Tuesday, 29 June 2010

A conservative date...

I introduce to you Peter the Dull.

Poor chap. Perfectly nice but never going to light up the world. Another date from the dating website I am on. Is in politics as a campaign manager and wants to be an MP as soon as he can climb up the ranks apparently - heavens. Clearly slightly puffed up post recent victories for his party as well.

First impressions: he was a bit portly, but at least he was over 6 foot as his profile had stated. Neither good-looking nor repulsive to the eye.

Further impressions: somewhat lacking in banter, doesn't ski, doesn't do much sport anymore (if he ever did really – I suspect he just put sporty into his online description to cover all bases), and – fundamentally – he ordered me a small glass of wine rather than a large. Unimpressed.

During the date I officially experienced my first sinking feeling of there being a pause during which I was thinking, "oh… no… I actually have nothing left to ask him about… what can I ask him about…. Anything Twenty-Single! Think! Think! Why can't I think of anything else? Why doesn't he say something? Anything?! Come on, ask me something you lump of uselessness!" etc. Not good. And quite unusual as I can normally chatter away quite easily really. The small glass of wine may have played a factor in my lack of usual animation perhaps.

I also experienced flashes forward of my being coupled with someone who might end up in the public eye, and all the skeletons in old closets that could emerge and ruin him - nothing terribly sordid of course, but there are a voluminous amount of odd fancy dress photos, long-arming pints of beers photos, being nicknamed after famous dictators in sports teams drinking circles etc – it just doesn't make for a good other half to an MP. That was just an aside I had whilst sitting in silence for one of our overly long pauses in conversation.

After I bought myself another drink – yes, a large glass of wine (I suspect he thought he would get away with buying the small glass - he was found out when I came back to the table with decidedly larger glasses than he had) - I then proceeded to chatter away about nothing to rapidly draw the evening to a close after just two drinks.

On the plus side (for him) he is clearly going to be a very nice other half for someone one day. Someone who likes to listen to him drone on about party policies and who doesn't object to being covertly ordered small glasses of wine.

He actually asked me on a second date in a post-date text (clearly the odd silence didn’t bother him) so I was able to get some practice in at how to say 'no thank you' in a kindly fashion. It worked - he even replied to the rejection saying thank you! Poor Peter...

Monday, 21 June 2010

Major minor incident

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. It seems I am turning into a younger, more modern version of Mrs Robinson. Either that or what is commonly known as a puma or cougar (google them) – except no name exists for a Twenty-Single year old version going for teenagers.

So, I HAD thought Pretty Young Boy would be the end to my tendencies towards younger men. But alas, no. I went to a good friend's annual summer bash this weekend and sunk yet lower. 18 years old.

My friend is the oldest of 4 brothers, and every year at their amazing summer bash they each invite a swarm of all of their friends. Each year without fail my friend warns his single male friends to take care due to the presence of a number of underage females amongst the throng. These days, there is (thankfully) less concern about actual minor incidents, but it seems that my good friend should have warned his female friends to take heed as well…

18 Year Old was a hottie. I will say that in my defence. Although apparently all he did was tell me his name at 2am in the morning (after a lot of wine and hog roast had been consumed I hasten to add) and I went at him. The horror. More so because I didn't remember his name and thereafter introduced him to my fellow aged friends as "this is my 18 Year Old".

He was most sweet though - he told me all about his gap year plans (ski season), how his A-levels are going, and how upset he was that he had just failed his driving test for the 4th time. Bless. (Although I confess I had immediate concerns about how dangerous the roads might become should he finally pass his test at the 5th attempt. Should there maybe be an upper limit introduced if people are clearly road liabilities the first few attempts?!) All this whilst putting up with my aged friends yelling inappropriate things across their drinks at us into the early hours and finding themselves immensely amusing…

Whilst I have since been suffering from the horrors of realising I kissed someone who is yet to get their A-Level results, I have also found out that the little fella got a fair bit of kudos from being able to kiss such an oldie merely on a one-line introduction, so I am now trying to think of the act as being highly philanthropic of me instead. Which is clearly far better for my own self-perception.

Wednesday, 16 June 2010

Minor Incident

I have always known that I have a weak spot for young, baby-faced Romeos. The posters from my childhood bedroom are testament to that (and yes, some of those posters are still possibly on display inside wardrobe doors).

What I didn't know was that I might start kissing some of these pretty young things. And certainly not ones considerably younger than me…

At an Old Boys and Girls annual alumni event at my former University last weekend, I kissed an incredibly pretty male student. And I mean really pretty. Blue eyes, long dark eyelashes, cute freckles, boyish smile and dark floppy wavy hair a la Hugh Grant in the good old days. He also has the most incredible name: his christian name is utterly manly, and his surname is double-barrelled - delightful.

