Anyone who has encountered me immediately after I’ve woken up will tell you...I’m not a morning person. Actually I think they’d agree that saying "I’m not a morning person” is probably the understatement of the century. I’m actually vile first thing, and I’m pretty useless until I’ve been conscious for at least three hours (and that’s still dependent on whether I’ve been able to get a nicotine and caffeine hit within those three hours). Me and the middle bro share similar early morning traits, including an inability to rouse in the first place, aggressive responses to being woken, irritability once awake, and incoherence for a minimum of thirty minutes prior to consciousness.
I think we take after my dad in that way. As a kid I always remember the different waking styles between my mum and dad. As you sat at the breakfast table, and heard their alarm clock launch into it’s somewhat startling beeping wake-up call, you knew exactly which parent had got out of bed, within a matter of seconds. Mum would launch herself out of bed, so the first footsteps you’d hear on the ceiling above your head were never quite in line with where you knew they should have fallen. Mum could have been a long jumper in a previous life, I’m quite sure of this. If mum was turning the alarm off it managed to get out approximately one and a quarter “beeps” before being silenced. From there you would hear her sprint to the bedroom door in three easy steps, you’d hear the twang of her dressing gown hanging hook as she grabbed it from the back of her bedroom door, and the running sound of footsteps down the stairs (like a child on Christmas morning). This would be followed quickly by the sound of the downstairs loo door being opened, and then the sound of mum going for a pee. Delightful when you’re trying to enjoy your Rice Krispies and your first brew of the day. My parents worked away a lot, although on opposite shift patterns, so it was usually either one or the other getting up to ensure we’d all got off to school okay, and if they both happened to be around together then mum was always the one to get up.
When she wasn’t there however, the responsibility lay solely in dads hands (much to his displeasure I’m sure). In comparison you’d hear the alarm go off for several minutes if dad had to get up and turn it off. Finally you’d hear the heavy “thump” of a leg being thrown out of bed, and an audible grumble as he sleepily shuffled across the bedroom to turn “that bloody thing off”...there would be more shuffling as you heard him make his way to their en-suite (why mum never used this I have no idea??), and then a slow heavy plod to the top of the stairs. Bleary eyed he’d pause at the top of the stairs (grumbling to himself yet again) and make a one-slow-step-at-a-time descent. To my eternal amusement, I don’t think he ever managed to make it down the stairs once in the whole time we lived there without getting some form of cramp half way down the stairs. I don’t know why I found this so funny...I think it’s just because it was so predictable. As a kid you have no idea how quickly things like clicky ankles and cramp will creep up on you. I have to admit – I don’t find it quite as funny now it happens to me! Dad would then shuffle to the kitchen door...always with only one eye open, and make his way to “his seat” at the head of the breakfast table. He would sit, light a cigarette, and gesture at you to make him a cup of tea. He had a strange routine with tea and coffee actually...his first drink of the day was tea with milk, his second was coffee with milk, and then all subsequent drinks were black coffee. Odd little biscuit that he was. There was never any conversation with dad in the morning. He had got out of bed purely to make sure you’d gone to school. I’m quite certain after we’d all left he went straight back to bed.
I’ve always been a heavy sleeper. When I was at boarding school I was always positioned on a top bunk close to the fire alarm as I’d been known to sleep through them, but I didn’t have problems being sociable in the morning until I hit the age of about fifteen. The transition was a quick one from teenager to early morning monster, and it amused my parents no end. Dad was just pleased to find someone who had more difficulty functioning before 9am than he did, and would go out of his way to wind me up first thing in the morning. The boys knew that by waking me they took their lives in their hands and so rather than enter my room chose to poke me with the metre long loft hatch opening stick from my bedroom door. To be fair if they’d ever got close to me that early and woke me up they would have had a punch in the balls, so this was probably a wise move on their part.
