some circles as Aunt Flo, Rag Week or falling to the Communists, should have arrived by now. It hasn’t, and although I’m not panicking just yet, I’m starting to wonder where it is. It’s not late or anything, actually I’m right smack in the middle of when it usually arrives. But it hasn’t. And I don’t feel like it’s imminent. I don’t feel the familiar rumblings of things starting to happen down there.

Although, on the plus side, my weight’s inexplicably low at the moment, my chin has erupted into its usual display of premenstrual horror, and I have a banging headache, all of which seem pretty encouraging signs.

I’ve been ludicrously busy these last couple of weeks, and running around like a blue-arsed fly, getting a little run down, and probably not getting enough sleep, so I’m wondering if that hasn’t knocked my body clock somewhat out of whack. I’m hoping so anyway, and hoping even more so that this no-show is absolutely and utterly nothing to do with the Frenchman (with whom certain precautions were very much taken).

et fin ... or not?

This morning, I wrote this:

Call it impatience, call it having too-high standards, call it what you like, but in today’s episode, we bid a farewell to the frog fondly known The Frenchman, and cast him back into the pond.

Exactly a week ago, after a not-bad sleepy morning shag, we left his house together, and I asked if he’d like to get together again before he travelled abroad for work, next week. He said yes, asked me to call him, and gave me a kiss goodbye as we parted to go to work.

So I called (well, texted) on Sunday, asking if he still wanted to meet up, and said that tonight was the only day I had free this week. And I heard nothing. Now I know there could be a myriad of reasons ... he could be busy ... he could be snowed under at work, preparing for this trip abroad ... he could be in hospital with alcoholic poisoning after France won the rugby on Sunday.

Or, you know, he could just not be interested. Which is fine. To be honest, I’m not all that interested in him, on a relationship level. But one of my absolute, utter pet hates is guys who just ignore you and hope you’ll go away. It’s pathetic – what is this, school? We’re all grown ups, and if someone doesn’t want to see me again, that’s fine – just grow some balls and tell me. Maybe it doesn’t really matter to them, if they never intend to cross paths with you again, but if the roles were reversed, I know I’d much rather there was someone out there in the world who thought of me as someone who wasn’t interested but had the manners and the courtesy to be honest with them. It’s happened to me more times than I care to remember, and frankly, it’s enough to make you understand where Glenn Close was coming from when she said ‘I’m not gonna be ignored, Dan!’

I know there could be all kinds of reasons, and maybe I should be less draconian, but in my experience (however much I’ve denied the truth of it in the past, when I’ve been hung up on someone), the main reason for someone not calling back is because they don’t want to pursue anything with you. And I went through all this with The Pick Up Artist , and I’m so not in the mood for another long, drawn out, pain in the arse situation like that.

Fin.

Then, this afternoon, my phone buzzed with this:

‘Hi, sorry for my late reply, I had to travel all week and travel again on Saturday so it’s quite hectic. Can’t make it tonight let see when I am back. R’

Gah! But I had you so neatly and conveniently written off, you irksome little frog!

Well, well, well. Although this smacks of him keeping his options open, I shall see what transpires. I may condescend to spend another evening in his company, and see if his performance dans le chambre has improved (since ...er ... last week). I won’t reply to this text though – I rather like the idea of having all the power!

But, er...

‘Can’t make it tonight...’ - he seriously thinks I have so little going on in my life that I would have jumped at the chance to see him, had he been free, with five hours’ notice?? As it happens, my workmate A and I are going to an art opening, then for copious lashings of wine. So there!

‘Let see’ - in the extremely curt words of Helen Mirren in The Queen: ‘Yes. Let’s.’ 

perhaps not the most flattering display of workplace perving...

From a discussion my lovely workmate, A, and I were having about our colleague, R, and our hopeless respective crushes on him. Hopeless for A because R prefers women, and hopeless for me because he's already married to one:


A: 'He's got such je ne sais quoi, hasn't he??'
K: 'He looks like he's on the dole today, and I still would.'

Tasty, French, and melts in your mouth

...but enough of the pain au chocolat I’m currently cramming into my trap.

SCORE!

I had the date with R, The Frenchman last night. And, in a nutshell: dinner, drinks, touchy-feely-ness, back to his place, and ... er ... twice.

He met me at the tube station near his house. Even though I’d seen a photo of him and me on Facebook, which was taken the night we met, I was worried I might not spot him – faces take a while to stick in my memory! But he was easy to spot, as he walked confidently towards me, and gave me a very French kiss on both cheeks. Mais naturellement. He’s taller than me even when I’m in my heels (always good), has thick, messy dark hair, eyes that are so dark brown they’re almost black, and a slightly upturned, pixie-ish nose. Me like.

