Thursday, 27 May 2010

Listen to your cold feet - they know what they're talking about.

Ok so I know you’re all on the edge of your seats waiting to hear how my first ever internet date went, right? Well me being me you had to know it couldn’t go well. And in fact I think I have managed to bag myself my very own personal stalker. WAY TO GO!

I should have clocked it earlier but I’m new to this game and his profile was very funny – dry and sarcastic – and his pics were pretty cute. His emails were short and to the point and he seemed keen to meet up rather than spending lots of time exchanging inane emails. My impression: alpha male, possibly quite arrogant but could be a lot of fun. So, to a backing track of alarm bells faintly tinkling, I agreed to meet him for a drink the following evening. And that’s when the trouble started.

8am. My phone buzzes. It’s a text seemingly checking I gave him a real number. Concerning. I reply with a one word affirmative.
8.10am. Another text. This time re-confirming the details of our date later on. I do not reply.

The uneasy feeling persists throughout the day but I am repeatedly reassured that everyone feels like this before their first internet date. Just go along! What’s the worst that can happen? Ok Dr. Pepper, fine, I’ll go!

6pm. Another text. ‘See you soon. x’ SERIOUSLY! I am going to bail if he sends me one more word. I send a matter of fact response. Definitely no kisses.
7pm. (we’re meeting at 8 and I am at this point waiting at a bus stop). Another text! This time saying he’s been delayed at work. So I ring him to find out if he’s a total loony or what. It rings out. I leave a message then head home. This guy has clearly never been out with a girl in his life.
8pm. Buzz, buzz. ‘Just leaving. Can be there in 5 mins.x’ Dude, did you not listen to my message – I’ve gone home for pete’s sake!
8.05pm. He rings me. It takes me FIFTEEN whole minutes to get him off the phone in which time he has repeatedly tried to find out where I live, offered to come and meet me near my house, asked me out for dinner on every single night of the next two weeks (it’s amazing how busy I am all of a sudden) and extracted a promise that I’ll check my diary and get back to him.
10.30pm. Unbelievably, he texts again. Not being insane myself I do not reply.
2am. Yes, you read that right, 2 o clock in the am, he messages me online to explain, yet again, what held him up. I will have to block his profile. He’s not going to like that.

So, I remain the undisputed queen of the ‘not’ date and very likely the object of some disturbed fantasy. I am also probably going to have to change my phone number. Do I feel just a little bit grubby and freaked out? Yes I do. Am I going to quit internet dating? Of course not! Or not yet anyway…

Tuesday, 25 May 2010


The news just in gentle readers (all seven of you) is this:

I Have A Date.


I also have a pulsating red spot on my chin.

So, barring volcanic ash, baggage strikes, him changing his mind and other random acts of god or BA, I should have an achooal date to blog about very soon. And so I shall shortly be off home to polish myself til I gleam and to empty my wardrobe of all possible outfits before realising I’ll just wear the first thing I tried on anyway.


Oh and if you never hear from me again I was meeting a stranger at Moorgate tube. Start the body search from there.

Tuesday, 18 May 2010

No sex please we only just met

There are certain occasions, like before you've reached fifth date (should you choose to subscribe to that bizarre notion), when you need to lock up your lady bits and hide the key somewhere you will NOT be tempted to fish it out from. This has never really been my strong point so I did a little canvassing on ways to ensure you don’t do the deed. Here are some of my findings:


The theory: Think Lady Gaga underwear-as-outerwear, think 21st century chastity belt, think SUPERHERO PANTS! Yes this is my favourite shag-avoidance strategy, as practiced by a good friend of mine, where you layer your underwear up as follows: knickers (we're not Paris Hilton), tights (think 1000 denier not seamed stockings), MORE knickers (why oh why?) hoping that the fear of having to explain your eccentric undercracker arrangements will be enough to douse your raging libido.

The verdict: It doesn’t work. Apparently he ripped both pairs off with his teeth! On second thoughts – sounds like a success to me!


The theory: Self-explanatory really...ditch your razor, axe the wax and embrace your inner wookie. Julia Roberts did it, now you can too. With so much body hair you'll never dare to bare and once you've bagged your man's heart you can zip down to the beauty salon to be de-furred before hopping into his bed.

The verdict: It doesn't work. And if he is particularly hairy you may find yourselves velcroed together in the morning. Get that salon on speed dial.


The theory: Simple. You're 30 years old and you live with your folks. No way in hell are you bringing that super hot but oh so unsuitable man home for a spot of how's your father under your actual father's roof. Na ah.

The verdict: It doesn't work. Believe me. Here are some bad things that can, and have, happened when you sleep with men in your parents house.