As I got older friends and partners learned early on that trying to hold a conversation with me before I woken up fully was pointless...not to mention dangerous, and co-workers have learned the hard way that my early morning rule of “no talking before Nero’s” is not something I’m willing to budge on. It comes to something when you can go away on a holiday to France with your favourite smug married’s and as their five year old son approaches you (just pleased to see you after a long sleep), they instinctively grab him, haul him away from you whilst reproaching the bemused child with:
“Cameron No!! What has mummy told you? We don’t talk to Auntie Natz until after she’s had a cup of tea and a cigarette! Now come away before you get hurt”
You’d think that my early morning foul moods were caused by tiredness, so you’d think I’d make the effort to get to bed at a reasonable hour...and yet I can’t seem to do it. If I venture to bed before midnight it’s a miracle. I’m a night owl and just can’t bring myself to go to bed any earlier. I don’t know why, but I’m quite sure my late nights only exasperate the situation. But never the less, as I prepare for another late night/early morning combo, at least I can feel safe in the knowledge that everyone knows me well enough to no longer be phased by my split personality with regards to the hours approaching midday...and anyone who gets to know me in the future...well I guess I’ll let them read this first!!
Wednesday 28 July 2010
Monday 19 July 2010
A (Wo)man's Best Friend
Some people believe themselves to be “cat” people. Others vehemently maintain that they are “dog” people. I‘m neither... I’m generally an animal lover full stop. I used to have cats, and I admit that I miss the simplicity of being a cat owner. They pretty much look after themselves...well that’s putting it mildly. Mine used to treat the place like a bloody hotel. They’d turn up at the back door when they wanted feeding or if it was raining and they wanted shelter. Otherwise they spent most of their time next door with my neighbour, who clearly was a far more favourable individual in their eyes. As a result you always felt quite humbled when they did decide to grace you with their presence, and I often found that once either of them had decided to settle on my lap for the evening I daren’t move for fear of spoiling the little bit of quality time they deigned appropriate to spend with me.
Bryn is my German shepherd /collie cross bitza (bitza this, bitza that), and as I write this he’s currently stretched out on the sofa, dreaming doggy dreams - presumably about chasing rabbits, as his little legs are twitching like he’s just been hit by a taser, and he’s busy grumbling and yipping to himself. He’s quite a character really, and I’ve only ever met one person who hasn’t fallen instantly in love with him – Princess is not a fan of “big” dogs (she considers anything larger than a Jack Russell a big dog), and her and Bryn have a love/hate relationship...in as much as he loves her, and she hates him. In her defence though during the year we house shared together he did manage to consume two Juicy Tubes lip glosses, one MAC compact face powder, one Winnie The Pooh mid year diary, one packet of Lemsip Max Strength cold and flu sachets, a blueberry muffin and various packets of tissues and face creams all of which belonged to Princess...so it’s kind of understandable why he may not be her favourite furry friend. I think what was more frustrating was that he never decided to devour anything of mine. I guess her stuff must have just smelled better! Nevertheless it doesn’t stop him from desperately trying to seek her approval at every given opportunity.
Unfortunately for Bryn he chooses his moments poorly, and hasn’t yet learned that humping the £25 cushions she purchased from Next in a display of dominance when her boyfriend came to visit (he’s always trying to impress her), or forcing cuddles on her when she’s just got changed into a little black dress for a night out whilst in the height of his moulting season, are bad ideas as far as Princess is concerned. The look of utter confusion on his face as he gets shooed away is always rather amusing to see; as he’s completely oblivious to the distress he tends to cause our little Princess.
As a dog owner I’ve accepted the fact that I will not own a stitch of clothing that even when washed, dried and ironed will remain dog-fluff free for more than thirty seconds. I understand that when I am wearing white, the dog will only moult black fur and when I’m wearing black he will only moult white fur...just to piss me off it seems... Likewise I’ve come to realise that the chore of constantly cleaning his nose “paintings” from the inside of my car windows (the smeared smudges of wet nose prints caused by sudden braking or sharp cornering manoeuvres whilst the pooch is a passenger) will be one I have to undertake for the rest of his life. Whilst poop scooping isn’t exactly my favourite past time, I will, like any responsible owner, pick up after the dog, albeit with some fairly dramatic gagging and dry heaving sound effects to accompany the process, and even when there is no food in the house for me, I will always ensure he has his dinner, come hell or high water.
