Two days after our third date I text the Francophile asking when she’s free. I’m planning to take her to the darkest, booziest, filthiest bar I know, where the seats are so tiny she’ll practically have to sit in my lap. It’s always rammed full of couples with hard liquor and hard ons. If we don’t kiss there we’re not kissing anywhere. Sadly, I never get the chance. After my text I wait an excruciating day and a half for her to reply that she doesn’t “know how [I] feel” but if we meet again it would only be “as friends.” “Again, I don’t know how you’re feeling but I thought I’d be upfront.” How am I feeling? Angry, frustrated, hurt, fed up, fucked off and furious. It’s not that she’s not interested. After all, there are lots of reasons why someone might change their mind. Maybe she’s dating someone else and it got serious. Maybe she’s not over her ex. Maybe she doesn’t know how I feel and so she’s mounting a pre-emptive strike. …
Last week I had 2 dates. Two! I’m like the Hoff. I’m like the Heff. My pecs were positively quivering with anticipation. It feels good to get back into the swing of things. Sometimes when you’re busy, the search for love can get rudely shoved to the back of the queue. It’s time to shove it back up front again.
I’m getting political. I’ve decided to start a campaign to make people’s lives better. I’m sick of life being all me me me. I want to be civic minded. To fight for the issues that matter. To take a stand where it counts. I’m finally going to do my bit like a brave, fierce, towering suffragette. I’ll be sending out emails shortly and I hope you’ll join me in the struggle because, frankly, I’ve had enough.
Sometimes I think if there were credit ratings for hearts then mine would be junk status: BAD INVESTMENT, the signs would say, PURCHASE NOT ADVISED. All the sensible consumers would keep a wide berth, tutting: “Don’t touch that sweetie,” a mother would say, “it’s rotten.”
“So…so, let me get this straight. You went to a party at her boyfriend’s house. You got very, very drunk. You told her you loved her. And later you were sick on your hands.” “And on my coat. And a bit on the carpet.”
I’m on the tube heading to a cocktail bar when my date texts me: “So sorry, running 15 minutes late!” I tell her not to worry, head to the bar and settle into my seat with a glass of wine.