Public Message to J

Message to J: am assuming you're still snowed under at work and won't get round to reading any emails I send you. However, I'm sure you'll be browsing the blog while on the 'phone to a demanding client, so this is probably the best method of messaging you today! Just to forewarn that I urgently need you to give me a crash course in Premier League football.

Message to all other blog readers: Yes of course this concerns a man, and is part of a cunning, predatory plan...

Dazed and Drama Free

I think I'm sort of seeing someone. It's all very functional and worrying. More to follow...

When D Met Her Match

Can men and women ever just be friends? I say yes. So imagine my unease last week when a recently-acquired, platonic male friend revealed his decidedly non-platonic feelings for me.

"But... you can't possibly feel that way; we're just friends, for God's sake," I stammered, with my usual poise and subtlety.

"Men and women are never just friends," he shrugged, emphatically. "Men will always have an ulterior motive. They're saving their female friends for future or emergency sex."

I reeled, horrified. At least 5 of my bestest friends are male. Surely they can't be saving me for a future desperate date, when their hair has fallen out and all the supermodels have been married off? And what about J? Yes, people have oft' mistaken us for a couple, but they're silly people, with smug, married, suburban lives, who simply don't know any different. And besides, it is precisely because J is a platonic friend that there could never be anything more between us. Considering that he knows every last sordid detail of my life (and some of it is very sordid indeed), it's a wonder he is still my friend, let alone anything else. Although - and he may not remember this - I did once make him promise to marry me if no one else would and I ever got lonely...

"Haven't you noticed," Platonic Male Friend continued, "how fat girls never have any male friends?"

I consider this, feigning outrage while desperately searching back in my mind to when I was 5 dress sizes bigger than I am now, trying to remember if I had any male friends (and, oh, dammit, I don't think I did).

"You're wrong," I said, simply.

"D," he said, seriously. "Have you ever met or been on a date with a man who didn't want to sleep with you?" I stared at him. "I can predict with some confidence that you have not. Men are wired as such. It's innate."

The faces of my male friends flash briefly through my mind. All entirely platonic; a few boundary issues at some point here and there, but so what? All relationships - even platonic ones 0 are based on a degree of some kind of attraction. I once snogged my (female) friend, P, in the Oxo Tower (much to the delight of the clientele of Investment Wankers), and another female friend, S, on the rooftop bar of Lizard Lounge in Las Vegas. So what? It doesn't make me a lesbian any more than it makes me want to be nothing other than just friends with my platonic male friends.

You know what, though? Suddenly the Platonic Male Friend who revealed his true feelings for me is looking a whole lot more attractive...

Politically Incorrect

My Friend I refuses to date anyone under 6"2. Should anyone on the dating websites she uses dare to exaggerate their height, she will take one look at them, accuse them of misrepresentation, and walk out. I is a dating veteran, and her stories alone – should anyone ever be blessed with enough time to write them up – could easily fill 3 volumes.

The date I had tonight was one big misrepresentation. He claimed he was human. (He also claimed he was 5"6, but perhaps he meant that he is 5"6 when he is on stilts.) He claimed (vociferously, and many times) that he was different from your average NW London Jewish guy. He claimed he defied categorisation. He does. I can’t work out whether to categorise him as arrogant, socially inept or completely self-delusional.

The conversation went like this: (I say conversation, but technically it was a monologue. I couldn’t get a word in, as he had so much to say for himself. Correction: he had so much to say about himself.)

Him: me, me, me, me, me, me… my wonderful house in Maida Vale… me, me, me, me, me, me… my extremely senior job in the Civil Service me, me, me, me, me, me… I’m a Fulbright Scholar [repeated about 5 times] me, me, me, me, me, me… my vast wealth me, me, me, me, me, me… the enormous pay-off I’m about to get me, me, me, me, me, me… I’m a D-List celebrity…

At this point, I choked. Unable to mask my disdain and sarcasm, I quipped that if he is going to achieve the dizzy heights of D-List celebrity, he may as well just appear on Big Brother and do it for free, without having to work for it. "Oh, I’ve been invited to appear on Big Brother many times," he said. (Invited?!) Then he proceeded to tell me that all politicians are neither bright nor skilled, do not have nearly as much life experience as him (although the only life experience he seems to have had is having briefly lived in New York), and there would be no point in him becoming a politician, as he is so brilliant at everything he does that it would be far too tedious for him to waste any time sitting on the back benches or even becoming the Secretary of State for something crap like Agriculture, when really, he should just be appointed Prime Minister straight away.

At this point, I got up to go to the loo, intending never to return. Just then, who should walk in but my friend I. I looked over at her desperately. Politico got up to greet her, and, looking horrified (mainly at his height), she mouthed "misrepresentation" at me and walked out. My phone lost reception at that point, and I was oblivious to the fact that she had sent me a series of text messages to say that she was sitting in the bar next door, waiting for me to leave, push him into the path of oncoming traffic, and join her for a celebratory glass of bubbly.

