gah!!

I have made a most alarming discovery about the Australian. 


He has one of these:

Slightly creeped out now. And thinking if I do ever sleep with him, I might need to wear oven gloves.

bloody hell, what now?

Last night I went for a spot of shopping and dinner on Oxford Street with my chum D. Paris clothes being chief on the agenda (three weeks to go, and as yet, I still have a ton of stuff to sort out, loads of things to buy, an online aptitude test to complete, insurance to buy, I still can't speak basic French, and I still don't bear an uncanny resemblance to Eva Green or Marion Cotillard). But I digress.


Browsing the rails - in French Connection, funnily enough - I felt my bag vibrating with an incoming call on my mobile. I fished it out, only to see the American's name flashing up.


"D!!" I hissed. "The American!! What do I do? Do I answer it?" (why did I even ask?!)


"No!" she said, incredulously. And quite rightly. This is why I should never go anywhere unaccompanied.


So, back in the bag it went, and eventually he rang off. Didn't leave any kind of message, so I think we can safely assume he was just bored and desperate for company. Never mind - I'm sure he can find plenty of other people to go drinking on a roof with. Preferably near the edge.

Well well WELL....

Oh, this is going to be GOOD. 


This is going to be very, VERY good. 


The Pick Up Artist and I meet again! 


The friend whose birthday barbecue we met at last summer is having another birthday barbecue. And The Pick Up Artist has confirmed his attendance. 


So this is what's going to happen:


- I am going to look STUNNING.
- I will not get drunk, but remain in complete control.
- I will be sociable, friendly, and good company - to everyone else.
- Him, I shall ignore. Not in a rude way, or an obvious way, I just shall not see him.
- If by some morbid stroke of fate he does try to speak to me, I shall respond with only the bare minimum that politeness demands. Then very quickly lose interest and find something better to do. Which is basically anything.
- I have a lovely evening, and at the end of the night, perform a victory dance all the way to the station, leaving him eating my dust.


Now the only part of this I should struggle with - perhaps worryingly - will be the not getting drunk. You know what it's like, it's summer, you're in the garden, someone puts a glass of rose in your hand, and... well my antics at last year's party are sufficient illustration of that. But I am going to really really try to stay on the soft stuff. Everything else should be a doddle - I don't find him remotely attractive any more (how could I? Seriously, if you haven't read my blog entry about The Pick Up Artist , do so now). Added to the fact that I don't think I could look down on him less if I tried, I don't think I'm exactly going to be swooning.


'But K', you might ask, 'isn't this all a little immature? Didn't you two only have one date? Should this really be such a big deal to you?'. And the answers are: yes, completely / yes, we did, and / probably not, but I can hold a grudge like nobody's business. At the end of the day, I had really high hopes for this guy, and he left me feeling disappointed and momentarily worthless. But you're right - this was over a year ago, single life has come on in leaps and bounds since then, and no, in the grand scheme of things, it really doesn't matter? So what better way to illustrate that than by making it excruciatingly clear to this guy how little he matters to me? 


In fact, I think, in order to keep my resolve, and also in order that I might get a knowing little smirk on my face whenever we cross paths at this party, I should print out and keep in my wallet the following:

Ahh.... it's the gift that never stops giving.