Chatting to a guy recently he asked me whether I lived alone, which I replied I did – although with my dog. He queried whether I got lonely, and it actually got me thinking. Did I ever feel lonely? Well the answer was, sure...sometimes. It would be nice to have someone here to chat to...but then thinking about it, I regularly have conversations with the dog. I’m not trying to lead you to believe he answers back (although sometimes the defiant look on his face when he’s being told off resembles that of a petulant and stubborn toddler, and could be described as a definite “answer back”) but I talk to him, and he hangs on my every word. If I’m talking to him from the kitchen, he doesn’t sit in the lounge with a beer in one paw, and the remote in the other half listening to me as he channel hops - he remains glued to my side, excitably listening to every word, forever pleased that I’m paying attention to him. It’s like I am the absolute centre of his universe and it’s really rather cute. If a guy was like that with me it would drive me crackers, and I’d no doubt end up beating him about the head and neck until he manned up a little...but obviously it’s perfectly acceptable behaviour from my fluffy little dude.
Bryn only has one downside. Unfortunately he’s a man’s dog. What this basically means is that while he loves me unconditionally, and isn’t happy unless he’s practically sat on me, he essentially doesn’t listen to a word I say.
Because I’m not a bloke.
He responds to men far better than me. If they tell him to do something in a relatively firm voice he will do it without too much of an argument. With me however he’ll push his luck. He’s obviously not born to be the Alpha in any given pack, so he takes direction from a strong male influence. Having spent the last two years surrounded by girls, it seems he’s even more eager to get in with the boys, and has taken to becoming best buddies with any man who happens to meet him. Random strangers on walks, the postman (I know...that’s just so wrong it beggars belief) the window cleaner, and most recently the Powergen salesman who tried to make a cold call this evening. It’s kind of embarrassing when your dog decides to mooch off down the street despite your calls in vain to bring him back, and you have to proposition the man you’ve just rather abruptly told;
“no I don’t want your electricity thank you very much, and if you don’t mind I’m in the middle of my tea...ooh bugger the dog’s out...Brrrrryyyynn”
“Will he come back?”
“Erm...probably...if you call him”
“What’s his name?”
“Bryn”
“Like Uncle Bryn from Gavin & Stacey?”
“If you like...but erm, do you mind doing it quickly because he’s half way to the park now?”
God love him, he did get him back...I think he expected me to sit and listen to his sales patter as a thank you, but nothing interests me less than discussions about electricity suppliers...so I didn’t. I’m such a cow at times! There are few people that actually command complete respect from my pooch though. In fact there’s really only one person I know who the dog actually seems quite intimidated by, and that’s the Bezzie Boy. When he’s not on tour the Bezzie Boy spends much of his time training new Army recruits, toughening them up for the career they’ve chosen, and at first I thought it must be something inherently authorative in his tone of voice that made the pooch respond to him in the way he did. At times the dog almost seemed fearful of the Bezzie Boy, even though he’s never once raised his voice to him. It was only when I witnessed the Bezzie Boy simply point at the dog’s bed, and saw the speed at which Bryn followed his silent command that I realised it had nothing to do with his voice at all. As I stared open mouthed in wonderment and questioned him as to how he’d done it, the Bezzie Boy simply replied;
“He does what I tell him because when I say ‘Get off the f**king sofa’ I actually mean it Nat... you on the other hand want to mean it because you know he shouldn’t be on the sofa, but you don’t...because the truth is you want him up there as much as he wants to be up there”
Annoyingly the Bezzie Boy was right. That dog has been an emotional crutch for me during two of the hardest years of my life, and when I am feeling lonely, and the girls aren’t around for me to make flying visits to, it’s the dog who ends up entertaining me, and helping me forget that sometimes life sucks, and you are on your own for a large part of it. So I’ve decided that given he plays such a crucial part in keeping me sane...it seems only fair that he should be allowed on the sofa, to stretch out and dream on. Just don’t tell the Bezzie Boy...else I’ll never hear the end of it!!
