Friday, 10 September 2010

Diet Coke Boy: Third Date...

Woops. Bit of a break on the update front. Too many holidays and too much fun going on. Not enough attention being paid to the dating scene.

But! Last week was FINALLY third date night with Diet Coke Boy (we took ages to find a convenient date for us both!).

Also my decision was made that the date was to be on me, and planned by me. First ever third date, and first ever date I have had to plan. Nerve-wracking stuff.

So, I went on my first ever "third date" with Diet Coke Boy. Had serious doubts about it all to be honest following the episodes of him throwing pink girlie-weight bowling balls around and drinking strawberry milkshakes and coke floats etc. But - I did feel like I kind of owed him after he paid for the first two dates and sent me flowers (to the wrong office - doh).

I was absolutely determined to get some booze down myself at least this time round, so I set the location (5 minute bus ride from my home – so selfish), to do what he requested we do (play monopoly - this is because I claimed to be pretty much unbeatable at head to head monopoly on our 2nd date), and got there early to buy a bottle of delightful Malbec.

So, I sat there with monopoly set up and ready to go (so keen to win), a large glass of my Argentinean Malbec (half drunk) and a hopeful empty 2nd wine glass should he decide to indulge in the vino with me. The evening progressed thus:

• I despatched him at monopoly within 20 minutes. I almost felt sorry for the guy.
• I told him he had sent the flowers to the wrong place. He didn't seem to be embarrassed at his error at all. Slightly more red-faced when I suggested that the nicknames on the card after 2 dates was a bit strange and that my old receptionist had found them amusing.
• He didn't drink any wine. He clearly doesn't drink ever. I really quizzed him on it this time - we're talking quick-fire 20 questions. His dating profile is definitely misleading in stating he occasionally indulges. Unimpressed.
• Consequence of his non-drinking revelation though was that I drank the entire bottle to myself. Happy days.
• We both ate a good steak and peppercorn sauce - at least he likes red meat if not red wine.
• He sent me a text message whilst I was still sitting at the table with him - weirdo. It asked me if I would like a decider match as we were now 1-1 in terms of the fact he had won the bowling and I had won monopoly… Odd behaviour. Unsure of how to react in such a scenario, so smiled and politely said that would be nice. (Note: I didn't also reply by text).

So - towards end of the evening, I thought he might finally try to go for the lunge, especially bearing in mind his text message that indicated he wanted to see me again… I was well prepped after drinking my entire bottle so for once nerves were not an issue. We paid up, left and said goodbye outside… and nothing. Just another peck on the cheek goodbye.

Most odd. Not fussed by lack of lunge from him (as you may have guessed from reading the above), but did start to have concerns about the fact that everyone else I have spoken to seems to kiss on ALL of their dates, whereas I seem to never kiss on any at all!

So, I assumed that was probably it with my tee-totaller… until I got a text message this week asking if I fancied playing connect 4 at some point… I JEST NOT!!!! Connect 4 for heaven's sake!

Conclusion: non-drinking and a few indications of the lacking in brain cells, I think, means that Diet Coke Boy probably won't be losing a game of Connect 4 in the near future.

Further conclusion: I really need to kiss on a date soon or I am going to be get a complex about it!

Wednesday, 18 August 2010


This weekend I hosted a Safari Dinner Party. You may have read about them recently in various London papers as one of the events that London's Bright Young Things now do…

Suffice to say, my friends and I are actually way ahead of the game on Safaris and have been doing them for a couple of years now. In fact we all consider that we have fine-tuned the Safari DP to such an extent that we are indisputably THE hostesses you want to be invited by to such an event.

For those not quite in the know though, I will elaborate.

The Safari DP basic premise originates from armed forces days gone-by. The stories I have heard from my mother of my parents' time abroad are of dazzling affairs in the mess most of the time, but as well as cocktail parties and so forth in the evening, the wives would also often host dinner parties. And, in true armed forces mentality, team work goes a long way in these things. One wife would host the canapés and starter course for the group at the DP. The entire group would then move on the next (inevitably nearby) house where another wife would have prepared the main course. And after the main course, the entire group would again move on for coffees, dessert, cheese etc at another wife's house, again very nearby.

