They're All The Same...

My "adult arrangement" with Condom Man is clearly not going to happen.

After our rendezvous last Thursday, all residue of lustful but unrequited feelings towards certain others were instantly obliterated. Despite initial reservations (and his parting shot on MSN the night before we met that "I bet we have more in common than you think"), I found Condom Man to be a really nice guy: bright, modest, driven, ambitious, successful, quite quiet, confident, tall (6'0!) and extremely sexy.

However, a week on (and one very dirty text message from me later, which in hindsight, was probably a mistake), I have still not heard back from Condom Man.

I am livid. How am I incapable of maintaining even a non-bloody-relationship?

Condom Man

OK, so it's a long story, but following deep discussions last night, I have had a change of heart, and shall be seeing Condom Man tonight. Yes, this is likely to be a regular arrangement.

Playing Poker

The new week brings with it a new Facebook poker. He turns out to be a fellow North-West Londoner, madly into sport and training, with an interesting job (TV journalist), Jewish and 6 ft tall (2 phrases rarely used in the same sentence). We chat for a few days and eventually decide to meet this Wednesday.

On Monday, however, I receive a text message:

"u around tonite? i'm coming round on my way home."

"Erm... coming round where?" I want to know.

"I don't have long," he tells me, "but let's meet when you're back from the gym"

I consider this. My hair and skin look good today, and I am wearing a pretty dress, so why not? We can continue the interesting conversation we had last night.

"I'll meet you at 8.30 at X station," I tell him.

And then, he replies with this corker of a text message, which has definitely made it into my repertoir of Top Ten Horrendous Dating Stories:

"Do you have any condoms?"

I mean SERIOUSLY! Don't get me wrong: I am under no illusion as to where this encounter was going to end up. But bloody hell, is it too much to expect a date or two beforehand? Don't I at least get a drink beforehand? Do I not get to meet him and decide whether or not I wish to exchange bodily fluids with him before graces me with half an hour (if I'm lucky!) of his precious time?!

Now: here's the interesting issue: although the condom comment ruined the entire flirtation and build-up for me, and Condom Man is clearly an arsehole, perhaps his way is just more honest and direct than the whole pretence of going through the process of a date. If he had bought me a drink, an actual transaction would have taken place, so surely had I slept with him after that, the whole encounter would be more prostitute-like, no?

So why does leaving the date out of the equation feel so much more degrading?

Trouble and Strife

After a few years' hiatus, I have the joy of two friends' weddings coming up in the new year.

At the risk of sounding bitter at my own ongoing singlehood, and also conscious that everything that I say may be used in evidence against me if/when I tie the knot, I have decided to give the odd update on how the lead-up to these weddings is going. What do those weddings have to do with you, you may ask? Well the answer should be obvious. Between engagement and wedding day, the betrothed become for that period the centre of the world. Not just theirs but that of everyone who comes into contact with them, whether they like it or not.

Every minutae of the event and its preparation becomes the most interesting subject around, the couple are suddenly exempt from basic levels of politeness and manners and any other prior arrangements must be dropped if something vaguely related to the happy couple comes up, be it a camerbund fitting or trawling the John Lewis website looking for something on the gift list, slightly more affordable than the £800 plasma TV as an engagement present.

If you are not interested in having to hear the 3-sides-of-A4 proposal poem written to your sister's flatmate's twin, then surely the fault is with you and their anger is justfied; if you do not add much to a lunch invite involving you alone and four recently/soon to be-smug-married couples discussing the flower arrangements, and the auditions for the band then clearly you are guilty of being moody and anti-social and on no account could it be suggested that they are being a little egocentric and non-inclusive.

Anyways, this week I received an email from the designated stag organiser, confirming the date for the do and giving a vague idea of the timetable for the weekend. Happily read the email, short, sweet, approve of the person organising, scanned other names - recognised half and am good friends with those that I recognised. I closed the email, prepared to continue my day and expecting not to have to think about the stag do until the new year.

However, for the rest of the day I was bombarded by various reply-alls, in which certain recipients kindly offered their hilaaaarious comments, in 15 words or less. I am all for a bit of banter in its time and place. And, from prior experience of organising a stag do, all constructive suggestions are gratefully received. But I am not sure that, for example, one person suggesting that because the betrothed is a doctor, we should all spend the weekend dressed as nurses, qualifies as such a constructive suggestion. It sounds to me a lot more like some kind of fetish which someone needs to get off his chest, and what is strange is that that person knows very few of the other recipients and so he chose this reply-all to introduce himself to the group.

Well, let me make it clear at this stage that whilst I am happy for the evening to involve nurses, preferably female and I don't care if the uniform is genuine work clothes or Saturday nightwear, I have no intention of dressing as a nurse, and please also remind me to keep away from said contributor when it comes to the dancing at the wedding itself, as it seems to me that this is one of those people who looks forward to the male-only dancing part of the evening, which is clearly an excuse for people whose sexual preferences are repressed by their religious upbringings to get up close and personal with those of us forced to sweat it out on the dancefloor in between courses, developing chronic indigestion whilst longing for the solace and safety of the bar.

More misanthropic observations to come in the new year no doubt, as the wedding plans begin to gather pace. In the meantime, please feel free to share your stories of wedding woe or better still, any suggestions as to how I can break out of my bah humbug state of mind and learn to love what is, after all, the happiest day of my friends' (not mine though) lives...