Bryn is my German shepherd /collie cross bitza (bitza this, bitza that), and as I write this he’s currently stretched out on the sofa, dreaming doggy dreams - presumably about chasing rabbits, as his little legs are twitching like he’s just been hit by a taser, and he’s busy grumbling and yipping to himself. He’s quite a character really, and I’ve only ever met one person who hasn’t fallen instantly in love with him – Princess is not a fan of “big” dogs (she considers anything larger than a Jack Russell a big dog), and her and Bryn have a love/hate relationship...in as much as he loves her, and she hates him. In her defence though during the year we house shared together he did manage to consume two Juicy Tubes lip glosses, one MAC compact face powder, one Winnie The Pooh mid year diary, one packet of Lemsip Max Strength cold and flu sachets, a blueberry muffin and various packets of tissues and face creams all of which belonged to Princess...so it’s kind of understandable why he may not be her favourite furry friend. I think what was more frustrating was that he never decided to devour anything of mine. I guess her stuff must have just smelled better! Nevertheless it doesn’t stop him from desperately trying to seek her approval at every given opportunity.
Unfortunately for Bryn he chooses his moments poorly, and hasn’t yet learned that humping the £25 cushions she purchased from Next in a display of dominance when her boyfriend came to visit (he’s always trying to impress her), or forcing cuddles on her when she’s just got changed into a little black dress for a night out whilst in the height of his moulting season, are bad ideas as far as Princess is concerned. The look of utter confusion on his face as he gets shooed away is always rather amusing to see; as he’s completely oblivious to the distress he tends to cause our little Princess.
As a dog owner I’ve accepted the fact that I will not own a stitch of clothing that even when washed, dried and ironed will remain dog-fluff free for more than thirty seconds. I understand that when I am wearing white, the dog will only moult black fur and when I’m wearing black he will only moult white fur...just to piss me off it seems... Likewise I’ve come to realise that the chore of constantly cleaning his nose “paintings” from the inside of my car windows (the smeared smudges of wet nose prints caused by sudden braking or sharp cornering manoeuvres whilst the pooch is a passenger) will be one I have to undertake for the rest of his life. Whilst poop scooping isn’t exactly my favourite past time, I will, like any responsible owner, pick up after the dog, albeit with some fairly dramatic gagging and dry heaving sound effects to accompany the process, and even when there is no food in the house for me, I will always ensure he has his dinner, come hell or high water.
Chatting to a guy recently he asked me whether I lived alone, which I replied I did – although with my dog. He queried whether I got lonely, and it actually got me thinking. Did I ever feel lonely? Well the answer was, sure...sometimes. It would be nice to have someone here to chat to...but then thinking about it, I regularly have conversations with the dog. I’m not trying to lead you to believe he answers back (although sometimes the defiant look on his face when he’s being told off resembles that of a petulant and stubborn toddler, and could be described as a definite “answer back”) but I talk to him, and he hangs on my every word. If I’m talking to him from the kitchen, he doesn’t sit in the lounge with a beer in one paw, and the remote in the other half listening to me as he channel hops - he remains glued to my side, excitably listening to every word, forever pleased that I’m paying attention to him. It’s like I am the absolute centre of his universe and it’s really rather cute. If a guy was like that with me it would drive me crackers, and I’d no doubt end up beating him about the head and neck until he manned up a little...but obviously it’s perfectly acceptable behaviour from my fluffy little dude.
Bryn only has one downside. Unfortunately he’s a man’s dog. What this basically means is that while he loves me unconditionally, and isn’t happy unless he’s practically sat on me, he essentially doesn’t listen to a word I say.
Because I’m not a bloke.
He responds to men far better than me. If they tell him to do something in a relatively firm voice he will do it without too much of an argument. With me however he’ll push his luck. He’s obviously not born to be the Alpha in any given pack, so he takes direction from a strong male influence. Having spent the last two years surrounded by girls, it seems he’s even more eager to get in with the boys, and has taken to becoming best buddies with any man who happens to meet him. Random strangers on walks, the postman (I know...that’s just so wrong it beggars belief) the window cleaner, and most recently the Powergen salesman who tried to make a cold call this evening. It’s kind of embarrassing when your dog decides to mooch off down the street despite your calls in vain to bring him back, and you have to proposition the man you’ve just rather abruptly told;
“no I don’t want your electricity thank you very much, and if you don’t mind I’m in the middle of my tea...ooh bugger the dog’s out...Brrrrryyyynn”
“Will he come back?”
