Betrayal

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry" he said.

"It's fine" she replied thinking; "it is not fine"

They talked about it endlessly in the following week; crying at times, laughing at others. She felt safe and sick. Broken and whole. She loved him and hated him all at once. Thoughts compulsively went round and round her head. What had this girl looked like? What did she sound like? Was she tall or short? What had she looked like when she was fucking him? Swirling thoughts that wouldn't let up. Working herself into a lather she imagined him holding this girl, looking at her appreciatively as she walked away from him, telling her how attractive she was. Things he'd said and done for and to her. In her head this girl was perfect. Small and slight; long dark hair, pouty Lolita lips, breasts high and firm leading down to a taut stomach and shapely legs. Sexually knowledgeable and aggressive (she would have to be sexually aggressive to be the sort of girl that sent unsolicited sexy pictures of herself to other peoples boyfriends). Laura was not sexually aggressive. She was unsure of herself and despite many compliments from past (and the current) suitors about certain physical attributes and her skills in the bedroom, she was not a conventionally attractive woman and she still carried the weight of being a virgin into her twenties around with her. Time and practice had filled in certain gaps in the meantime but she had never really lost the inferiority complex that comes from being a gawky, inexperienced, frightened-of-the-world teenager. Laura was sure the girl was a conventionally attractive girl who, though clearly in thrall to some serious daddy issues, would never have stood at the edge of a dancefloor feeling fat, unattractive, and unloveable as Laura had spent most of her formative years.

These thoughts gripped her from morning till night. Brushing her teeth, waiting for a bus, washing dishes after dinner. She'd be stood there feeling fine, or just stood there existing feeling neither fine nor not, and suddenly the thoughts of the girl would start swirling and drag her to a dark, dank place. A place she thought she'd never have to go again once she met him. Now here she was, standing on the precipice between sanity and the alternative and was not sure which way she would fall. Reason dictated stepping back into the realms of logic ("he didn't do anything once we were together properly, he only kept stuff from me to save upset, he didn't tell her to get lost because adults aren't taught how to create boundaries anymore"), emotion urged her to jump with wild abandon into the pit of self-destruction ("how could he not know this would hurt you? Thus he must have done it to hurt you. You're better off on your own. You will never live up to this girl. You're worthless to him, he's proven that. Give up. Give in"). She felt herself caught between these urges, these voices, unable to choose between them.

She'd said 'I forgive you' and meant it but now felt nothing but anger. She wanted him gone. She never wanted to see him again, then, just as suddenly, she loved him with all her heart and could not imagine her life without him. Flipping between these states like switching between channels on the tv. She hated her brain: 'just pick one!' she screamed internally, but it seemed impossible. Her heart and her head would not settle.

Laura knew this was what would be the end of them. Not his initial stupidity, but her inability to let things go. To settle.

This was the worst betrayal of all.

The Drop

The bridge that leads to the drop is rickety and old. Vines wind round the cracks of the planks that offers a walking platform (of sorts) and through the ropes that precariously hold the bridge together, seemingly keeping everything from disintegrating completely. It always seems to be swaying gently in the breeze, making little groans as it does so.

It is not a safe place.

I'm not normally one for exploring too far but there was this meadow I used to cycle to with Lorna on those eternally warm summer days in between finishing school and starting college, that was the first time in my life I'd felt completely free. I had no schoolwork, a part time job I loved in a record shop (that gave me the most disposable income I've ever enjoyed before or since) and nothing to do but plan picnics, teach myself how to smoke, and laze around with Lorna discussing boys, and tv shows (sometimes both; especially in regards to Queer As Folk and how it made us strangely aroused to see two guys fucking each other's brains out). Those few months have taken on an ethereal glow in my memory; draped as they are in sunlight, the smell of rollies, and the feel of wild grass tickling my neck as I daydreamed hours and hours of my life away. It was as close to perfect as I'd ever experienced.

It must have been on one of those meadow picnic trips when I finally stumbled across the little overgrown rocky path that lead off the back of the meadow towards a wall of imposing and beautifully solid trees. As I said, I'm not one for adventure really, but maybe Lorna had said something that had upset me and I'd decided to take a wander rather than tell her how insensitive she was being (confrontation remains one of my least favourite activities, though I've got steadily better at it as time has passed). Stinging nettles resolutely planted themselves in the soil on either side of the path which made it quite difficult to see but once I had tread delicately through them, careful not to make contact with the bare skin of my legs, it opened out and I was able to stroll confidently along through this glen that offered shade and the distant sound of bees buzzing from flower to flower. The fact there was a path at all suggested others had come across this place before and tread the ground down to offer a safe passage though but in all my years of going there I've never encountered another single soul that I hadn't invited along for the ride myself (if I was slightly less pragmatic I'd think there was a kind of universe time-share system operating that ensured only one person or group at a time was able to find it but this seems unlikely). As I got to the other side of the glen, sunlight and warmth suddenly broke through and I found myself stood on a patch of mossy grassland next to a small ravine. This is when I first saw the rope bridge located about 10 foot downstream of where I was standing. On the other side stood another impossibly deep wall of trees and as I have no sense of direction I wasn't sure what could possibly lay beyond it, what it was connecting to, or why it was there. I felt like it was one of those important moments that you want to remember forever so you start taking a note of your surroundings. The smells and sounds and sights. I tend to live in my head a lot of the time so every now and again make a concerted effort to remain conscious in the present moment. It seemed like there was rushing water nearby but as the ravine's stream was nothing more than a trickle, I wasn't entirely convinced that wasn't just the leaves of the trees rustling to the front and back of me. I could hear birds twittering all around me. I made no effort to walk towards the bridge but sat down briefly on the scratchy grass that lay beneath my feet and breathed in the smell of earth and sun before slowly wandering back the way I had come.