A few years ago, some of my friends adapted this into an amazingly successful formula, specifically aimed at the singles market in London. (I don't claim that similar DPs have never been done before, of course, but I do claim the superior nature of what my friends have fine-tuned over the last couple of years).

You have 3 houses, situated relatively close to each other, and 3 hostesses, 1 in each house.

Each hostess draws together a clutch of their most fabulous single friends, typically 4 or 5 males and 4 or 5 females. Each hostess also comes up with a sumptuous menu to impress, because let's face it, each hostess is going to be compared to each other and wants such comparisons to be favourable.

Each hostess essentially hosts an entire DP with the usual 3 or 4 courses at their own house. But. The key difference here is that the single boys rotate houses between each course.

You start with your own chaps. You ply them with plenty of wine, make sure they are looking dapper and talking splendid chat and then after starters are done you send them forth on to the next house (as pre-arranged) at the appointed time. You want your boys to be the ones that the other 2 houses of girls rave about. You hope that the other hostesses have sourced some fine young eligible men for your house, and as you have five minutes or so as the rotation occurs, the girls fluster around preparing for the next course, discuss the men that have just left and get excited about the impending arrivals. The men, no doubt, have some sort of locker room style talk en route to their next location.

Your second round of men arrive. You assess. You feed. You drink. You flirt. You probably play some dinner table games. You assess some more. You send them off on their way at the appointed time to their third and final house, and again, await your next and last round of chaps to arrive.

The same thing happens again. Post liqueur coffees or what-have-you, you all then descend en masse (again, pre-arranged) to a night-time haunt, where about 30 odd of you all congregate, consume more beverages, flirt more outrageously now that you have decided who are making a bee-line for out of the 12 to 15 chaps you might have met, and then dance the night away in some sort of debauched fashion.

And debauched is the word. I'm not talking Killing Kittens debauched (google it) but a more innocent and pure-booze related debauchery.

So. How did my Safari DP go?


My boys were adored by the other two houses of girls. My food was proclaimed outstanding by all 3 rounds of chaps (particularly my main course boys – I HAD cooked a 24 hour aromatic slow roast shoulder of pork – nicknamed Percival the Pig - it was heavenly). The single girls at my house were lauded by all the boys. By the time I was boogying in my normal, favourite cheesy-music-playing-South-West London nightclub I was ecstatic with the success of it all. And probably slightly tipsy.

In fact, the morning after, following some telephone calls to all and sundry to determine the precise level of success and glean all possible gossip from the evening, I drew together some vague statistics and commentary from the evening:

There was:
On average a 60-65% snoggage success rate from the evening;
On average an 8-10% sleepover success rate;
On average a 5% double-snog success rate (2 of my guests - well done chaps);
One too many bestiality stories involving marmite, dogs and willies (eugh);
One random chavtastic kiss of one Safari attendee with a hilarious looking white-tracksuit-bottomed and flip-flop wearing non-Safari attendee;
One girlfriend mysteriously turning up for one of the "single" Safari boys (naughty);
Many mind blanks (convenient);
One argument about the quality of MacDonalds chicken legend burgers;
Four late night venues across London visited in total by safari attendees;
2 after-parties;
4.5 kilos left of Percival the Pig;
AND there was a late night booty text sent (not successfully converted, but effort applauded).

Conclusion. Much fun had by all.

My only wish might be that I had contributed to some of the more-interesting sounding above statistics/commentary.

But, on this occasion, I quite enjoyed my role as match-maker extraordinaire. Just call me Emma Woodhouse or Flora Poste…

Friday, 13 August 2010

Mr Friday-Thursday Night

Soooo. The dating enthusiasm has taken a bit of a back seat this week. I am still in a quandary as to whether I genuinely fancy Diet Coke Boy enough to merit a third date with him, or whether I just feel obliged to go on a date with him because he has now treated me to two dates AND rather sweetly sent me flowers (albeit to the wrong place – muppet).

