Three is not the magic number

Date number three approaches ….boy picks up girl from station, boy is very complimentary, boy politely carry’s girl's over packed bag, boy shows girl around beautiful  storybook village with limited Wi-Fi, boy takes girl to quaint English cottage….there are pictures of cartoon horses on the walls, strange figurines of animals and a very pronounced smell of damp. Girl pushes disturbing and unnecessary horse imagery out of mind and continues on the quest for love.

And so it begins...

The village it turns out is a cross between the Archers and the Wicker man with everyone nodding or smiling to each other in a vaguely sedated fashion as we make our way down the lush and green paths. Following a pub crawl in furnace like a temperatures  I’m seriously regretting my black skinny jeans and high heels combo. My make-up is now a just suggestion and I’ve also drunk my own body weight in white wine spritzers. The boy tells me stories of hunting small sweet furry animals and building bivouacs out of nettles. The vegetarian in me quivers- it’s all a world away from the concrete jungles of London….and I feel homesick.

As we wonder back to the cottage through some badly lit brambles (I to go to the spare room and him to his) the stars twinkle and something resembling an owl/squirrel hybrid swoops overhead forcing me to jump and nearly fall to the ground. The cattle are lowing and there is an unmistakable smell of slurry in the air. The boy takes all this as a sign of interest and he leans in for a kiss. He misses and leaves a wet patch on my chin. The wine still clouding my judgement and for a minute I kiss him back. After all this isn't so bad, maybe we do like each other…maybe I can start to like living in the countryside and maybe even collect ceramic dogs?

The next morning I awake very confused with porcelain animals in my iphone search history . There is also sound  reminiscent of early nineties techno pumping around my head and 40 miles to the nearest chemist. The boy is finding reasons to touch me and after spending ten minutes heavy handedy stroking my hair suggests a brisk walk followed a tour around some ancient ruins.  With three hours till the next train I smile and try not being sick. Several hours later and following  a rather sinister  encounter with some national trust volunteers who insist with some menace that I can’t leave without watching the instructional video I hobble sun burnt and defeated back to the station. The boy asks if perhaps we could be girlfriend and boyfriend? I tell him work is going to be very busy for the next few weeks. I'm also thinking of moving to Saudi Arabia for the climate.  I feel sad and then change the subject.

The farmer may want a wife but sadly this lady is not for turning.

The First Rule

Guest contributer and fellow single lady Miss X gives her take on the dating scene and argues that size really does matter....

As a reluctant veteran of the internet dating scene I've become very open minded, and am even willing to overlook some of the most serious first date faux-pas. He turns up with a terrible haircut? Who am I to judge, I've had enough hair disasters to write a book about.  Questionable clothes? So what, how many men really have good taste in clothes anyway, fewer still that find themselves still single at 30 and emailing complete strangers. No job? Well for many this is a breaker and I have to admit that I may ultimately become resentful of the fact that he gets to sit sunbathing in his back garden on a Tuesday afternoon while I'm stuck at work in a four hour meeting about procurement parity - but who's to say we couldn't have some fun getting to know one another, like some kind of Tracy Chapman song.

But there are some first date sins for which there is no redemption. Time after time I've eagerly awaited a casual drink with a brooding and sophisticated  six footer only for them to come up...well... er... short. Now we all exaggerate our assets and play down our imperfections but it is surely only the most naive man who would describe  himself as  6ft1 only to arrive to a hotly anticipated first encounter measuring up at a diminutive 5ft9.

Now I fully appreciate that not every man has a body worthy of the US Olympic swim team, but at a statuesque 5ft8, I simply refuse to conduct a relationship in flats. Having spent what can only be described as three absurd years in ballet pumps pursuing a doomed relationship I've become pretty militant about it. And without wanting to sound like my Grandmother (the archetypal middle class 1950s housewife) there are frankly very few outfits that cannot be improved by an elegant heel.


So you can imagine my bitter disappointment last Thursday evening when me and my 3 inch Dolce & Gabbana  peep toes were once again deceived. The fact the he didn't seem at all concerned that his little white lie was inescapably evident was even more disconcerting. What else might he being less than honest about  - a secret gambling habit? A morbid fear of kittens? An all-consuming addiction to percy pigs? Did he actually 'think' he was 6ft, suffering from some kind of strange body dis-morphia? My mind was racing, if someone had such a relaxed attitude to reality this would never work.


Suffice it to say, the evening came to a swift conclusion - don't worry, I was polite. After all, there's only ever room for one fantasist in any relationship - and I'm sorry fellas, that's always going to be me.

End

I need a hero!

Welcome to my brand spanking new blog. Here I document the highlights and numerous low lights of being a single gal around town. Yes I do want to punch myself in the face for using the word ….gal. Having been single now on and off for two years I have seen such things as to create wonder and despair amongst my coupled friends. It seems only fair to share them with the other singletons out there. I will also, if asked answer any questions and share advice .

I will also be sharing tips and posting contributions from my friends as they too search for their Mr Right ...well right now.

So first some information about me, well I’m early thirties woman in a professional job although I have started to tell people I’m 27. I go to the gym a couple of times a week and yes have even once had Botox. I also have a very unhealthy relationship with clothes. This means I am almost single handily keeping he economy afloat and have a similar state of finances to that of Greece.

I also seem to attract some rather strange men.  So what’s it like being single in the greatest city on earth (well for the last two weeks anyway)… London?

Well…this week I attended one singles night quiz, accidentally kissed a 23 year old called lionel , arranged two dates (with two different nice but quiet guys ...one for the third time ) and received eight emails from some of the UK's scariest men from the popular dating website, Crimewatch I mean another popular dating website. I also leaned that one short lived ex-boyfriend has now become a reasonably known writer …Ggggrr and  had an email offer from an absurdly attractive six foot male model....got excited and then read the email which asked if  we could ‘friends with benefits’.  If only life was that simple.

 Following that and whilst deleting the latest round of emails from  the more typical on-line daters, Bighosefireman45’s (subject line , Cum all over me!) I started wondering...again  where are all the attractive normal men- they can’t all be in the pub watching football? Maybe it s that I'm looking for a cross between David Beckham and Ryan Gosling but even so a man with a job and good personal hygiene would be a start.  

Stay posted as I try and find him.