When I showed the bridge to Lorna on a later date she'd rushed towards it and set off to the other side while I trailed behind frightened of falling in or it not taking my weight. I remember being angry with myself for showing it to her because of course she'd be brave and need to see what was on the other side. I was happy to have just found the thing and look it at from afar. 'Come on!' she'd cried. 'It's fine, look!' I smiled and waved her on, hating myself for being too cautious all the time. She galloped away and disappeared through the wall of trees until I heard her suddenly gasp. She just as suddenly appeared again and ran back towards me with an intensity in her eyes I'd never seen before. 'Seriously, you need to come over to the other side. This is going to blow your mind' I shook my head slowly and grimaced, 'No way man, you're not getting me on that thing'. I said this with an American accent like I was a character in some schlocky movie to lighten the situation but I'd meant what I had said. No way, no how. She grunted in frustration and ran off again. 'Suit yourself!' she called. I turned around defiantly and made my way back to the meadow, waiting for at least two hours in increasingly angry silence before realising she wasn't coming back. For some reason this didn't worry me as I struggled to wheel our two bicycles and picnic detritus home. I grumbled and cursed her under my breath the entire way for leaving me to clear up her mess and take care of her stuff. It never occurred to me to either just leave her bike there or be concerned for her safety. I knew she was ok. She was more than ok, she was doing what I couldn't.

That was probably one of the last times I saw her in a friendship capacity. College started and we drifted off and were absorbed into different social groups (her - the pretty clubbing types, me - the freaks and geeks). We never really discussed that day in any great detail and she never told me what lay on the other side of the bridge but there was something irrevocably broken in our relationship; she had jumped out of the nest, suddenly ready to fly. I was still sheltered and too frail to consider taking such actions. We would chat of course, should our paths cross as we wandered between classes and the cafeteria, and smile and nod and agree oh yes we really should meet up properly soon I will call you but neither of us ever bothered. There was no point. She had a knowledge I didn't and neither of us were comfortable with that.

It wasn't until a couple of years later that I thought about that place again. It was an unseasonably warm day in May and I suddenly got the urge to revisit this specific little hidey hole of my past, so packed a picnic and excitedly told my boyfriend of the time (who, four years later would turn out to be gay, making mine and Lona's breathless description of homosexual sex a little less exotic and erotic to me forever more) that we were about to embark on a 'great adventure'. He seemed unsure but followed me along the winding country lanes that led to the meadow while I chattered inanely about the days Lorna and I had shared out here. When we got to the meadow we enjoyed our lunch of French bread, sliced meats and old English cider and lolled around, making out as our bellies swollen with food rubbed against each other, coming up for air every now and again and to pick stay hair strands (mostly mine) out of our mouths. Eventually the alcohol and sun got to my head and a wave of bravery overtook me. 'Come with me' I ordered as I stood up and started walking towards the nettle laden path entrance. My boyfriend followed without much question and we walked in near silence though the glen until the bridge appeared before me, just as suddenly as the last time I was here. 'I going to walk over that' I said out loud. Not so much to him but to myself, ensuring that a pact was made between me and the universe. One that I couldn't shimmy out of.

The first step on the bridge was tentative and I felt it start to bow under my weight. I debated stepping back off it to collect my thoughts but knew that if I did this I would lose my nerve completely so, even more tentatively, placed my right foot in front of my left. I did this again and again until I had reached the other side. The hard ground surprised me as I had resolutely not looked down all the way over (the ravine was narrow and not that high - six foot by twelve maybe? High enough that it would hurt to fall, though probably not lethal; and wide enough that you wouldn't be able to grab hold of the sides if you were in the middle and the bridge decided to release itself from its tethers). I stood there for a second with this dawning realisation of how deeply I was breathing and suddenly starting to wake up to the sounds and smells and sights around me. My boyfriend tapped me on the shoulder and startled me back into the present moment completely. This was an adventure and I was glad he was with me. We walked into the trees (which up close was a little less wall-like but still fairly dense) and quite suddenly found ourselves standing on the edge of a deep drop into a watery abyss.

'Shall we?' I asked.

'Shall we what?' he countered.

'Jump!'

'Go ahead if you want to'

'Are you not coming'

'Ha!'

And I don't know what it was; the adrenaline from making it so far, my lightheaded combination of cider, sun and kissing, but I took a little run up and flew into the air and then kept falling and falling till I felt my toes, then legs, then body make contact with the water. It hurt a little and I had a brief seconds panic of not knowing which way was up but I soon bobbed to the surface, laughing manically. I could make out my boyfriend's figure at the top, shaded black against the sunlight but wasn't too concerned about him. I swam around and luxuriated in the warmth of the water and my own sense of daring. I could do these things. I did do these things. I was a golden god! (Of course this feeling somewhat dissipated as found myself with scrapped knees and bloody fingertips as I struggled to climb up the almost-sheer rock face; which may be a slight exaggeration but it was definitely bloody hard). When I reached the top my boyfriend was nowhere to be seen and I finally realised that what I had thought of as Lorna's rejection of me because I wasn't free and brave like her was probably anger that I'd left her to make her own way home after climbing out of a lagoon with no climbing equipment. I smiled to myself at the solipsist impulses of teenagers and trudged back to the meadow where luckily he was still patiently waiting being much more of a gentleman and friend than I have ever been to anyone.

Subsequently I would occasionally take the guys I was dating to this little secluded meadow spot that was great for kissing and talking in the afternoon summer sun. Sometimes I would show them the bridge, sometimes not. A couple were even daring enough to walk across to the other side with me and peer helplessly down at the drop below. No one ever offered to jump with me though, even the ones that said they loved me. The itch to do so again still stayed with me but having done it alone once was enough. I knew I could do it if I wanted to now and I wanted to find the person that would follow me and help me climb out (and vice versa). Doing something like that alone was important but I knew it would be more sensible (in a sense), more fun and much easier with someone else. So I secretly tested them in my head; if these guys loved me or cared for me like they said they did they would have offered to jump I had decided. Because they sat impassively back it meant they weren't really in this thing. It was all for show. They talked the talk without walking the walk (or, in this case, jumping the jump).

Then I met him.