1) Ma and Pa are out. They have a much bigger bed. It seems like a fun idea at the time until your dad finds another man's pants under his bed and wants to know the reason why. Do you let your mum take the blame??
2) The walk-in. It's happened to everyone (right?) but not everyone is caught in the act of watching Peak Practice over their boyfriend's shoulder instead of concentrating on the job in hand.
3) The parental love-in. You wake up to the mother of all hangovers, vague memories of a last orders desperation snog and an empty bed. That's good right? You clearly employed both the SUPERHERO and HIRSUITS YOU strategies and they worked. Right? Wrong. He's loose in your house! And worse, your parents love him and keep asking when lovely Barry is coming over again...

Ah fuck it! You know what? I live alone. My legs are shaved. I'm only wearing one pair of, reasonably presentable, pants. And I'm certainly not getting any so perhaps THAT is the answer to complete shag-avoidance!

If any of you have strategies that actually work please please volunteer them on this blog. Your shame is in a good cause.

Monday, 17 May 2010

My big gay second date

So Friday night - official Date Night, lest you should forget - I set out for Second Date with a man we have affectionately nick-named Gramps. On account of the fact that he is old. We think. Anyway, I've bagged a second date which is quite an achievement in itself but what's more, Gramps has invited me round to his house. Me and him. Alone. In his house. Score! I'm looking forward to putting my new-found pashing knowledge (Nick Fisher, we salute you!) to the test...

Wait. What's that you hear? Oh yes, that's right...ALARM BELLS. This is me, after all. Of course this couldn't go to plan. Gramps being Gramps, he lives in the burbs. So I get my shots, renew my visa and head way out West, arriving on his doorstep respectfully, but not unreasonably, late. He answers the door - a good start - and we get to enjoy a slightly awkward greeting. I eventually sidle past him into quite a grand hallway whilst he bumbles on about how messy it is (it is pristeen) because he's having his kitchen ripped out. Somehow within roughly two minutes, he's decided we can't stay there, he's got his coat on and is ushering me back out the door. Dagnamit! We drive to a pub. Great - he is driving and you know what that means. Yes, friends, he won't be drinking meaning that where I might have relied on alcohol to break down some barriers, I will now be solely reliant on my feminine wiles. Fuckingtons!

We get a drink and sit by the river. The sun is setting. It's almost romantic. Er, except I'm dragging the conversation along like one of those World's Strongest Man competitors with a lorry strapped to his back. It dawns on me that so far - and I mean so far in our entire acquaintance, not just second date - he is yet to ask me a single question about myself. As already evidenced, I am Google-Clean so it's hardly as if there's not stuff he could be asking. Perhaps this is just the problem with dating egocentric artist types. Or perhaps he's just not interested in which case, why the hell am I here? The sun goes down. Gramps mentions it's chilly. Twice. We go inside before he can whip out a tartan rug....

We grab a conveniently available cosy little inglenook table and decide to get food. The menu is suspiciously extensive - and one stop short of pictorial. Everything sounds gross. Nevertheless we order. Or rather, he orders and comes back telling me that he thinks the gay barman fancies him. Great talking point, Gramps. Well done. As we wait, he comments on how he likes my watch - finally, a glimmer of interest in something to do with me besides my job. He asks to see it. I oblige. Then he puts it on, says how nice it is and asks if I think a man could get away with wearing one the same. It's basically a LADIES BANGLE for the love of god! "No." I say. "What, not even a designery man like me?" he asks. "Er no. It's clearly a girl's watch. For girls." I say. Gaylord I think.

Saved by the food, he gives the watch back. We eat. We talk about Dan Brown. I incredulously say I think his books are crap. Gramps disagrees in the most condascending of ways. There are some people at a nearby table having actual fun. They are talking and laughing and shit. Gramps mentions that they're really noisy. Twice. We HAVE TO MOVE TABLES. To get away from the fun-having, laughy people. Well, I say we move tables...what really happens is that he literally sprints across the pub leaving me to gather up my two bags, scarf, coat and drink. Whadda gent.

We sit at the new table. Gramps NODS OFF. No, I'm not joking. Okay, so the guy is jet-lagged from his recent trip but WTF?! We leave. As he drives me to the tube, I ask him where his new kitchen is coming from. "Oh I designed it myself and a joiner is making it for me. He did a really good job when he did my dressing room last year."

Dressing room?? What??? I think I'm still laughing a little bit when I get out of the car. And so endeth second date. Time to go home and get off with my own knee I suppose.

In retrospect, all I can say is: Gramps, dude, come out of the closet...dressing room...whatever you want to call it...

Friday, 14 May 2010

A little something for the weekend...