I think I have just about decided that the third date will happen though – but our diaries are taking a while to co-ordinate with summer activities clearing dominating a lot of time for both of us. I have also decided that I need to pay for this third date, and arrange it entirely on my own terms. So, preparations are afoot – Diet Coke Boy date 3 update will be forthcoming in a week or so..

Meanwhile, I may have misbehaved a little in the meantime…

If you recall a certain rather fun "What a Week!" I had a month or so ago, you may also recall a certain Mr Friday Night who featured – an old friend of mine from law school. In a rather surprising turn of events, Mr Friday Night has been rather eager and constant in his textual attentions since that evening, and I have, again, almost surprising myself, been replying relatively enthusiastically. Surprising mainly because he is not my usual type at all. Blonde hair, grey eyes, a little under 6 foot, a little on the cuddly side if that doesn't make me sound too cruel. Super intelligent though – he can almost - almost - out-spar me, which I rather like. And he is pretty confident and arrogant for a cuddly chap. And I don't normally like the cocky ones, I am far too sensible to fall for such chaps. All in all then, it is rather odd.

So, anyway, after a few weeks of furious flirty texting, last night Mr Friday Night came round for a chilled out take-away and vino evening. And promptly became Mr Friday-Thursday Night.

Tuesday, 3 August 2010

Mullet Boy

So. Whilst I am still deliberating about Diet Coke Boy, I thought it was worth sneaking in some more dating practice earlier this week…

Date no. 10 (yes, I am counting them) is henceforth to be called Mullet Boy. Seriously, he is a broker in the city, and he sports a mullet. Dear lord. A really frizzy one that tufted out so that even when he was looking straight at me, I could see wispy bits of his hair poking out behind his ears. Eeeew.

And, this must be a common theme for the chaps on the dating website I am, he had a seriously effeminate, slightly high pitched voice, much like Canoe Boy. This was not aided by the fact that he joked about how he always "accidentally" orders girlie cocktails and then sat back down at the table with a sweet, coffee coloured concoction in a martini glass with pretty decorations on it. My heart absolutely sank from when he first introduced himself and for the next 5 minutes.

It transpires he hails from Liverpool originally.. And he plays softball, which he joked as being like girlie rounders and not as hardcore as baseball – again, how manly.

All in all, I think it most obvious that Mullet Boy is NOT, repeat NOT, my type or for me for the following immediately obvious reasons:

• Mullet
• Girlie voice
• Girlie drinks
• Girlie sport obsession
• Liverpudlian origin (don't despise me, but I just really struggle with accents – simple fact)

Which is why it is MOST odd that I actually had a fun couple of hours with him, giggled a lot, ended up quite fancying him and would consider going on a 2nd date with him. Hmmm. He was tanned, not too short (5 foot 11), good-looking (bar the barnet), seemed quite sweet and intelligent, was genuinely interested in me, and we chatted a lot about golf (his nickname is Ballesteros), and also the ins and outs of the insurance world (I know, sounds dull, but I actually found it quite stimulating conversation). Do we think I have finally lost the plot and reached absolute heights of desperation, or that there is just no accounting for taste, or that you just never know what might end up floating your boat?! (To clarify though, Mullet Boy won't be a boat floater for me in any sort of long term sense).

Anyway, to shock myself, and no doubt all of you, there might be a date 10b with Mullet Boy.

Thursday, 29 July 2010

Dear Cougar...

Incredibly exciting news.

Yesterday morning I received a phone call from the firm I used to work at (over a year ago) saying some flowers had been delivered for me!

I was somewhat confused about who on earth would be sending me flowers that didn't know me well enough to send them to the right firm, but at the same time jumping around, silently whooping, with the telephone attached to my ear (much to the consternation of my colleagues walking past at that moment).