He was different to everyone else I'd ever met from the start. We'd met when I was hungover and tired and didn't feel that I was wearing quite the right outfit for an evening in the pub (black knee length dress with a deep 'v' neck that put my breasts a little too prominently on display, biker boots, thick belt, make up a little too pink) but I immediately felt comfortable with him in a way that I don't normally feel with new people. We arranged to meet again and again and slowly but surely I realised I had met someone whose weird fit my weird perfectly (I don't mean that in a dirty way, but if you're going to read it as such then that side of it was pretty darn perfect too). Here was this imperfect yet delightful creature that had grown up and developed completely independent of my existence and yet whose imperfections tessellated with mine in such a way that I could never have imagined possible.

What's funny about meeting someone like this is that not that you suddenly 'get' song lyrics or poetry like everyone says you will but you understand why things happened the way they did much more clearly than before. It puts everything into context; I had to not fit certain people in certain ways (even though that hurts like hell at the time - why... can't we get along/doesn't he like me like that/does he make me feel like that?) in order to appreciate just how special this particular man actually is.

The relationship itself unfolded at its own pace. For the first time ever I wasn't in a rush to define anything, to say 'I love you', to hear 'I love you'... I knew that it would all happen eventually and I was happy to just sit back and let it play out the way it needed to. But it was maybe three months in and I decided to take him to the drop. I kept telling myself that this wasn't a test, that if I was testing him slightly it wasn't fair to do it so that he didn't even know, that no matter what happened I still liked him loads and he felt the same way about me.

But I knew this would determine everything.

The meadow was as quiet as ever and we sat there for hours talking and smoking, just as I had with Lorna all those years ago. When the sun stated to dip a little lower I found my nerve and lead him to the path, through the glen, over the bridge, and to the drop. We hardly spoke a word all the way. As we stared down together he looked up at me, made eye contact and sort of nodded.

Together we jumped.

Bursting Open - Act III

Act III: Our heroine steps into something great

After the Floyd encounter (maybe 'incident' would describe it more accurately, given it's connotations to negative events) I had a thing in my head that because my body type is a little 'juicier' no one would really be interested in me and that was what had ultimately put Floyd off (give me a few days and it's always my flaws that I'll concentrate on, rather than the fact that I wasn't at all interested in him either). I've always considered myself 'unconventionally attractive' (in that I'm a Nottie rather than a Hottie) but through a combination of an 'interesting' sense of style (i.e. using bright colours and shiny things to distract and baffle the opposite sex), my 'quirky' personality (I like some things that girls are not commonly known for liking), and sheer force of will there have been a number of guys over the years who have shown interest in me that I'm pretty sure would normally not go for/flirt with a girl who looks like me. I was relying on these cheap tricks to get me through the dating jungle that I was in the process of tentatively entering, whilst still being dragged down by the voice in the back of my head that was cruelly whispering 'yeah, fine they like you online, but you are still too fat for anyone to fancy you so might as well forget it". It turned out that the cruel, whispering voice could go and suck a fuck.

I arranged a meet up with 'Tom'. Older than me, a mature student in a creative field, in his photos he had a beard and a nice smile and could write in complete sentences. All bonuses. He also passed the test of obviously viewing my profile, taking in the words on said profile, and contacting me with a friendly, direct message that got straight to the point of asking me out. I had previously been conditioned to enduring the 'beating round the bush' game for; often times, years on end, which is not nearly as fun as it sounds. I was nervous as I got off the train to meet him, especially as that pesky cruel whispering head-voice was bothering me, but as soon as Tom and I found each other the voice immediately shut up. We chatted and flirted and I got too drunk and told him more about myself than I was comfortable with. Which may be part of the reason that the best first date I've ever had did not turn into the best relationship I've ever had. In subsequent encounters I was immediately on the back foot, shyer than I normally would be, feeling a little more vulnerable and raw than I would have liked. Which did not encourage a love connection. He also seemed to be an amalgamation of every other guy I'd ever dated, a totally unfair assessment but an off putting one all the same; firstly there's the older than me thing, he had a somewhat complicated and sad past, he was into the sort of obscure music that record geeks love, he knew more than I did about world politics and could talk confidently about it. Previously all these things had attracted me to guys but I was looking for something different this time. I didn't know in what way different but just... not that. None of these traits are bad but they clearly hadn't worked out for me previously and I felt like I'd made all this effort to change myself only to go and repeat the same mistakes with the same type of guy again? No thank you. All of this however is just another example of my fondness for the beating round the bush game: he was (is?) a lovely, interesting, funny person that I got on with really well. But, in the words of everyone's favourite ScarJo movie: I Just Wasn't That Into Him. And I think this is an important lesson to have learned, sometimes the 'on paper' guy who has all the things you've thought you might want is not the guy that is the best match for you. A relationship that works requires plenty of magic sparkle glue that binds and bonds. The magic sparkle glue cannot be manufactured manually, you can't wish it into existence, it's sort of either there or it isn't. In this case, it just wasn't.