Champagne Supernova

Am dying this morning. Went to a very pretentious party last night at the 151 Club on the King's Road, with my friend I. It was full of double-barrelled twats. I think I may have snogged one of them. The last I saw of I (after I emerged from the toilets, having just vomited pure liquid champagne and ready for my second wind), she was being ushered around by a very tall, very young-looking, over-bred Hooray-Henry, telling anyone who would listen "he's 25". I somehow got home around 3am. I get up at 5am, so you can imagine the state I am in this morning.

I look even worse than I feel. Most of my make-up is still at I's flat, and my hair looks like a wig. I had it done at the Topshop hair salon, and chose the "Bardot", an enormous, messy beehive. (got a 55% discount as their sinks were not working and they couldn't wash my hair and I kicked up an enormous fuss and the hairdressers were scared of me. There is so much hairspray, that despite having been sick several times and slept (briefly) in it, my hair has not moved.

I have to go and be sick again.

The Young Ones

The problem with being over 30 is that you are less naive, infinitely more cynical, and burdened down with quarter of a century's worth of baggage. Ditto the supposedly eligible singletons you are likely to meet. Everyone has their issues, is tainted by the past, and this somehow makes dating in your 30s that much more complicated.

So it was something of a novelty to be courted by a younger man. I say "courted"; in reality it was as about as charming and romantic as being poked. Which I was. On Facebook.

"You do realise I'm biologically capable of being your mother?" I asked him, incredulous, but at the same time thrilled and flattered by the attentions of a 22 year old. Less thrilled though, at the dawning realisation that - dammit - I am now old enough to have a toyboy.

"Oh yes, I noticed you were born in the late '70s," he said (actually, it was 1976, but I was quite taken by his unpolished charm).

And then, with careful casualness: " Age is just a number." Erm, yes, age is just a number, when that number is as low as twenty-bloody-two.

We met one very rainy Sunday evening in West Hampstead. My umbrella broke in the gale force winds and he threw it away, and we swept down the sodden streets until we found a bar, into which we collapsed, wet and giggling, and we drank whisky and flirted all evening. It was brilliantly refreshing: no hype, no expectations, no attempts to impress, no self-justification. Just the wide-eyed, breezy excitement of a recently-graduated teenager who is loving his first proper job, making the most of his recent move to London, and is loving life, rather than feeling disillusioned by it. Or maybe that's just his daily dose of pot.

After a fun couple of hours spent discussing weight training and me scolding him over his diet (fried chicken? 6 enormous meals a day? O' to have the metabolism of a 22 year old man), we headed to the tube station. I was due to be meeting F, who was in London for the weekend and staying at my flat. F (bless her) was characteristically late, but it didn't matter; we spent a productive 15 minutes waiting for her as we snogged madly in the pouring rain, knocking the public telephone receivers off the wall and generally creating a mild wave of havoc as we shamelessly groped each other in full view of the residents of West Hampstead.

I will never, ever forget the look of utter confusion, bemusement and bewilderment on F's face as she walked through the ticket barrier to meet this sight. I still giggle spontaneously thinking of that moment.

So what happened next? I don't kiss and tell. But let's just say that virtual poking can get a whole lot more real.

D Introduces J

So you thought I was cynical? Meet J. A walking purveyor of eternal doom, he refuses to even celebrate his birthday, because “what’s the point?” When J turned 30, (you know; that milestone birthday, that coming of age, that prime excuse to milk the attention and gifts your contemporaries are forced to lavish on you) he sent out a half-hearted email at 4 o’clock on Friday afternoon, displaying a tragic lack of joy and hope, expressing the sentiment that “I suppose you all have better things to do, but if you find yourselves at a loose end tomorrow night, I’m sort of having a bit of a party”. By 6pm the following evening, he had still not started preparing for said party.

But bless him. I would absolutely recommend him as my first choice of the male species to be seated next to at a dinner party. Or rather, my only choice, seeing as most of my other male friends have fallen victim to the curse of couplehood.

In all seriousness, though, I would write J a glowing reference any day. He is fun, funny, witty, intelligent, articulate, has a social conscience and just the right amount of mischief to spice up the conversation at social gatherings attended by the less worldly of our acquaintances. He has counselled me through some milestone periods of my life (the eve of my 29th birthday, the time I thought I was in love with my personal trainer, and most recently, being on 24 hour call to analyse the behaviour of my latest love object). J is generally very supportive, although he once threatened to call the police on me, on the grounds of me being a crazed, obsessive stalker. He was over-reacting, of course, but that’s ok. I just put it down to his limited understanding of women. And I am more than happy to teach him all about women, if he will explain to me the eternal mystery of the male species…

J Introduces D

Thank goodness for D! In the social circles that I am condemned to mix in due to my decision to live in a North-West London ghetto and my unoriginal and unexciting choice of job, D reminds me that that you don’t necessarily have to compromise your opinions and become an automaton in order to get somewhere in life.

Without wishing to turn this blog into a love-in before it even gets started, the only inane and seemingly endless dinner parties and “coffee evenings” that are bearable are those where D is in attendance. OK, so the stalkerish tendencies are a worry and – if I was ever to be bothered to invite people for a meal myself - D wouldn’t be the easiest to cater for, but these slight faults can be worked on. D is fun and witty, never afraid to say what she thinks, knows when to be sensitive or the life and soul as appropriate, she has a strong sense of principles which she will not sway from, for better or worse and even if it means exposing herself to certain high ranking public officials, she can give as good as she gets and she knows how to laugh at herself (which is good news, boys, as she also has one of the sexiest laughs around!).

D can be relied upon to give a sane, reasoned judgement on any crisis that you are experiencing (as long as it isn’t one of her own of course). Strangely, she seems to think that we men are the ones that are difficult to read. Well, I am here to tell her that there is no mystery to us - and it is about time someone explained the enigma that is woman…