umm....no.

So, this Saturday just gone, I had the long-promised drink (OK, three) with The Marine. And in a nutshell – nah.

Don’t get me wrong, he was very nice, and actually a lot nicer-looking in the flesh than I’d expected. From what I’d seen of his Facebook pictures, he looked like kind of a meathead. Then again, in the flesh, he didn’t spend quite so much time with his shirt off, flashing his tattoos and posing as if about to commence a boxing match. Swings and roundabouts.

Anyway, we met at a pub on the Northern line on Saturday night. He had a drink waiting for me (Merlot, lovely) and said I looked great. Although I think he was a little gutted that I was taller than him in my heels – ha! Oh come on, the man’s pure muscle, it’s only fair that I have some kind of physical advantage over him.

He had the ‘date jacket’ on, or what he called his ‘unlucky jacket’. As it may well be, because I really wasn’t that into him. Conversation didn’t feel as easy as it has on other dates I've had. Although I hate to use the Pick Up Artist as an example, because what I saw of him was pretty much 80 per cent showmanship, when I went out with him, the conversation didn’t falter once, and it was interesting and funny, and we went off on incredibly geeky tangents, with lots of gesticulating, slapping the table and going ‘YES! Totally!’ .. and we just ‘clicked’...as much as you can when the person opposite you is utterly deceiving you, but you get what I mean, as an example.

The Marine and I didn’t not get along, but the whole night I was very conscious of the conversation being an actual effort, instead of flowing naturally. And at the end of the day, I just didn’t fancy him. It didn’t help that the pub we were in was absolutely packed to the rafters with really quite attractive men – at least I know where my friend and fellow-frog-kisser D and I are going on our next night out!

Then, rather annoyingly, he asked me – and it may be unfair that this bothers me – why it is that I’m single. People ask me that fairly often, and it’s one of my pet hates and one of the things guaranteed to put my back straight up. Not because I’m sensitive about it – on the contrary, six months into being single, I’m really quite enjoying myself! The thing that really irks me about that question is the implication that I don’t have any say in the matter – like there’s no possible way I might actually like being single, and that I’m just waiting for some man – any man – to come along and change my Facebook status to ‘In a relationship’. It seems like such an inane thing to ask me – it’s like asking why my hair is the colour it is, or why I have size 7 feet, or why I’m right-handed.

Who knows, maybe, hypothetically speaking, it’s meant to be flattering, maybe he was genuinely astounded that someone as attractive and intelligent and articulate and kind-hearted and well-dressed, and urbane as me (well, I did say ‘hypothetical’!) couldn’t possibly be single. Surely some man must have come along and snapped me up by now? Because I can’t possibly have any influence over the matter, can I?

Grrr.

Anyway, after three glasses of Merlot for me, and a couple of beers for him, we made our way home. We got the same bus, as we live fairly close to each other. I must say that by this point, there had been no physical contact – hands on backs, legs, holding hands, kissing, at all. And it hadn’t even occurred to me, which is pretty much all I needed to know about how I felt about him, I think. I got off the bus first, thanked him for a lovely evening, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and made my way home. And as I did, I was thinking Well, he’s nice, but thank God I can go home now. It probably didn’t help that my shoes were killing me. As much as I appreciated them for giving me the height advantage, they are ludicrous.

He texted me when I got home, to check I’d got back safely, to thank me for a lovely evening, and he also said he’d like to see me again. As I wrenched the Shoes of Death off my feet, I believe I thought Whatever...let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, and sank gratefully into bed.

He texted me on Sunday, too, just asking how my day had been, and on Monday night, he texted me again, to ask the same thing, and also if I wanted to meet for dinner next week. Now I’m all for giving people a second chance – no one’s really at their relaxed best on a first date – so I said yes. He replied with something, I can’t remember. Then, about half an hour later, I got this:
To be honest, I wasn’t sure if you were that keen on me or not. X

Really? Must we? It’s two days post-date, it’s late on a Monday night, and he wants to go there? That said, he does have a point. I don’t have a thing against him, and I certainly wouldn’t relegate him to Frog status, and I thought he was nice, but I didn’t feel any sparks – compared to the evening with the Frenchman, where I had to excuse myself to the Ladies, merely for the purpose of sending a text to my friend, H, the precise contents of which were, I believe: Oh. My. God.

So really, I suppose this would be a convenient opening to nip this one in the bud. But what to say? - I’m terrible with these things. And while men traditionally seem to have no apparent problem with vanishing on me, I meanwhile would prefer to be a little more gentle with people’s feelings. I can’t very well condemn people for ignoring me if I’m going to behave the same way in turn. So with that in mind, I’m trying to think of a kind but gentle way to respond to that text. Although, seeing as he sent it a day and a half ago, I’m thinking the silence may have already spoken volumes for me. 