Look what we found!!! (sorry but this merits multiple exclamation marks. You'll see.) Yes, whilst having a recent rummage around her office my esteemed co-blogger came across a copy of A COMPLETE GUIDE TO KISSING by Nick Fisher. Meant for teenagers and published in 1997 - there must be some veeeery confused 20 somethings out there after receiving this advice. Here are just a couple of gems:

Closed eyelids make beautiful kissing targets. They are shaped like lips and the skin is soft and warm. To run your tongue gently around the eyelash and eyebrow or even feel the fluid mobility of the eyeball underneath can be a joy for both parties.


A lot of people worry about the technique of kissing..(and)..think about what it must be like to be kissed by them. But of course you'll never know because you can't kiss youself. Or can you? If you want to know what your lips feel like, practise on the back of your hand or on your knee. You can even draw a pair of lips on the fleshy top of your knee to give you something to aim at....Traditionally, pillows are recommended as good things to practise kissing on...The only trouble with too much pillow-kissing is that it dries out your lips, and, let's face it, it's a long way from the real thing!

Well thank goodness that's been cleared up for me. I shall be sure to tongue my next date's eyelids and I already know my pillow is a great snog so I guess I'm all set! Ok, ok, one more and this is one I'm sure we all remember from school disco days...

Gently plunge your tongue into your partner's ear. Hot, wet and succulent.

And if that hasn't got you in the mood for some loving this weekend then frankly I give up. Or throw up. Probably throw up actually after that. No seriously, keep your tongue OUT of my ear!

Thursday, 13 May 2010

Dear Old Love

I came across this website where you post notes to past loves, real or unrequited and it got me thinking back over old flames. That’s not true actually – I’ve been mercilessly facebook stalking them in recent weeks anyway but dearoldlove seemed like a good way to lay some ghosts. Even if you can’t lay those old boyfriends any more.

Feel free to join in! Here are some of mine, in reverse chronological order:

Dear Old Love,

I worried I had a really low sex drive. Now I realize it was just that I didn’t find you attractive.

Dear Old Love,

For ten years I have so often thought of you with lust. Facebook has fixed that for me – man you got fat!

Dear Old Love,

You’re still hot. Once again, thank you FB.

Dear Old Love,

I can’t find you! Either you got all my crazy messages trying to find you over the years and just think I’m nuts. Or something bad has happened. I hope it’s the former.

Dear Old Love,


Monday, 10 May 2010

Fifth Date

Comrades, we have recently been on the receiving end of a terrible rumour. Some key rules of the dating game have changed. Allegedly. In the olden days it went something like this:

1. sleep with the guy on a first date, you'll be considered a loose woman and will never hear from the bloke in question again.

2. sleep with the guy on a second date, you'll be judged, might get a third date or more likely a drunken booty call but he will almost certainly write you off.

3. sleep with the guy on the third date. Totally acceptable. This man might actually go out with you for more than about five minutes.

So third date. THIRD DATE, people.

Fast forward to the year 2010 and imagine our surprise (and dismay) as some bright young things tell us we now have to wait until fifth date. Fifth Date? FIFTH DATE??!! Are you kidding? Given that it takes an average of two weeks to organise one date in this crazy town, I'll be like 85 before I score again.

I recently ran this newfangled rule past a guy friend of mine who instantly sank into a depressive state, declared he might as well be a eunuch or otherwise enlist the services of a 'professional' to save both time and money.

A recent poll we conducted (very scientific I assure you despite the lack of clipboards), showed that most of us are struggling to get to second date, let alone fifth and only one person had heard about this supposed new rule anyway. ...suspicioussss...

So, "Fifth Date", the youngsters might like you but you're not welcome round these parts. Yes, the game has changed and dating might have gone digital but as far as the rules go, we're playing old school, baby.

Saturday, 8 May 2010

The HOT date and the NOT date

My first proper date. And a blind date at that. All I had to go on was a grainy black-and-white photograph and a quick call to arrange the details. Sounds a little rash perhaps but we're talking friend-of-a-friend here not internet so I thought the likelihood of my limbs ending up distributed in bin bags around Hackney was low enough to make it worth the risk.

And it was FABULOUS! 5 uninterrupted hours of chatting, laughing, drinking, laughing, drinking, drinking, walking me home, drinking, snogging and I even managed to post him out the door before I did anything stupid. SUCCESS! I thought, immediately before passing out on the sofa in a pile of shoes and dogs.

Now, the stinking hangover that inevitably followed may have affected my judgement somewhat because I decided it was ok to send him a text. Nothing heavy - just sharing of hangover pain - but the response was decidedly brushy offy. Puzzling. Vague memories of THE RULES started to float back to me. But what were the rules? And had they changed in the intervening 7 years? I determined to find out for the good of femalekind and when I've reached some kind of conclusion I will share my new found wisdom with you. But for the meantime I digress so back to the aftermath of the hot date.

After 4 days superglued to my phone, and physically jumping at every text received by anyone within a mile's radius, I was duly rewarded with an offer of a second date. In 10 days time. More waiting. I am not good at waiting.