The food had arrived, so I had to stay for a while (plus, I was hungry). I decided to use my tried and tested method of man repellent (originally used in complete innocence, but it really does scare people when meeting me for the first time): I got out my food diary and vitamins and sent my food back to the kitchen. Amazingly, he was endeared by this, so I tried to put him off by giving him a 10 minute run down of all my dietary requirements. Not to be outdone (as obviously, he has benefited from every life experience imaginable), he claimed that he, too, had lost 40kg, but he had managed not to gain an ounce since. This is just as well in my opinion, as he looks horribly out of shape, and I cannot imagine him even running for the bus. I may have gained 9kg, but at least when I lost the weight, I made sure I was thinner than everyone else, and I only started gaining weight back the day I tried on a pair of 23 inch waist designer jeans in Selfridges and promptly fainted.

His verdict on me was that I am "quite bright" (quite bright??!!), "sparky", "urban" "a little brittle" and "energetic", and he would like to take me on holiday to Japan.

My verdict on the whole evening is that whatever I think I want, the bottom line is that if I don’t want to rip his clothes off on first sight, it is never going to work.

PS: The Irresponsible Cad has just texted me to inform me that he would like "whisky" and "naked cuddles". "Now." Which seems like a happy end to the evening.

Committed to Cads

When I publicised my list of phobias a while ago, I left out an interrelated set of phobias: fear of commitment, fear of getting into a relationship, and fear of functional dating.

There are currently two people I have made it past the Second Date milestone with (a major commitment in itself for me): The Minor Celebrity and The Irresponsible Cad. (No prizes for guessing which one I favour.)

Technically, The Minor Celebrity ticks all the boxes I pretend not to have: he has a brilliant mind, is highly driven and ambitious, very politically committed (and on the right side of the compass: left, that is). He is very direct. He is also very creative and has a wide range of interests outside of work. His blog is brilliant. And I have managed not to scare him, which has to be the ultimate test. But because he really likes me, the challenge has disappeared, and I have lost interest.

The Irresponsible Cad runs his own business, which you’d think would make him a motivated over-achiever, but I am more inclined to think it’s part of a cunning plan to stay in bed until midday and avoid having to do any work. He somehow manages to live a life of luxury though, and he is capable of committing, but only to his partying. He got arrested in Israel last week, and he kindly called me at 02.00 this morning, requesting a blow job. I find his naughtiness incredibly endearing, and feel most intrigued by him.

Maybe I should give up. Or marry the 22 year old. Or something.

Being Right May Be Alright

On reflection (ps, no one agrees with me), it's ok that he's right wing. Good, even. I like people who have strong opinions and are not afraid to express them. (Admittedly, I am less fond of people who do not share my opinions, but I'm working on that.) Right wing is definitely better than moderate (I hate people who sit on the fence).

And so far, I have discovered that the side of his right wingism that expresses a disdain for riff-raff is also the side that informs the bars and restaurants he frequents, which I can definitely live with (and, in fact, frequent myself). The gym is he trains at is one of those ghastly exclusive and horrendously overpriced places, but at least it's not one of those hateful chain gyms (I myself belong to an overpriced independent gym, but it's a funky, urban, underground gym and the trainers are brilliant.)

I actually postponed our date tonight, amid concerns of possible fuckwittage. Thankfully he has proved me wrong, but I still declined his later invitation to join him at home for whisky (dammit). I went to the gym instead. But I promise: when we do meet up, I will not be accompanied by my food diary or multi-tiered vitamin holder.

Waiving My Right to Reject the Right

The question I posed to The Girls on Saturday night was: what is your dealbreaker? When it comes to dating, what is the one quality that would cause you to reject a man and not give him a chance, on the grounds of offensiveness?

Answers ranged from "stupidity" to "height" (my friend I will only date men no shorter than 6"4 - 6"2 in special circumstances - and will accuse them of misrepresentation and leave if they are any shorter) to "too obsessive about football".

I have 2 dealbreakers. The first is poor spelling, punctuation and grammar. Most offensive is the use of "your" instead of "you're". I also hate people who use commas where only a semi-colon would suffice (although for the perfect biceps, I am prepared to overlook this offence). Bad spelling and grammar indicate no attention to detail, inability to learn correctness from repeated exposure and someone who simply doesn't read enough. Dealbreaker!

The second thing that completely puts me off is someone who is either politically ignorant or someone who is too right wing. A very big no for me.

But - arrgh - I have a date this week with one of the few people on the dating site who stands out for not being a suburban clone and has something interesting to say for himself. Actually, what really impressed me was his wild eccentricity, his knowledge of good whiskies and the fact that he accused me of looking like a drag queen in one of my photos (he was right and I admire his directness). BUT - he is right wing. He doesn't even describe himself as moderate (which usually means right wing and unself-aware). He compared mixing a right winger with a liberal to holding a match to a bomb. I countered that explosive is always good.

So let's see what happens when 2 opinionated people with different political views meet. With whisky in the mix, it should be interesting.

At least he can spell.