Next we have Dick. Dick was... well, I know at the time I enjoyed his company else I wouldn't have gone on five or so dates with him but now, on reflection, I really don't know why. I can look back and go, that was fun, we laughed a lot, he was clever and witty, but that's all struckthrough with a thread that goes 'I also fuckin' hate the guy'. Which is so harsh and so not like me. But it's also so true. My main attraction to Dick (HA!) was that he was a lecturer. I had had the World's Biggest Crush™ on one of my lecturers at university and I had this fantasy of getting to replay that WBC™ with actually fucking the lecturer this time. We'd drink red wine and discuss Foucault by candlelight and maybe I'd go to his office during uni hours and a couple of his students who had a crush on him would see me and be all jealous and I'd be the winner! Of life! And of love! And... it wasn't really like that. I probably, at some point in my life, could have convinced myself I fancied this guy but I now know myself too well and as a result we never even kissed. The fantasy was always just going to be a fantasy (I sort of know now that even if I had got to do things with the aforementioned lecturer I actually fancied then pesky reality would have intruded upon that too. The world in your head will always seem more exotic and exciting than the world you live in, the trouble is the world in your head lacks the one thing that truly makes things interesting or exciting: being real). So, yes, he was never going to win this purely by virtue of the fact that he wasn't a dapper, charming man with dark shaggy hair and an Irish lilt to his accent who could sweep me off my feet and take me away from all this - I don't think that man exists anywhere but in my head to be honest - he was this nerdy, fiercely intelligent, ambitious, tee-total vegetarian that came across as being really angry at the rest of the world. I think that undercurrent of anger I was able to dismiss at the time, but it helps explain why I now look back on my time with him and feel uncomfortable about the whole thing. I felt I was constantly under surveillance, like he was waiting to pick holes in anything I did. Asking him 'what shall we talk about then?' was answered with 'why do you find it so hard to cope with silence'. Reaching in my bag and putting on lipsalve was accompanied by his observation that I 'sure do that a lot'. When he contacted me subsequently to ask if we could be friends and I politely (I thought) declined I got a response made up of multiple paragraphs as to why and how I was wrong to decline ('or, you have in fact just proven my point and removed any ounce of guilt I may have been feeling' I thought). I was able to talk to him, and share things about myself with him, but I never felt fully myself with him and, as shallow as it sounds, I was looking for someone that would go to restaurants with me and share a bottle of wine and happily go for a weekend away with me to a European city. He could do the restaurant thing (always ensuring I paid my half of the bill of course. Which, look, I'm a feminist, I will always offer to pay half but on the first date you're going to have to at least pretend that you're going to pay the bill. Or, if I protest at you covering it all, say 'you can pay next time'. Not look at it and go 'that's £18 for your share I think'. That shit won't fly son, the world is an unfair place and to redress that balance I expect you to offer to pay for our first meal together) but he had never drunk alcohol, never taken drugs, didn't like travelling. All of these things were alien to me. Tom was too similar to what had gone before and Dick was too different. Like Goldilocks I wanted to find someone who was just right.


And find him I did.


Harry. It turned out later that we'd only exchanged messages for a couple of weeks. It felt like much longer. But that's precisely how the relationship developed. It felt like no time at all had passed when I was with him and yet that we had known each other from since the dawn of time. It may be that, now, looking back, I make this narrative that joins he and I together in an all encompassing, unending, eternal love. That our love had always existed and was just waiting for us to discover it eventually. That our first date was a powerful knock to the system and managed to realign the universe into where it should be. That the phrase 'soul mate' was invented solely for us and are the only words that come anywhere close to describing what we have.

Realistically, I'm not sure it was as cut and dry as that. 

Harry and I had an above average first date. We relaxed pretty quickly in each other's company, seemed to share a lot of similar interests, laughed and chatted and were roped into doing an impromptu pub quiz (as is the norm). He gave me the weirdest pecking kiss at the end of the date (and then mimed shooting himself in the head as he walked away, as I was to find out much later) which I interpreted as him not fancying me. This was backed up by it taking him a WHOLE WEEK (one! whole! week!) to text me and ask me out again. By that time I was already on my way to a third date with Tom, had set up my first date with Dick, and was starting to think I would maybe see if there was anyone else out there I could add to my roster. I was also *just* on the verge of texting Harry to tell him I was cool if he didn't want to do the dating thing but was also in this to make friends so would be pretty happy if that was all he wanted. Maybe it was this, the fact that I could see myself being friends with him over and above anything else that started the magic sparkle glue in motion. This just wasn't the case with anyone else I dated - either as one offs or repeatedly - I clicked with other people but didn't necessarily want their friendship and yet with him I did. I mean, it just so happened that I also found him super attractive (but more so from the second date onwards where he was more himself, than on the first when he was on his best behaviour, if that tells you anything) but he was also just a really awesome person that I liked loads and loads. After that second date, where we stayed up till 4am talking (when I asked him 'what shall we talk about then?' he'd reply 'I don't know!' and I'd go 'I don't know either!' and we'd laugh and talk about how rubbish we were at making conversation) and kissing (properly this time) I was pretty much the smittenest kitten that ever existed. I knew in my heart of hearts that he was the one I wanted to be with. There were two things that stood in the way: he had just ended a four year relationship and I didn't want to be rebound girl, and he was potentially moving away.


So continue to date the the other guys I did. As a form of protection if nothing else. I struggled with that decision quite a bit. On one hand it seemed unfair to string other people along if my heart lay with someone else. On the other hand I went into this wanting to see what was out there and let time figure out who would be the best match for me - and that was exactly what I was doing. It seems so obvious what the right choice was now, with the benefit of hindsight, and thankfully I did make the right choice, but at the time I agonised constantly over what was the 'right' thing to do. And I also realised why I had never dated three men at the same time before - I just wasn't cut out for it. It was *too* agonising, and complicated. Plus I was having to be 'ON' all the freaking time. When I discussed with my bestie that I was supposed to be seeing Tom that night but Harry had just asked if I was free and I really wanted to see him instead her advise was; 'well I don't fucking know, I wouldn't get myself into this situation in the first place'. (I saw Tom, I didn't want to be the sort of girl that broke dates if a better offer came along).


This was a path I would have to navigate alone clearly. I decided to trust in time to reveal the way to go. And it did.


After Harry's and mine forth date I only saw Tom again to break up with him using the tired, sad excuse in between that I was busy (which I was, just dating another guy). On Harry and's and mine fifth date I introduced him to the wonders of cheap red wine made drinkable by the addition of cola (which is also my fav summer drink) and finally confessed to Harry I was seeing other people and he confessed to me he'd already had a rebound fling and what we were doing was in no way that in his eyes. This, as far as I was concerned, removed one of the obstacles from our path so tumble deeper down the rabbit hole I fell. On our sixth date he took me out for dinner (and paid!) and said I should continue to date the other guys until we'd gotten to ten dates. We laughed about this being like the plot to 40 Year Old Virgin ('except no way am I a virgin!') whilst both feeling weirdly sad about the idea. BUT, this in itself convinced me that he was in this for me and was willing to put his wants to one side to ensure I was happy. I knew how that worked the other way round but not someone doing that for me. I admit a swooned a little. The night before Harry's and mine seventh date I went out with Dick for the final time and kept going to the loo to check Harry's facebook page. This was where I realised I was stringing people along and needed to stop (and was also worried Dick would start to think I had bowel problems). The following night, on our seventh date I told Harry I didn't want to date anyone else, he told me he didn't want me to date anyone else either and that he was going to stay here and not move away. The magic sparkle glue sighed happily and we went about the business of getting on with the rest of our lives. Together.