We started off at a pub, then moved on to dinner. Conversation was fine, only a couple of tiny lulls, but that’s to be expected, I guess. He could have asked me more things about myself, I felt like I had to ask him more things, just to keep the conversation moving, but then I don’t think anyone’s at their conversational best on a first date, so I’ll cut him some slack. Anyway, I’m hardly about to complain about him talking too much, because oh. My. God. His voice! He could have spent the evening just reading the phonebook out loud, and I wouldn’t have given a fig. The sexy French accent is one of the biggest cliches going, but it was absolutely spine-tingling.

After dinner, we walked to a pub and he smoked as we walked. The cold suddenly hit me, and I shivered suddenly and violently.

  ‘Are you cold?’, he asked, putting his arm around my shoulder, and placing his lips on mine, in a kiss that tasted of smoke.

At last!

My stomach now doing happy little backflips, we carried on to the pub. Once there, we flopped down on a large sofa, and that’s when he started putting his arm around my shoulders, squeezing the back of my neck, drifting his fingers through my hair, and occasionally softly kissing me. Before this point, the whole evening had felt a bit strange. The last time we saw each other, we were all over each other, and so far this evening, it had all been polite conversation and getting to know each other with pretty much no physical contact whatsoever. It was like rabidly gorging on an entire chocolate cake, then very gingerly nibbling on a lettuce leaf. And yes, that really is the best analogy I could come up with at this present time! Feel free to invent your own.

Soon, the pub started kicking out, so we left and I asked which way the tube station was. He put his arm around me and softly said ‘Come back to my house’.

Now in all honesty, I had kind of intended not to, despite the contents of my handbag and I would like to think I’m able to exercise at least a modicum of self-restraint. But quite honestly, he could have said ‘Give me one of your kidneys, and your firstborn child’ in that accent and it would have been a done deal. So off we went. His flat is really nice. His room was strange, it was quite small, and didn’t look very permanently lived in. It looked like it could all be packed up and cleared out in half an hour.

He pulled me onto the bed, kissing me, and at some point his top was removed, then my dress, then the rest, then ... mmm. Once his shirt was off, I couldn’t keep my hands off him. Slight cigarette breath aside (whatever, he’s French...), he was gorgeous. Quite slim, broad shoulders, some sort of tattoo on the side of his back, and the most incredibly soft, smooth skin. The sex was good, but not great. I think the couple of glasses of wine I’d had, and my nerves were working against me though. I ended up sleeping over (not much choice really, as the tubes had finished, and a taxi back to my house would have cost God knows how much).

I didn’t have the best night’s sleep – he doesn’t half fidget. And I practically had to lie on my hands to keep them to myself – seriously, his skin feels amazing. A few times, he’d shift, or roll over, but he’d throw one arm across me, or he’d lie it by his side, so it was touching my leg. By around 7am, I was absolutely gagging for him. He got up to get a drink of water, and while he was out of the room, I seized my chance, quickly whipping off the T-shirt he’d lent me to sleep in. He got back into bed to find me significantly less clothed than he’d left me. And then .... whoah. This time was much better, much softer and slower. I didn’t have, as DH Lawrence would have it, ‘a crisis’ , but I wasn’t far off. Disappointing, but I’m rather hoping practice will make perfect.

The rest of this morning was a little awkward, with the customary ‘You have the first shower’ / ‘No, YOU have the first shower’ (he had the first shower), and with me not really knowing what to say. Weirdly, when he was getting changed out of his dressing gown and into his underwear, he asked me not to look.

  ‘Yes,’ I said drily. ‘Goodness knows what I might see.’

We left the house together, the awkward silence still ringing in my brain. When we parted to go our respective ways to work, I asked if he’d like to have dinner before he travels abroad with work in two weeks’ time. He said he’d like to, and asked me to call him. I thanked him for a lovely night, he gave me a few kisses, and off we went.

So in a nutshell – not bad. He could stand to keep the conversation a little more balanced, and ask more questions, and there are a couple of things he could improve on in the boudoir department, but all in all, I’m quite satisfied. I don’t think anything particularly significant is going to happen (good really, else this blog would come to a pretty abrupt end!), but hopefully we’ll meet up a few times, have some good food, some drinks, and some more touchy-feely-ness.

And, with any luck, no end of crises. 

It's ON!

Dinner with the Frenchman tonight! Meeting at 7. I even think he's offered to pay, bless him.