PS: I posted this at 11:21 am. At 11:25am, my phone buzzed. It was The Marine. Hi, how's your week going? x

While I'm still loathe to resort to fuckwit behaviour, good God man, take a hint! 

In which I am reprimanding, opportunistic, and also, kind of a snob

....I AM alive! Do be patient with me, my dears. I had hoped to have tales to report from this weekend just gone, when I went on a big drunken girlie break, and was one of the few single girls there. Alas, the male specimens we encountered were not entirely my type, but in the state I was in, I don't imagine I would have been their type either!

Anyway, I’m not completely bereft of news, as this weekend, I’m (allegedly) going for the long-promised drink with The Marine . Following his rather inconsiderate means of cancelling on me last time, I sent him to purgatory for a week or so, ignoring his texts. Then, on a Saturday night a few weeks ago, I decided to thaw a little, when he texted again, asking me if I wanted to go to the cinema. Now while I obviously normally endeavour to spend my life in a perpetual state of being sociable, alert, charming, attractive and presentable (!), on this particular day I was exhausted, quasi-hungover, spotty, had minging limp hair, had spent the day running around and lugging bags about, and wanted nothing more than to have some dinner, a bath, and an early night. And if that makes me sound old, then old I be! So I thanked him, but politely declined, and then proceeded to give him a subtle but unmistakable bollocking for his lack of communication on that day we were meant to go out:

HIM: I’m really sorry it didn’t work out meeting up this week.
ME: That’s OK, it couldn’t be helped. Might have been nice if you’d let me know though. HIM: What do you mean?
Still not getting it? Do I need to use flashcards? OK.....

ME: On Weds, when you couldn’t make it, I didn’t hear a thing from you, so I didn’t know what was going on at all until it got to the end of work, and I thought: ‘right, looks like I’m going home then!’ HIM: I know, I thought I might make it, but she was really ill. ME: Oh dear, poor thing... And that was being sincere, by the way! I’m not that mean. ....Always nice to know for definite though! HIM: I know, I’m really sorry. ME: That’s OK. Bollocking over. HIM: Yay!
Ha. Always nice to reduce a member of the armed forces to their knees (like I’ve done it before(!))

So anyway, if time, tide and childhood germs do not conspire against us, I shall be meeting The Marine this Saturday for a drink. I think we’ll get on quite well, we seem to banter quite well in texts and emails, but we’ll see what happens in person. Again, and not to labour the point, but I would honestly be surprised if I fancied him. The ultra-muscly look has never done it for me (as a quick glance at all my ex-boyfriends can attest), plus I don’t find him that attractive. But you never know, do you? Meeting people is what this year’s experiment is all about.

Well, that and free dinner...

....what?? I’m skint!


In the meantime though, 'tis St Patrick's Day! To mark the occasion (since I never have done before), me and my fellow couldn't-be-less-Irish-if-we-tried chum D are heading out to an appropriately green-festooned, Guinness-serving pub somewhere in London. Might my first ever encounter with an Irish frog be in the offing? I shall report back....

re-appearances - some welcome, some not

Last night, finally, and while at dinner with my lovely friend M, I was at last paid a visit by the long-overdue men in red coats. They had Aunt Flo with them, and since the painters were in, they were on their way to celebrate Rag Week. 


You get, I’m sure, my drift.

So in conclusion – woohoo! I’d been feeling pretty chilled since failing a certain test two weeks ago, but as actual physical proof of me not being knocked up by the Frenchman was still to materialise, I was starting to wonder what was going on and – horror of horrors – contemplating taking another test. But now I don’t have to, as absolutely definitely nothing is alive in there. Grand! Completely worth the bad night’s sleep I had last night, the resultant tiredness and the fact that my belly feels like a barrage balloon.

In another and rather less welcome re-appearance, while I was wending my cheery way home, I got another text from The Marine, having quite pointedly neglected to answer the one he sent in the morning:

Hey, So .... have you any plans for the weekend, Miss K?

Yeah. Washing my f***ing hair, mate, that’s what I’m doing this weekend. 

stood up!

So in the end, I heard nothing from The Marine. Zilch. Nada. Not a word. Not even a 'sorry, can't make it.' I just timed how long it took me to type those four words - 'sorry, can't make it'. It took four seconds. 

Look, I get that his kid isn't well. I don't begrudge him that at all, and I completely understand that comes first. But FOUR SECONDS. Frankly, he could have been healing the kid with his bare hands all day, and still had time to let me know he couldn't make it.