I asked my old receptionist if there was a note to say who they were from. Cheeky woman said that there was indeed an enclosed note and she would be happy to open it for me if I liked? I say cheeky because I could sense in her voice that she had jolly well opened it already and that something peculiar was going on…

"Dear Cougar, Love Mav xxx".

Oh. My. Word.

To the unknowing ear that could sound like I was a cradle snatcher (google puma, cougar etc – essentially old women who like toyboys) – which any of you lot reading this will actually be aware can very easily apply to me. To my old receptionist it was probably the most amazing gossip she could possibly start to spread around my former colleagues.

"Who might Mav be then Twenty-Single…?", she slyly asked.

To my knowing ear though, it was Diet Coke Boy. And he appears to given us nicknames already. Hmmm.

You may recall that after my first date with Diet Coke Boy I was on a mission to learn all the call signs from Top Gun before our second date. Which I duly did. And during supper he did indeed quiz me on them and was very impressed that I got all of them (including the call signs for the control towers and ship, not that it is of importance) – bar one… Cougar.

I have many thoughts on this at the moment:

1. Diet Coke Boy has sent me flowers! Hurrah! I have never had flowers sent to work before – how exciting!

2. He had, somehow, almost utterly miraculously in fact, sent them to the wrong firm – and indeed somewhere I worked a year ago. I have definitely mentioned that I used to work there but if the boy had been paying even scant attention, he should have realised it was a while ago. That old grey matter concern of mine is clearly now justified. He must be little dim-witted. Alternatively, he paid no attention to about 10 minutes of our dinner conversation. Neither option is ideal.

3. How cute of him. And I thought I might not hear from him again. Or is it distressingly keen…? I didn't even kiss him - could he be a bit of an oddball? He DID live with his ex for four and a half years… maybe he is looking for a quick step-in replacement for her?

4. Nicknames?! After two dates. Errrrr. And he gives me the one of the guy who utterly bottles it in Top Gun and himself the legend that is Tom Cruise as Maverick?!

Anyway. I went to collect them after work yesterday – it was immensely fun finally being one of those girls carrying a bouquet home from work that all of the other females around try not to look enviously at.

On balance I think I had better organise a 3rd date with him now he has treated me to two dinners and bought me flowers. There was talk of a monopoly head to head… I would probably prefer to get a little tipsy with the boy to see what he is like after a few drinks, but it doesn't look like that will happen anytime soon if he keeps ordering milkshakes and coke floats... So, if anyone knows of a cosy pub that has board games at the ready, that would be great…

Tuesday, 27 July 2010

Diet Coke Boy returns

Yes - that's right – blue-eyed, blond-haired, Diet Coke Boy got back from his holidays last week– and he was keen for a second date - hurrah.

So, Diet Coke Boy had appeared to be non-drinking and potentially not endowed with many brain cells from our first date. On the plus side though, he was good to look at, and we had a fun first date (which he paid for – what a gent).

Towards the end of last week Diet Coke Boy had been telling me that what we were going to do was top secret - which was all very exciting - I guess... For anyone who knows me though, I am not that easy to surprise. I also like to know what I am doing generally in life. Further, while surprises are not unwelcome per se, it actually seems that when people try to surprise me, they usually fail. I admired his attempting to do so though.

He tried to give me a supposedly cryptic clue for what we were doing: "it started in ancient Egypt and is 60 foot long". I couldn't figure this out and neither could my cryptic-crossword-genius brother, at which point I began to suspect that he doesn't know what a cryptic clue usually involves. So I presumed he had in fact just given me a normal clue. Possibly the lack of his grey matter shining through here… Oh dear. But then again, if my genius brother couldn't figure out the clue then perhaps Diet Coke Boy was actually incredibly clever?!

So, I thought he could be referring to Cleopatra's Needle – perhaps we were going to picnic around that Embankment area – not the exact measurement but near enough…But he had also hinted he was quite keen to see my competitive side so I also thought we might be doing something like quasar or bowling or urban golf. I decided to take jeans into work with me and change from work outfit in case we were doing anything active and I had got the picnic thing wrong.

Which I had.