“Erm...probably...if you call him”
“What’s his name?”
“Bryn”
“Like Uncle Bryn from Gavin & Stacey?”
“If you like...but erm, do you mind doing it quickly because he’s half way to the park now?”
God love him, he did get him back...I think he expected me to sit and listen to his sales patter as a thank you, but nothing interests me less than discussions about electricity suppliers...so I didn’t. I’m such a cow at times! There are few people that actually command complete respect from my pooch though. In fact there’s really only one person I know who the dog actually seems quite intimidated by, and that’s the Bezzie Boy. When he’s not on tour the Bezzie Boy spends much of his time training new Army recruits, toughening them up for the career they’ve chosen, and at first I thought it must be something inherently authorative in his tone of voice that made the pooch respond to him in the way he did. At times the dog almost seemed fearful of the Bezzie Boy, even though he’s never once raised his voice to him. It was only when I witnessed the Bezzie Boy simply point at the dog’s bed, and saw the speed at which Bryn followed his silent command that I realised it had nothing to do with his voice at all. As I stared open mouthed in wonderment and questioned him as to how he’d done it, the Bezzie Boy simply replied;
“He does what I tell him because when I say ‘Get off the f**king sofa’ I actually mean it Nat... you on the other hand want to mean it because you know he shouldn’t be on the sofa, but you don’t...because the truth is you want him up there as much as he wants to be up there”
Annoyingly the Bezzie Boy was right. That dog has been an emotional crutch for me during two of the hardest years of my life, and when I am feeling lonely, and the girls aren’t around for me to make flying visits to, it’s the dog who ends up entertaining me, and helping me forget that sometimes life sucks, and you are on your own for a large part of it. So I’ve decided that given he plays such a crucial part in keeping me sane...it seems only fair that he should be allowed on the sofa, to stretch out and dream on. Just don’t tell the Bezzie Boy...else I’ll never hear the end of it!!
Wednesday 14 July 2010
The Modern Dating Game
It seems as though everyone I know is single at the moment. I say that, but maybe it’s just the circles I move in following my break up 18 months ago are now primarily made up of singletons like myself, rather than the groups of couples I used to see regularly. It also seems that as a singleton it’s compulsory to share your dating escapades with your “smug married” friends. They have an unapologetic desire to live vicariously through your social life, and to be fair you don’t mind sharing your stories. Let’s face it, if they can laugh at all of your dating faux pas, and cry with you at your relationship disappointments, then at least you know their interest is genuine and supportive.
Of course you share with your single friends too, and nine times out of ten it helps to know that someone else out there is as much of a disaster on the dating front as you are. My big brother and I are in similar positions when it comes to meeting people at the moment. As a console game designer, he works in a predominantly male environment, and I, as a merchandiser for a lingerie retailer, work in a predominantly female environment. In fact both of us can say in all honesty that the number of people we work with that are of the opposite sex can be counted on two hands...and in my case they’re all married. No chance of meeting anyone at work then!!
We were discussing this over a recent Skype call, and my brother confessed that (encouraged by my experiences on the dating site I’d joined), he’d decided to take matters into his own hands, and was entering the world of “modern dating” by attending a speed dating session.
He told me all about his experience, as I’d admitted I had my concerns about him being able to hold a conversation with an actual girl for four whole minutes without embarrassing himself. Having never been speed dating, I was interested in his male perspective on the whole thing, and I was pleased to hear it sounded like he had a lot of fun, and even came away from it with a couple of numbers. Granted he had to spend four minutes with the obligatory nut job that you’d expect to find at these sort of events...in this instance it was a woman who big bro described as “perfectly normal looking” until she opened her mouth and serenaded him with the Dogtanian theme tune, complete with barking intro. I think his biggest issue with her, was that for the following week he was wandering around work singing “one for all and all for one, muskehounds are always ready” under his breath, much to the amusement of his co-workers.
