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.’
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