"Real love doesn't make you act crazy. The reason we act crazy when we are infatuated is because we want it to be real so badly -- we want to jump over the distance of time that makes real love what it is... That's the trick of romance: The crazy infatuation love is so much brighter and turns so many more corners so quickly. Much more exciting than the real thing. But real love, at its finest, makes you feel like you are bursting open, like this: Like hearing a beautiful song, or reading a beautiful poem, or hearing a wonderful story, and the tears come and you don't know precisely why. It doesn't hurt; it hurts in a way that isn't hurting, that we don't have a word for. Largeness. Enormity. It takes a real strength, a real grace, to stand up straight in the face of that. Especially if you're not familiar with it."

          ~ Jacob Clifton

Bursting Open - Act II

Act II: Our heroine actually steps outside

I had agreed to pick up Floyd (we'll call him Floyd) in my car from the train station (just because that was a relevant landmark and not to ensure all modes of transportation were witnessed that evening. There were no plans to glide past a bus depot later on). I had told a bunch of people were I was going and with whom but as I pulled up it occurred to me that I wasn't actually following the rules of safe internet dating. You're supposed to meet them in a neutral place, surrounded by a lot of people, with adequate access to sneaking away should things take a turn for the weird. By allowing a man I didn't know into my car (where pushing him out of said car would be tricky given that I have the strength of a kitten and can barely manage to change the radio station when driving without crashing, let alone thwart an attack and keep things road steady) I felt like I'd already failed the first test which is; don't get yourself raped or killed. As these thoughts only occurred to me as I pulled up I thought it better to just go along with it and not to voice them hoping that it would probably turn out okay and not with my rape or murder or murder/rape. You know things are going to go well when your first thought on meeting someone is, 'I hope I don't get murdered or raped tonight'.

Floyd was my first date in two years (actually probably more as with the previous one we never did what you might call 'going on dates', unless accompanying a man to a psychiatric institution for admission counts as a 'date'?) (But I think that would be opening up the term 'date' pretty broadly so let's go with no) and he was absolutely perfect as the 'first date in two years' guy. In that I had an absolutely abominable evening. Like, the worst. And it wasn't even the worst in a 'I got a bunch of funny anecdotes out of this terrible thing that happened to me' way. Just in a 'that was the longest three hours of my life' way. Which is the worst way.

As soon as he got into my car I knew I had no romantic interest in him whatsoever. But you can't really say that to someone as they're getting in your car; "um... stop right there. Am sure you're a perfectly lovely human being but no. Just... No". So get in the car he did. I smiled and made a crack about 'ooh this a bit awkward haha' and then proceeded to find out exactly what the word 'awkward' actually means. Every facet of it. It's smooth surfaces and rounded curves. I came to know it intimately like I had never known a word before.

I am quite good at connecting with people quickly and easily. I can't do it in groups. Ever. But as a one-to-one thing I know I can be relied on to open people up, make them feel pretty comfortable talking with me, and frequently enjoy conversations with people from all walks of life, whom I have nothing in common with, just because I operate from the basis of 'let's find out more'. Finding out more is pretty much guaranteed to lead you somewhere good - to a place where true connections are made.

Finding out more about Floyd is the most impossible task I have ever had in my life.

I asked questions, he answered them. He asked me some questions, I answered those. This continued throughout the evening. Now, you, dear reader, may be thinking 'well, that sounds suspiciously like a conversation' and yes, it was. But imagine a conversation stuck in the tone and feel and spirit of a conversation that takes place within the first five minutes of meeting a stranger you have no chemistry with. It's stilted, it's somewhat unnatural, no-one knows where to look. It was like that. For three hours.

Now, part of the problem started before we even met. When Floyd first contacted me he asked fairly quickly into our messaging relationship if I wanted to maybe go and see a film with him. I told him that the only film I really wanted to see at that precise moment in time was only showing at a cinema a thirty minute drive from where we both located. Because of this I then suggested meeting in a pub in the town where we both lived instead. He remained fairly adamant about the film thing (JESUS FLOYD! IF YOU LIKE FILMS SO MUCH WHY DON'T YOU JUST MARRY THEM?) I saw this as a bit odd but not 'squirming out of the date' worthy so went with it. Maybe it would be better not to drink I reasoned. Maybe it'll give us something to talk about if we get stuck I logic-ed. (Hmm. Maybe past-me. Maybe). Then I suggested collecting him from the train station and driving there together about an hour and a half before the film started so we could talk. I think Floyd found this a bit odd but not 'squirming out the date' worthy himself as he was a bit 'well... okay' about the whole thing. I had been labouring under the impression that dating was about getting to know people you were attracted to (however remotely) and figuring out if you like each other enough to continue that process until you decide you don't want to do that any more (correct me if I'm wrong). Part of that (I had assumed) would involve conversing with this other person so you could make better judgements about whether to continue/when to stop. Floyd didn't seem to view it that way given his reluctance at arriving there at an earlier time than would be needed to just see the film. He seemed to view dating as sitting silently in a darkened room with another person sat next to him watching a projection of other people having conversations.

Or, it was just that Floyd had joined a dating site because he wanted someone to go to the cinema with occasionally (seriously, Floyd, you can go by yourself! If it means that much to you just go by your freaking self!) without having to worry about all that ridiculous 'talking' and whatnot. I'm not unconvinced this was the case.

So I'm already a bit unsure even before we start as to what's expected of me. But I go with it, obviously, this is new easy-breezy me. Me just taking things as they come. Hey world, no pressure! Let's just see where this goes! me. The Bizarro-World version of me in other words.