I was also quite proud of him, as he successfully navigated his way through the “awkward” four minute date without consequence. This is the date we all worry about encountering. Four minutes that feel like four hours because there’s something about the person sitting in front of you that makes you want to make an inappropriate comment or joke. Unfortunately the time limitations imposed by the very nature of speed dating means you don’t have time to decide whether your comments will be taken in the light hearted comedic manner in which they’re intended, or if they’ll go down like a shit sandwich and make the final three minutes and thirty seconds the most uncomfortable of your life.
Big bro found himself in this situation when his fourth date of the evening turned out to be a rather teeny 4’2” tall. His instinctive reaction as she introduced herself was to exclaim
“But of course! I recognise you from your stint in Return of The Jedi as Ewok scout Teebo”
and then make enquiries as to whether she was still acting. Luckily, the part of his brain used to determine whether someone may or may not have feelings kicked in at around about the same time, and he managed to resist the urge. It didn’t however, stop him spending the next three minutes debating (via a JD style internal monologue) whether she’d see the funny side of his comment, and should he risk it for a biscuit? The end result being that he absorbed absolutely nothing that she told him about herself. A typical bloke then!
My foray into the world of dating via the dating site has been somewhat more reserved, as I find I’m still at the stage where I want to weed out the nut jobs before meeting them face to face! Perhaps it’s because I’m a girl and we have to be a little more “security” conscious. Dates have to be planned to the letter and shared with girlfriends just in case your date turns out to be a serial killer intent on abducting you and burying you under their patio. Any variation to the plan has to be communicated to all interested parties and some girls even ensure they have an exit strategy planned, which involves a friend calling to offer an excuse to leave the date if it’s going badly. Personally I have no problems seeing a date through even if its rubbish, as it just seems like the only polite thing to do...besides, you never know when your date might miraculously pull his personality out of the bag!
Nevertheless, the one thing my single friends and I are all in agreement on, is that it’s nearly impossible to meet anyone via old fashioned methods nowadays. Let’s face it...a night on the town doesn’t usually bring the Mr Darcy’s of the world out in force does it? Most guys are so bladdered they can’t even remember their own names, so the chance of them remembering yours is slim! Even if you are lucky enough to catch the eye of a sober guy, it’s invariably because he’s a recovering alcoholic, or even if he’s not, and he just happens to be the sober designated driver (lucky you), where in a bar or club can you actually find a space that’s quiet enough to talk and find out of you actually have anything in common?
“So what do you do then?”
“Huh?”
“I said, what do you DO?”
“Oh yeah” (nodding) “I’m a huge rock fan”
“No, I said WHAT DO YOU DO FOR A LIVING?”
“HUH??”
“YOUR JOB!?”
“Oooh, no...hate cats!”
It seems speed dating, e-mails, on-line dating, msn chats and Facebook flirtations really are the only way to make that initial contact with new people nowadays. Sure you still get the odd weirdo, but at least you can spot them fairly early on this way. Gone are the days of dating sites and supermarket “singles nights” appearing a bit desperate...this is the 21st Century baby, where we all work unsociable hours and still need a place to go to meet likeminded people. So if you’re in two minds about signing up to that dating site, just go for it – what have you got to lose? If you’ve been toying with the idea of speed dating but you’re just not sure, grab a bunch of your girlfriends and go along as a group for a giggle – who knows what could happen? Worst case scenario – you make a new friend...and who’s ever complained about having too many friends?? Ultimately, whatever your experiences, it will make great conversation when you next visit your favourite smug marrieds and they ask in a hopeful voice...
"So?...Any gossip???"
Of course you share with your single friends too, and nine times out of ten it helps to know that someone else out there is as much of a disaster on the dating front as you are. My big brother and I are in similar positions when it comes to meeting people at the moment. As a console game designer, he works in a predominantly male environment, and I, as a merchandiser for a lingerie retailer, work in a predominantly female environment. In fact both of us can say in all honesty that the number of people we work with that are of the opposite sex can be counted on two hands...and in my case they’re all married. No chance of meeting anyone at work then!!
We were discussing this over a recent Skype call, and my brother confessed that (encouraged by my experiences on the dating site I’d joined), he’d decided to take matters into his own hands, and was entering the world of “modern dating” by attending a speed dating session.