But inevitably the day rolled around and washed, brushed and dressed-up to within an inch of my life I arrived at the appointed location in a cloud of expensive new perfume anticipating another brilliant night. Now I should probably have realised it couldn't be this easy. And the cryptic text I'd received earlier that week about something being 'complicated' definitely should have tipped me off but surely he was just going to tell me that work was difficult at the moment or an elderly aunt was sadly on her last legs. He couldn't possibly be going to tell me that he was seeing someone else. Could he? Oh, that's EXACTLY what he's telling me, right now. If I close my ears does that make it not true? If I click my heels 3 times will I be at home again? Suddenly my killer outfit is ridiculous. The high heels just painful. And is he really telling me about all the problems with this other girl? No I don't want to know her name, age and lack of desire for children. I want children god dammit! Oh and the fact that she's dating other people. She sounds lovely.

And somehow, instead of clutching my wounded pride and walking out of there I found myself tottering unsteadily along to the comedy night we'd planned to go to. The rest is a blur really. And you know what's worst? I'd put money on the fact that he'll reappear around the time the other girl finally dumps him off for someone better. The question is what will I do when that happens?? I really couldn't say.

Friday, 7 May 2010

Too Much Information

Technology has A LOT to answer for. That's all I can say. Back in the day, you could pop the odd name into yahoo or whatnot and spend hours of your life scrolling through pages of absolute tosh, none of which would be related to the thing you were actually looking for. Then Google came along with it's super-duper military grade industrial search engines and, well, buh-bye anonimity.

I am suddenly just a tiny bit grateful to be literally the dullest lady in all of christendom. Google me and you get nothing. Nada. Zilch. YES I've googled myself. And so have you. Don't deny it.

The problem comes when you find yourself dating someone with data. How much information is too much information? I mean, is it wrong that on a recent first date with a man I'd never met before I already knew his entire career history, where he grew up, what his father did and who his sister was married to? Probably. But you see, I blame Google. They offer me 36,200 "results" for my beau. Am I seriously expected to resist that kind of temptation?!

In any case, I survived the date without any major slip-ups. At no point did I blurt out "yeah I know" as he told me something I couldn't possibly have known without having googled him to within an inch of his life. Nor did I respond "that is BRAND NEW INFORMATION" in a most unconvincing way. So, I guess, success! But do I feel like a mentally sub-normal, deserves-to-be-sectioned interweb stalker? Affirmative. Will that stop me from googling the time in the far-away country he's currently visiting? For the fourth time today... Of course not!

What? Like you wouldn't do it too!...

These are the facts: Dating makes you mental. And Google is the fast-track to clinically insane. ...Or prison.

Single girls and boy scouts

Suddenly London is teeming with HOT men. Were they there all along or are my hormones getting the better of me? You never know when one might appear. So ladies, make like a boy scout and BE PREPARED!

Yes, you were nice and warm in your jeans and cardie, and I agree that trainers are much more suitable for walking the dogs but in the war against lonesome-ever-after unsuitable shoes and lipstick are your very best weapons. Oh and plasters. You'll need lots of plasters for your ruined feet.

One unfortunate side effect of full makeup at 9am was however brought home to me recently while I was road-testing a possible date outfit.

Passing (creepy) man: "Excuse me honey, do you know a place for massage or sauna?"
Me: (Seriously considering the question for a second). "Errm?!"

But then the following weekend whilst wandering the streets of hackney in search of a restorative fry-up I stumbled across just such an establishment. So next time I'll know exactly where to send him...

Thursday, 6 May 2010

Dating makes you mental. Fact.

Welcome to the dating diaries of a mental woman.

I wasn't always mental. In fact just a few months ago I was entirely sane, living a sedate existence that revolved around daily dinner dilmenas and entertaining pet antics.

And then, scant months before my 30th birthday and cast off by a cheating bastard, I became single for the first time in 7 years. Now, considering it took me 3 years to find my last boyfriend I have to say terror took hold pronto and I decided the only sensible thing to do was ship out of town and buy a shack by the sea where I could live out the rest of my meaningless days in the company of my dogs trying not to spoil anyone's view.

However my ex is less than keen on parting with our house and, forced to stay put, the next best distraction was to start DATING.

Now I never dated before. I was 23 when I met my ex for god's sake. In those days you didn't date - you just went to parties and shagged people. Usually the same people, repeatedly on and off. For years. Or perhaps that was just me? And perhaps that's why I was single for so long last time round! Hmmmm it all starts to make sense.

So anyway, it turns out the rules have changed! And there's this internet dating thing, of which more later, oh and it's all so confusing! So gather round and have a laugh at, I mean share in, the mentalness of my dating diaries.