My life previous to this had been ruled with an iron fist by plans and lists. Delicious plans and delectable lists (even now, I feel my heart beating faster and my mouth start salivating at the phrase). Plans and lists which actually ended up holding me back rather than pushing me forward my therapist felt. She may have had a point given that I would spend hours and hours coming up with these incredibly detailed and intricate (well, there is no other words for it) works of art that would be impossible for anyone to live up to. Once I let a few things slip I would then be paralysed by the fact that I wasn't keeping up with what I was meant to be doing and then I would just sit very still in the middle of a room doing literally nothing at all. They were the worst motivation-masquerading-as-a-motivational-tool any human had ever invented (I can remember reading about Arnold Rimmer's studying technique in the Red Dwarf books where he would spend months and months making revision timetables that would divide his entire day . But becasue he'd spend so long making these beautiful timetables it would get to three days before the exam and he'd find he'd not done anything but make this revision timetable that was now completely useless. I can remember reading this and thinking 'hmm... that sounds like fun!' which I don't think was the writers intention). Yet I clung to the lists and the plans like a koala to a tree. Nails in deep, limbs wrapped round with surprising force. My plans and my lists were my life. Until, all of a sudden, I found that my life was my life. Which seemed to make more sense.

So, yes, I was quite chill about this first-date-in-two-years. A little bit excited even. I wasn't expecting anything but I knew I have this superpower of putting people at ease in one-to-one situations in my pocket, and I always enjoy finding out more, so even if this guy seems a little odd what's the worst that can happen? I thought.

Well.

For a start, the complete lack of enthusiasm Floyd approached the art of conversing with. When we got to the cinema (which has a rather splendid cafe/bar) we got a drink and I sat on a sofa thinking he would sit in the seat next to me. No. He sat in the seat opposite me and then leaned as far back into that sofa as it is possible for a person to be. Which didn't really encourage the chat. He sighed and methodically answered questions. We discovered we had literally nothing in common. He'd played up his interest in pop culture and was more of an outdoorsy running-jumping-going on boats type. This is not the type I am. It quickly became apparent he wasn't over his ex-wife (EX-WIFE? He's a proper grown up and only a year older than me!). The car ride was laboured enough trying to think of things to talk about. Now we were sat opposite each other in the quietest cafe I have ever been in, where I was acutely aware the staff were listening in to every word we awkwardly said. It was clear even just looking at us that we were somewhat mismatched. Floyd was wearing the uniform of every late-twenties male regular Weatherspoons goer. I don't even know what you would describe my look as but 'guaranteed to get side eyes at a Weatherspoons' is as good a description as any.

Which is not to say I was judging Floyd or thought I was better than him in any way. It was just clear to everyone (including the both of us I think) that we had absolutely zero chemistry. I have personally had more chemistry with people's grandmas. And yes, as the noted philosopher Paula Abdul taught us; 'opposites [can] attract', but even then, if that's not the case, I pride myself on being able to find common ground with anyone - however the common ground I managed to slowly eke out of Floyd was probably not even big enough for the both of us to be stood on it at the same time comfortably. This was not a love connection.

To top it all off as the film commencing time approached a woman came and sat next to me on the sofa and read her book. Now it was not just the staff, but other patrons who were aware this was a first internet date and how horrific it was. 'Shall we find our seats?' I suggested, just for something to do. Soon (twenty minutes later) the sweet, sweet adverts (the only time before or since I have thought of them as thus) rolled up in front of our eyes and I knew I'd now get a good two hour break before having to endure more benign and uninviting chit chat. Just like when someone is being tortured and then they get put back in their cell; there's a pleasure and a pain in this reprieve. On one hand you're not having to endure the torture any more. On the other hand you know it will begin again soon enough and you'd just rather die here and now instead. It was a bit like that.

Eventually the moment I'd been dreading arrived. The credits rolled. I bustled us out of there pretty sharpish establishing that I'd loved the film and he'd thought it was depressing, in the process. I drove him back to the station, this time no longer really concerned about making conversation. (This was an unmitigated failure so there was no point expending any further energy in pretending to be polite). As he went to get out of the car a curious thing happened. He sort of edged nearer to me and lingered in his seat saying something about 'doing this again sometime'. I smiled sweetly and made noncommittal noises and unconsciously moved myself nearer and nearer to my door until I realised I was plastered right against it. He may have seen my eyes screaming 'LEAVE MY CAR NOW PLEASE' as he did eventually extricate himself from the passenger seat and stand on the pavement.

It was over.

Thank fuck.

As I drove home I had one thought running through my head 'if I can get through that I can get through anything'. Floyd had really been the perfect host in my return to the dating pool. I'd had no chemistry with him, he was obviously not interested in me, and yet I was fine! It wasn't a big deal! I didn't feel heartbroken that this hadn't worked out, just elated that I was obviously repaired to the point that a date could go badly and it didn't upset me. I got through the door and checked the dating site on my phone. A massive grin spreading over my face as I read the rambly, drunken, overwhelmingly charming message I'd got from the one guy on there I was really excited about.

This was all just starting.

To be continued...

Join us for Act III: Our heroine steps into something great

Bursting Open - Act I

Act I: Our heroine steps outside of herself

I am not the sort of girl that ends up dating three men at the same time.

I am the sort of girl that guys say "oh you're in our top 3 of girls we work with and want to sleep with" but then never ask out or try and sleep with (it occurs to me now that it's possible this was the come on line itself and by responding with "hahahaha shut up dickwad" they never felt cause to lead it on to anything further).

It started as a game: how many dates can you collect in as short a space of time as possible? A lot it turned out. More than I was physically capable of arranging in fact. I don't even know why I decided to do this. Something to do with distraction thought my therapist. I was more of the opinion that I was experimenting; seeing how far I had come. I had spent so long being miserable and now finally finally felt like I was getting somewhere. This had been a slow then a sudden process:

not ok, not ok, not ok, not ok, ACTUALLY YES I'M FINE, not ok, NOPE THAT WAS JUST NORMAL FEELING SAD - I'M STILL FINE AS IT HAPPENS. LET'S DO THIS.

I worked really really hard to get my shit together over the course of two years and suddenly turned around one day and found that, although not yet together per se, my shit was starting to get a little more organised (I am, obviously I hope, talking metaphorically).