And while I in no way wish the contents of my handbag to influence tonight's proceedings, in the spirit of being ready for anything, today it contains the following:


- mini Clinique facewash
- mini Clinique moisturiser
- mini shower gel
- deodorant
- spare knickers
- condoms
- dental floss
- toothbrush
- toothpaste
- makeup
- change of top


I am many things, but disorganised and unprepared are not among them.

getting on le tits....

I don't ask much! I know I promised not to overthink things from here on, a promise I intend to uphold. But really, The Frenchman is irking me today. All I wish to know is are we doing something tomorrow - yes or no? Are we going out, or staying in? If the latter, his place or mine? That's it! All pretty pertinent questions I think it could be reasonably agreed I could do with the answers to. 

Now I know he is A Boy and 

a) exists in a completely different timescale to normal people

b) is pretty much able to wash and go

But I am A Girl. More to the point, I am A Girl with a messy bedroom, legs that could do with a shave (mercifully my bikini line has been to the poodle parlour recently), no idea what I should attire myself in tomorrow, and a negligible idea where my decent sets of matching underwear are hiding. 

In addition to which, I'm going out tonight, so if limbs are to be de-fuzzed, room is to be blitzed, sheets are to be changed, flatmate pre-warned, laundry done, and sexy underwear retrieved, (possibly with the help of Time Team), it would be rather nice to know, so I'm at least prepared to do it when I arrive home at around 10pm tonight after a few gins.

Alternatively, in the event that he flakes out on me, I need to fish my manky gym clothes out of their bag and get them washed so I can do something constructive with my evening (although if he does, he's being dumped very unceremoniously back into the pond, and not before having his legs served up for dinner with a nice buttery garlic sauce and a cheeky Bordeaux).

K, the actual frog-kisser

I am alive! Apologies for my slackness in blogging of late, I'd like to say it's been because I've been spending my time being wined, dined, and having utterly filthy things done to me. But I've mostly been shopping, drinking wine and watching Glee. Ah well.


Anyway, we return to form with a rather messy, teenage-style display of tongues lashing, hands wandering and necks being nibbled up against the wall of a club in Clapham on Friday night. Clearly I haven't spent my recent downtime developing any sense of refinement. Up against the wall, we have myself.  Up against me, we have R, a tempting little delicacy from France.


We were both guests at an engagement party for my friend A (congrats A and Mr A-To-Be xx), and got chatting towards the end of the night. Unbearably enough, I think I may have attempted to speak the odd word in French to him, but I'm choosing to believe that never happened. Anyway, the usual 'boy meets girl, boy and girl chat, boy and girl indulge in behaviour not out of place at a school disco' situation took place, and at the end of the night, we swapped numbers. I seem to remember a discussion taking place, in which it was basically agreed that we very much wanted to go back to his or my place. But that wouldn't really have done, as I was hardly at my best, I had my friend D staying with me, and I'm pretty sure I didn't have my most presentable underwear on (I know, I know, rookie mistake).


But we tentatively suggested meeting up this week, so we swapped numbers, tongue lashed some more, then I left. As I staggered my way home, he sent me this:


Hi,
I know you are busy tomorrow but don't hesitate me a line if you want to meet on sunday.
Cheers
R x


His touchingly mangled English made me smile. Not that I mean to be condescending about his English - it's certainly better than my French. Which I can't have attempted to speak to him. I just can't have done. It's just too hideous to contemplate.


Anyway, I replied, saying I was free on Sunday, and suggested we go for a walk along South Bank - casual, invigorating, and free - the 'free' element of that being of the essence, as I'm completely broke until payday. As it turned out, I ended up being busy all weekend, but I didn't hear back from The Frenchman. Mindful of the Pick Up Artist , and the sheer length of time that dragged on for, I decided I was in no mood to hang about, so decided to send another text, cunningly disguised as being casual and a bit flirty, but with the ulterior motive of deciding whether or not to throw this little froggie back in the pond:


Not into physical activity then? ;-) Hope you've had a good weekend, still fancy meeting up?


He replied surprisingly quickly, with:


Yes, definitely in physical activities. Sorry i was caught in a lunch that transform into a pub drinking afternoon. Let's meets up this week tuesday or wednesday.


Hee. His English makes me giggle.


So anyway - physical activity! I think I have a pretty good idea where this is headed, but again, mindful of the sheer pain in the arse that was the whole Pick Up Artist experience, in which I overthought and overthought and overthought the entire situation to death, this time I am just going to not think, go with the flow, and see what happens.


Which will hopefully be, as one of my Twitter followers suggested, getting to nibble a little on this frog's legs...