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...
No comments:
Post a Comment