So I decided, let's start dating again. Just to see what happened. I was expecting... nothing. For the first time in my life I made myself available romantically with no end goal. (That is a nice way of putting that I had previously slept with a handful of guys I had no interest in, pined after a bunch more that had no interest in me, and rounded this off by destroying every facet of my emotional core with the last guy I dated. You know, the usual) The way I wanted to play it was casually date around (the key word here being 'date', do not replace it for 'sleep') for about six months or so and then sort of stop to look around and see where I was with it all.

It didn't really end up that way.

I should preface this by saying I have always been terrified by commitment. I was never the little girl that grew up wanting to be married. I didn't play games with white tulle I'd found in my mum's sewing basket and hand picked flowers from my neighbours garden. I didn't daydream about what my wedding would be like. I panicked attacked the idea of having to be the centre of attention in a stupid white dress that was uncomfortable as all hell and tying myself to another person for the rest of my life with no real hope of escape. I definitely did that (though only later). But I certainly never found myself doing the former. Some of that might be to do with having divorced parents but I didn't do any of those 'normal little girl playing at weddings' things before they were divorced either so that little psychological insight seems somewhat null and void to me. It's just something that's not in my genetic make up. I get (thankfully now, quite mild) panic attacks whenever I hear that girls of my age grew up dreaming wistfully about their one-day beautiful white wedding. My games as a child were all intergalatic space wars and international kidnapping rings. I was the hero, never a bride; never even a bridesmaid. Falling in love, being whisked away by the charming prince - none of that has ever appealed to me. I've always dreamed wistfully about running around space kicking ass.

But I say all that and yet, and yet, there must have been something of that which appealed. Was I just kidding myself previously; thinking I didn't deserve such devotion from another human being so not entertaining the notion of it? Were all these unfulfilling, unsatisfying dalliances I'd indulged in since my late (very, very late) teens a form of protection? Was my choosing the wrong men (or allowing the wrong men to choose me) a way of making sure I never had to deal with the reality of romance?

I carried these questions around with me, examined them, looked into and around them, and then left them discarded on the floor. Who gives a shit now? I thought. Let's stop thinking and start doing and just see what happens with this.

So I set up an online profile on a free dating website. It took me less than half an hour to fill out. I set it up with the intention that I would come back to it in a couple of weeks and start doing things 'properly' but, for now, it was worth just setting it up so I could cross that off my to do list (one of life's greatest thrills is crossing items off a to do list. Something which, yes, I believe I did mention in my online dating profile). It was late so despite the immediately addictive properties of looking at boys and rating them based on their faces, grammatical errors, and things they professed to like; I went to sleep not really giving much thought to what lay ahead.

When I woke up the next morning I was awestruck to discover I had been contacted a lot. Like, a lot a lot. By loads of different guys. The majority were; 'hey baby xxx' and 'hi beautiful xx' but it was still a thrill. I suddenly understood better why girls felt the need to snog other girls in nightclubs or flirt outrageously with people they had no genuine interest in: GETTING ATTENTION IS AWESOME. Like, really awesome. To begin with. Then, maybe a little annoying, but still awesome in its own way. For the first time in my life I felt truly desired. And special. And it was awesome. Now, logically I know that these 'hey baby xx' messages were probably sent to every single female who appeared on the site. I was not really desired or special. These guys had not bothered to read my carefully constructed (in around 20 minutes) profile. They were just throwing out their bait and seeing who nibbled at it (so to speak...). I suddenly found myself bouncing around with confidence. I was one of those girls who men like. Not one of those girls who men think are sort of ok but could do with losing some weight, or one of those girls who are too weird to consider as a serious option. I was ok! Men, who it would be kind to say had somewhat broken English skills, were contacting me(! ME!) for dating purposes.

Then it got really fucking annoying.

I started off feeling the need to reply to every person that contacted me and was spending upwards of 2 hours a night just keeping up with the correspondence (this is in addition to the multiple times a day I checked the site on my phone just to see how many people were looking at my profile - to begin with on average 80 a day (EIGHTY!! A DAY!!! Why aren't all 80 contacting me? I'm awesome? Because you might not be every single man's type or he's shy or you're mental; you're already struggling to keep up with the correspondence, why would you willingly invite more of that? Because! Men!! EVERYWHERE MEN MORE MEN MORE. Shut the fuck up, you crazy person. Point taken.) This figure dwindled within a couple of weeks but I still remember the thrill of clicking onto my the app on my phone and seeing I had new messages or more views or had been added to someone's favourite list. I hadn't let a man touch me or even really talk to me for about two years at that point (well, not one that wasn't gay or a friend or related to me - and I hope, again, it goes without saying that any of that was strictly platonic). It was a thrill; getting chased, being made to feel wanted, being made to feel like maybe I was one of those 'normals' who are normal and do normal things like have boyfriends and go on dates and don't spend an inordinate amount of time in their heads thinking about episodes of Gossip Girl.

But then, then, it got really fucking annoying. There are only so many hours in a day, as you might well be aware. A large chuck of those I have to devote to earning money so can buy ridiculous dresses and piles and piles of books. Another large chuck of them I have to devote to sleeping, because sleeping is the best. This leaves with with but a few hours that I like to fill up with lounging, cross stitching, and staring idly into space thinking about Gossip Girl. These are my most precious of hours. And here I was struggling to keep up with my lounging schedule due to the influx of interest from the opposite sex via the internet. having responded to yet another 'hi baby xx' message with 'Hello Good Sir, What a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I see from your profile you enjoy kayaking and mountain climbing? Both of these pursuits sound like my own personal vision of hell! What's the closest you've ever come to death? Yours sincerely, Me' (or something equivalent) I just decided out loud to myself 'fuck that shit'. I was only going to respond or encourage guys who actually interested me and who were interested in me enough to make references about stuff in my profile. I wasn't going to hate on the other players (don't hate the playa, hate the game) but I was going to ignore the shit out of their messages. This pairing down process was actually pretty easy and fun. I had leaned two important rules of dating very quickly:

1. Put your dating beacon on and they will come a-flocking (that's f-l-o-c-k-i-n-g)

and

2. Don't put more time and effort in than they have ('hi baby xx' leaves me to do all the work! I would be left to ask questions and encourage discussion only to get one word responses back. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that then? Ask more outlandish questions? One-sided conversations are not enjoyable for me!) (I still honestly have no idea how that sort of conversation is supposed to work or how these men end up picking up chicks. Maybe they don't? Maybe that's the point).