Moreover, I actually knew him from last year's alumni event because the cheeky little chap tried to kiss me then - at the time I recoiled in horror due to him only being 19 years old. Obviously, one year on, there remains no change in the age gap, but with him technically not being a teenager anymore and me being clearly less of a prude than I used to be, I confess I offered zero resistance when he went for the lunge this year. I was in fact ridiculously excited by the fact that this, frankly delectable, young thing wanted to try and kiss me in my aged state.

And, even more gratifying, he was wonderfully enthusiastic as well - must be the age - he naughtily tried to seduce me further by suggesting a midnight cuddle back at his, but I drew the line there (and, possibly slightly cruelly, laughed at him for his absurd notion).

Why did I refuse the midnight cuddle offer…? Well, to be honest with you, I have a feeling I may once have babysat for him as we hail from the same home town. It would just be wrong.

All in all though, kissing Pretty Young Boy pretty much made my entire weekend – hurrah!

Thursday, 10 June 2010

Fruit Boy

I have heard of normal phobias that people have – you know, spiders, flying, outside space, cramped space – and I have heard of some of the more abnormal ones too – buttons, dogs, injections. But, I have never before heard of a fear of spherically shaped fruit and vegetables.

I have tried to google it to see if there is a name for such a phobia. There is not. There are various bizarre reports and articles about fears of pesticides on your fruit, and people who just don’t like eating fruit and veg, but nothing about how the sight of a spherical edible object can induce fear into a person.

It must exist though because I met a person with just such a phobia. There I was over May bank holiday weekend at a lovely BBQ on the Sunday evening with some friends, and friends of friends, and during dessert this chap suddenly asked if the blueberries could be moved further away from him, and looked distinctly uncomfortable with them being within arm's grasp from him. One of his friends apologised and quickly moved them away.

Interest immediately piqued by this unusual specimen I proceeded to ply him with questions about what was going on. Responses to my onslaught of questions only produced more and more bizarre responses from this guy. Our mutual friends were finding his oddities all relatively amusing, and in fact seemed to find Fruit Boy generally quite funny, but I was just getting more and more aghast as I went. Any round fruit he finds scary. Oranges, cherries, blueberries. He seemed unsure about the less perfectly spherically formed fruits such as nectarines and peaches and plums, but the thought of them still clearly bothered him. When I moved onto vegetables and mentioned peas, he became quite dejected.

He also has a multitude of other slightly less odd phobias (predictably flying is in there), and recently commit facebook suicide because members of his immediate family who he doesn't want to speak to "found him" on there. He is attracted to girls who wear white tracksuits, and look like the stereotypical Essex girls. And a multitude of other things. Most odd individual clearly. Intriguing though because everyone else seemed to find it all really funny. And it clearly bothered him a lot that I was not laughing along.

Anyway, Sunday evening progressed in a fun fashion -Pimms being merrily swigged down around the table etc. Then someone suggested hitting my favourite cheesy-music-playing-South-West London nightclub … Well, at that point, most people politely (and sensibly) made their excuses and tottered off and home to bed. About 5 of us though, including Fruit Boy, tripped our way along to the cheesy venue, me still steadfastly finding Fruit Boy something of an odd social being, and him still clearly becoming more and more put out by my not laughing at his jokes … Cheesy venue closed. Upsetting.

The other 3 people gave up. Fruit Boy and I were left alone on a pavement, slightly sozzled and wanting to have a couple more drinks. Fruit Boy lived close by and said he had wine back at his, so off we went. I was desperate to see if he lived in a weird way as well. I was not disappointed. His fridge contents were frankly astonishing, and he doesn't open his post as a general rule.

I have just finished reading the Millennium trilogy by Stieg Larsson, and was beginning to wonder if Fruit Boy suffered some sort of social disorder like Salander.

Anyway. You probably all know where this is going… we drank some wine, we put a film on that we didn't watch, we talked for about 4 hours, I gained more insight into his oddities, he showed me some fancy dress costumes of his, I noted that one of them was actually a vegetable outfit, he pointed out it was a carrot and therefore not spherical, I put the carrot outfit on, he laughed, I made half-hearted suggestions that I should leave, I wondered whether he would finally make a move, he didn't, he offered me a t-shirt to sleep in, I said I shouldn't really, he promised to get me a glass of water, I ummer and ahhed, he said I could lie on one side of the bed untouched, I relented, he gave me a t-shirt and water, I wondered again when he would make a move, he talked for another few hours in bed, I was near falling asleep – then finally, he kissed me.

Yep – I have now officially kissed someone who has a fear of spherically shaped fruit and vegetables. And I put on a carrot costume for no reason. All in all, quite a good evening.