Technically he should get massive brownie points for trying to surprise me – and slightly succeeding. Last night we DID go bowling at the All Star lanes in Brick Lane: bowling lanes are 60 foot long I was reliably informed, and apparently bowling may have originated in Egypt (so definitely NOT a cryptic clue then). And he was very sweet – he deliberately tried to meet me somewhere else to keep me off the scent until we got into a taxi and he had to give the destination. How cute of him.

We had a quick drink on arrival pre-bowling. He ordered a strawberry milkshake. I had a beer. Felt very feminine. When we then donned the cool bowling shoes, I thanked the heavens I had decided to change into jeans because my chunky legs do NOT look their best in a suit skirt and bowling shoes.

We bowled. I tried not to let my competitive side show too much. He bowled with a pink ball weighing 8 whatever-it-is-they-weigh that the prep-school-aged-girl in the next door lane to us was using. I used a standard 12 weight green-coloured ball. Again, felt most feminine.

I noticed he bowled in a really odd fashion and that he walks a little like a cowboy does - wide-legged type of swagger. Odd. I was winning until the 8th turn when he got a spare… then he won overall by 4 points (though I must point out that I was the only one to get a strike). I smiled in gracious loser fashion a lot. Secretly most hacked off that I lost to a boy that throws a pink lightweight ball. He suggested supper in the diner - I was instantly appeased. He must have the general measure of me already.

Had a comedy moment whilst we were waiting for a waiter or waitress wearing a little red bowling shirt to show us to our table. He decided to accost an 80 year old granny wearing a bright pink blouse who was on her way to the loo to see if she could seat us at a table, and started with "excuse me, could we have a table for…." then tailed off as she looked at him most oddly and as it dawned on him that she was NOT a waitress. I was crying with laughter in a really unhelpful fashion in the corner at this stage… Absolutely hilarious! Poor Diet Coke Boy was bright red and the granny's family (sat about 3 metres away) were giving him filthy looks.

Then, when an actual waitress finally did come up to seat us, he said, "do you work here?" to double check! He gets massive brownie points again for recovering from this relatively well and not being overly phased at all by the fact that I was unable to stop laughing at him for about 10 minutes.

We ordered food - I went for double cheese burger and chips with onion rings, he went for grilled steak and green beans and no carbs in sight. I have no doubt that any normal man at this stage would be feeling somewhat emasculated taking into account the milkshake, pink ball and healthy dinner option compared to the clearly starving, beer-swilling, shot putter he was treating to supper, but he seemed rather unaffected by it all.

I questioned him about the fact he clearly takes quite good care of himself. He used to be VERY into his rowing apparently. Temporary concern about his banter levels fluttered, but I quickly reminded myself that his banter has seemed fine so far and not to panic.

He also didn't mind at all when I mentioned that I do drink fairly regularly and not necessarily in small quantities (though please note, I joined him in having a Coke Float for the rest of the evening - sober me for rest of evening – and yes, he ordered a Coke Float –with diet coke of course – what on earth?!!!). He never actually confirmed if he is a fully-fledged tee-totaller or not though but dodged the question. Curious. I suspect he may be.

All continued pleasantly and well; he chivalrously treated me again in a most lovely way ("no, I insist" - swoon) and then offered me a lift home. Don't worry - I did ask him if he was a psycho before I got in his car. Think he thought I was a little odd.

He drove me home in some sort of uber plush, snazzy car (am useless with cars – maybe a Lexus?) and then when we were about 5 minutes from home I began to panic about whether he would try to kiss me or not. It suddenly dawned on me that I haven't kissed someone whilst sober for nearly 18 months!!! All my kisses in the last year and a half have been drunken lunges! Panic basically suddenly dawned and I began to wish I'd drunk more beers rather than damn coke and ice-cream concoctions!

He pulled over outside my home, I got flustered, thanked him profusely, then leant over and gave him a little peck on the cheek and turned my head away rather quickly. As I looked back after getting out of the car I thought he looked rather disappointed. I felt mean. So, I am now convinced I won't hear from him again – and I am still trying to decide if that bothers me or not.