He told me all about his experience, as I’d admitted I had my concerns about him being able to hold a conversation with an actual girl for four whole minutes without embarrassing himself. Having never been speed dating, I was interested in his male perspective on the whole thing, and I was pleased to hear it sounded like he had a lot of fun, and even came away from it with a couple of numbers. Granted he had to spend four minutes with the obligatory nut job that you’d expect to find at these sort of events...in this instance it was a woman who big bro described as “perfectly normal looking” until she opened her mouth and serenaded him with the Dogtanian theme tune, complete with barking intro. I think his biggest issue with her, was that for the following week he was wandering around work singing “one for all and all for one, muskehounds are always ready” under his breath, much to the amusement of his co-workers.
I was also quite proud of him, as he successfully navigated his way through the “awkward” four minute date without consequence. This is the date we all worry about encountering. Four minutes that feel like four hours because there’s something about the person sitting in front of you that makes you want to make an inappropriate comment or joke. Unfortunately the time limitations imposed by the very nature of speed dating means you don’t have time to decide whether your comments will be taken in the light hearted comedic manner in which they’re intended, or if they’ll go down like a shit sandwich and make the final three minutes and thirty seconds the most uncomfortable of your life.
Big bro found himself in this situation when his fourth date of the evening turned out to be a rather teeny 4’2” tall. His instinctive reaction as she introduced herself was to exclaim
“But of course! I recognise you from your stint in Return of The Jedi as Ewok scout Teebo”
and then make enquiries as to whether she was still acting. Luckily, the part of his brain used to determine whether someone may or may not have feelings kicked in at around about the same time, and he managed to resist the urge. It didn’t however, stop him spending the next three minutes debating (via a JD style internal monologue) whether she’d see the funny side of his comment, and should he risk it for a biscuit? The end result being that he absorbed absolutely nothing that she told him about herself. A typical bloke then!
My foray into the world of dating via the dating site has been somewhat more reserved, as I find I’m still at the stage where I want to weed out the nut jobs before meeting them face to face! Perhaps it’s because I’m a girl and we have to be a little more “security” conscious. Dates have to be planned to the letter and shared with girlfriends just in case your date turns out to be a serial killer intent on abducting you and burying you under their patio. Any variation to the plan has to be communicated to all interested parties and some girls even ensure they have an exit strategy planned, which involves a friend calling to offer an excuse to leave the date if it’s going badly. Personally I have no problems seeing a date through even if its rubbish, as it just seems like the only polite thing to do...besides, you never know when your date might miraculously pull his personality out of the bag!
Nevertheless, the one thing my single friends and I are all in agreement on, is that it’s nearly impossible to meet anyone via old fashioned methods nowadays. Let’s face it...a night on the town doesn’t usually bring the Mr Darcy’s of the world out in force does it? Most guys are so bladdered they can’t even remember their own names, so the chance of them remembering yours is slim! Even if you are lucky enough to catch the eye of a sober guy, it’s invariably because he’s a recovering alcoholic, or even if he’s not, and he just happens to be the sober designated driver (lucky you), where in a bar or club can you actually find a space that’s quiet enough to talk and find out of you actually have anything in common?
“So what do you do then?”
“Huh?”
“I said, what do you DO?”
“Oh yeah” (nodding) “I’m a huge rock fan”
“No, I said WHAT DO YOU DO FOR A LIVING?”
“HUH??”
“YOUR JOB!?”
“Oooh, no...hate cats!”
It seems speed dating, e-mails, on-line dating, msn chats and Facebook flirtations really are the only way to make that initial contact with new people nowadays. Sure you still get the odd weirdo, but at least you can spot them fairly early on this way. Gone are the days of dating sites and supermarket “singles nights” appearing a bit desperate...this is the 21st Century baby, where we all work unsociable hours and still need a place to go to meet likeminded people. So if you’re in two minds about signing up to that dating site, just go for it – what have you got to lose? If you’ve been toying with the idea of speed dating but you’re just not sure, grab a bunch of your girlfriends and go along as a group for a giggle – who knows what could happen? Worst case scenario – you make a new friend...and who’s ever complained about having too many friends?? Ultimately, whatever your experiences, it will make great conversation when you next visit your favourite smug marrieds and they ask in a hopeful voice...
"So?...Any gossip???"
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