While, on the whole, I think my parents did a pretty good job of bringing me up, I don't think I was raised to a unusually exemplary standard. I mean, I'm pretty negligible with thank-you notes, and I'm sure my table manners could use some attention. And yet I seem to have got to this grand old age, and understand that if I've made plans with someone and subsequently can't make it, I should first and foremost apologise, and let them know as early as possible in the day so they can make alternative plans. Plans which wouldn't involve almost having a screaming fit in the supermarket at 7 o'clock in the evening (well I'd planned to make myself a lovely dinner and the bastards didn't have any butternut squash).

So, as you might imagine, I was Not. Impressed. And taking into the account that I don't particularly fancy him, I was ready to do a Pick Up Artist/Frenchman-style disappearing act. Which I don't approve of, but frankly, bad behaviour deserves bad behaviour in return.

Then, this morning, I received this:

Good job we didn't meet up, **** was really ill last night, hope you have a good day x

Is he kidding me?! I mean, is he actually, honest-to-God, taking the piss out of me?

In what possible universe does he think that will do? Sending that the next day? No apology for a) standing me up and b) not saying one word to let me know he couldn't make it? 'Good job'??!!

Again, I sincerely hope the kid feels better soon, especially as I think he's back on duty next week, and it'd be horrid if he had to leave while his child is still sick. But I'm sorry, life is just too short for this crap. And given that I don't actually fancy him, I think we can consider that a decision made. Maybe I'm being draconian again, but that's just how I'm feeling. If we can thank the frogs I've encountered thus far for anything, it's that each time, they are significantly reducing the amount of patience I'm willing to have, and allowances I'm willing to make for bad behaviour.

So well done, Mr Marine. You have the immeasurable honour of being ranked alongside the Pick Up Artist and the Frenchman on the Frog list, and you get to join them at the murky bottom of the dating pond. 

While you're down there, maybe the three of you can put your pretty heads together and see if, between you, you can't figure out how to use a phone.

with apologies for the random and slightly gross picture

It’s 10:58am. It’s a lovely, slightly hazy sunny day in March. I’m sitting at my desk. I’m wearing a work/date-appropriate outfit. I have in my handbag some makeup, my toothbrush, and toothpaste (NO condoms, face wash, etc. Not this time). And next to my desk is my ready-packed gym bag. Because, you see, my evening could go either way, as The Marine isn’t sure if he can make it tonight.

*slow, drawn-out sigh*

Of course, it is actually for a good reason. He has a young child – did I mention that? - who’s a bit poorly with some bug or other. He texted me last night, very apologetically, and said he still hoped to be able to make it, he didn’t want me to think he was messing me about, and he’d even bought a new jacket for the occasion. Bless!

Well, we shall see what transpires. It’d certainly be nice to have a night off from the gym, not least because I’ve been going a bit mad with the exercises for my abs and obliques this week, and consequently now feel like I’ve been dragged into an alley and given a good kicking. But speaking of abusing my body, since I’m out for dinner and drinks with my lovely friend M tomorrow, then out for just drinks with my workmates on Friday, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to spare my liver for one more day.

Either way, I’ll be doing some degree of damage to my body tonight...  

I am...

....not dead, I promise. Merely busy, seeing friends, and, regrettably, not spending my time bedding an array of delectable men.


I shall hopefully, however,  have tales to tell on Thursday, as tomorrow night, I have my date with The Marine. Which I'm not expecting much of - as I've said, I don't think I fancy him that much - but with any luck, I shall just have a pleasant evening and, perchance, a free dinner - what? I'm skint!


Speaking of freebies I don't have to pay back, I have thrown The Frenchman once and for all back in the pond. I wasn't particularly gagging to see him again - at least not on any actual interest-in-him-as-a-person level. I confess, it was mostly the accent and the body. Bad K. But anyway, after leaving it a while after the last message he sent me, I sent a breezy reply, just asking if he'd had a nice trip with work. Didn't even suggest meeting up. This was over a week ago. And I heard .... nothing. And we all know how much I enjoy men who can't even grow a pair of balls big enough to help them give a girl a polite 'thanks but no thanks'. Yes, yes, I know it's only a week, but I have no patience to mess around. Tant pis.


Anyway, I'm sure I had a point....oh yes, the freebies. Well, since I was broke on my date with The Frenchman too (I seriously need to start scheduling my dates closer after payday), he paid for dinner. I thanked him profusely and promised to repay the favour. And now I don't have to. Woohoo!!

...........although, conversely, this does mean he couldn't bear the thought of seeing me again, even if it meant getting a free meal...