Friday, 23 July 2010

What a Week! Part 2...

So, still suffering somewhat from enjoying myself too fun from the previous two evenings, I enthusiastically threw myself into Saturday afternoon at a friend's house drinking Pimms and enjoying a most delightful BBQ, despite the weather conditions not being quite ideal.

Around early evening, a couple of the boys in attendance decided to head Parsons Green way to meet up with some (more) army boys so I, naturally, joined them (especially when they mentioned one had sticky out ears – an odd weakness of mine – I know, so weird).

At one of the PG pubs I met the sticky out eared guy - a most amusing chap recently returned from being on a tour of duty. He looked like Paul Bettany, had me in stitches all night long, and as we all gaily swanned off to yet another different cheesy-music-playing-South-West London nightclub (one of the golden oldies and a solid favourite of mine for years now), I thought, "hurrah – I am soooo going to pull off three pulls in three nights!".


The evening however then took a slightly farcical turn.

The first person I saw on walking into the cheesy-music-playing-South-West London nightclub was the Irish boy from Thursday. Ah. I of course said hello, and noticed he was with an entire contingency of other boys I knew from Uni. So I merrily flitted around catching up briefly and drunkenly with everyone.

Then, mid-conversation, I noticed Mr Friday Night was there as well. What are the chances. And Paul Bettany Lookalike was standing just behind him. Hmmm.

I had an immediate flashback to when I last properly played the field aged 19 on my gap year (post my first ever heartbreak boyfriend of 2 and a half years and whilst I was out to get my revenge on the male race - let's call him Cheating Chump - his name transpires from the fact that I had, rather late in the day, discovered that he had pulled about 15 other girls behind my back during our time "together", including 2 so-called friends….I digress…).

I had sort-of started seeing 2 utterly gorgeous boys at the same time (one was a chap I had a crush on since the age of about 14 at the school Debating Society - don't judge - Debating Society involved joining up with the boys school one day a week after school so of course lots of us joined up - we were otherwise deprived of male company!) Debating Boy was about 3 years older than me and so incredibly sweet. He had taken me out for lunches, been most chivalrous and I felt like I had proven myself to some of the cruel older girls in the school who had found out at the time about my crush and then taken the mick out of me in front of the entire school during the annual sixth form entertainment. Anyway - 5 years later, score, I had my man.

I was though also seeing an utterly divine, fit and smooth talking charmer of a hockey boy - ex schoolboy international, 4 years older than me, and I was pretty proud of myself for getting in there I must say.

Reason for flashback: it had all gone VERY BADLY wrong one night in a local night club (seeing more than one person at the same time in a very small community was never going to work out overly well).

Soooo, my Saturday night didn't end quite as horrifically as that night 9 years ago thankfully… (me standing there with drink in hand, suddenly seeing both hotties at opposite ends of the club, slow motion replay of them both closing in on me from either side and both kissing me on the cheek literally at the same time, Debating Boy looking most put out and leaving, the smoothie finding it all most amusing and not deterred by it at all, me feeling guilty generally and vowing never to play the field again).

Some skilful manoeuvring by me – or rather just plain old luck - meant I was saved from such an ordeal this time round. Mr Friday Night was too tipsy and took himself home. Irish chap kind of hovered a bit but not enough to be a problem, and then disappeared, also in a drunken stupor. So, come 2am and final dance time I was home and dry to have a cheeky dance with Paul Bettany Lookalike and a bit of a smooch on the dancefloor (kind of home and dry… Irish boy and Mr Friday Night had friends observing it all unfortunately but oh well - not like I am really misbehaving is it?!).

The delightful Paul Bettany Lookalike then swept me off for some 3am Eggs Benedict – the perfect end to an evening - what a dreamboat.

And what a fun week! Confidence at all time high for first time in about 2 years. Definitely a strong "week of yes" in what is now definitely my "year of yes".

Perfect timing because Diet Coke Boy is back from his holiday and ready for a second date…