But with that came the next stage: Meeting Guys. Outside of the computer. Where the trees and coffee shops are. The actual real life world. Shit.

To be continued...

Stay tuned for Act II: Our heroine actually steps outside

The Curtain Falls

The day you find yourself licking cake crumbs off a CD case you know it’s gone too far. When you get to the point where you’re leaving pieces of cake on top of objects that make a good plate substitute because using a plate would mean walking seventeen steps into your kitchen but that just seems too much effort… That’s what the experts call ‘rock bottom’ right?

I can’t believe I managed to find myself back here. It took me a year to really stop being this person. This person is a bit of a dick, I don’t like her but most of all… I can’t believe that even though I’ve changed, that I’d banished all thoughts of all him (well, mostly, kinda, I guess) all he had to do was speak a few clichéd declarations of adoration and I fucking fell right back in. The worst part is that I keep hoping he’s going to pull through for me. That’s just what every female really wants in the end, for that one guy to just do the right thing. To say all the stuff they’ve always suspected that he felt but was never grown up enough to admit. When they do that, it’s supposed to be the end of the story. The curtain falls, the house lights come up. It’s done. The audience walks away with a profound sense of relief that, in spite of this crazy mixed world fucking with everything good that, sometimes, love can win through. We can find our ‘person’ and we can be happy.

But no. He tells me he loves me, that we belong to each other, that he’s never met anyone that he feels this connected to and I’m expected to just carry on like nothing happened.

I don’t know. I think I know but when it comes down to it. I just don’t know.

It occurred to me, whilst sat around with two couple friends in a restaurant the other day that I don’t even want a relationship. Not really.

So why am I obsessing? Because that is what you do. It’s my lifeblood, my purpose. I obsess. And it has the tendency to suck the fun out of every little thing in my life, making me a great addition to any party: ‘Hey look! It’s the Fun-Sucker! Just in the nick of time! Please analyse all the depraved and shambolic behaviour people here are entering into! Quick! Before they really start to enjoy themselves!’

So, the restaurant. Two couples. Alice and Mark. Elle and Paul. I hadn’t even been sat down for more than 5 minutes (as I recall, I might not even had time to get round to taking my scarf off yet) when it starts. The attack. This is something that I, for whatever reason, never mentally prepare myself for even though I know it’ll be as inevitable as at least one member of a boy band being revealed as gay at some point in their career. I wasn’t even talking to Mark. I was telling Elle I had found a great track to end my next radio show on (ok, when I say ‘great track’ please be aware I mean it in the teenage-idiom which is loosely translated as ‘rubbish track that everyone remembers and therefore has great affection for and so will love it’). Anyway, as I’m telling Elle this, this tiny piece of information about what I’ve been up to today ‘Well funny you should ask Elle but I’ve been unearthing some fab music to play to the masses, starting with DJ Yoda and ending with PJ & Duncan’ when Mark, out of nowhere says ‘I listened to your show the other week. You sounded really awkward’. I didn’t really disguise my face falling very well. Unfortunately for him this little opinion piece was a bit ill-judged, timing wise.

‘Well thanks’ I smile. Whilst having visions of stabbing him in the eye with my butter knife.

Everyone else is quiet. Alice’s face looks at me mortified. Eyes wide, mouth open, with the horror of middle-class embarrassment.

‘I’m just giving you some constructive criticism’ he says.

‘Sure, thanks for that. I’ll take it under advisement’ when what I really want to say ‘Sorry Mark, I forget. How much radio presenting experience have you notched up? I don’t know why I haven’t before enquired what the renowned expert; the Mr Miagi of radio thinks about MY show. I feel so foolish’     

Of course, that wouldn’t really work as I hadn’t even asked his opinion in the first place. I wasn’t even asking what Elle thought. I was just describing a mundane event that had happened in my mundane day and Mark took it upon himself, at the very earliest opportunity (very earliest) to proffer his wisdom and in-depth analysis about how shit I am at my job.

This is what it is to be happily single and somewhat successful (if you are measuring success in the number of university radio shows a person has and how much freelance journalism work they get. The answers being: One and nearly enough to pay the bills… although more often than not it’s the office temp jobs that have to do that).

But we move past this. I don’t make a scene. I ignore the impulse to punch him in the face. Mostly because he is bigger than me.

Mark is a hairy, good-looking, broad-shouldered chap. He looks like he could be the charismatic drug dealer in a generic late-90s indie flick. Curly hair, mocking grin, a temperament that almost successfully hides his inferiority complex (at least to those individuals who don’t know what to look for). I think he’s attempting the persona of a devil-may-care, stoic, occasionally witty individual. Really, the fact that he doesn’t say a lot – and what he DOES say is usually sarcastic or mocking, means to me that he’s painfully shy. Of course, I could be wrong. But when am I ever wrong? I like Mark, despite his bristley-ness with me and his constant need to put me in my place he’s actually an okay guy. His sarcastic comments can make me laugh, even when they are directed at me. We have a lot in common when it comes to pop culture (although I fear my knowledge is better and more varied than his own which doesn’t add to relations between us in a positive way). As a man on his own terms, he’s fine. As boyfriend-to-Alice he makes her happy (which as her friend is all that really concerns me). As boyfriend-of-Alice he hates me. Which is less fine.

Next to Mark we have Alice. She’s one of my closest and oldest friends, hence the fact I am seen by Mark as a considerable threat to their relationship. Happy single girls (for the moment just accept that to all-intents-and-purposes being single is not the problem. It’s the not-being-with-the-person-I-love that’s causing me grief) are the enemy as well as the intriguing creature to males in long-term relationships. Alice is a trainee solicitor. She couldn’t look or act any more middle-class if she tried. She gives of the air of a primary school teacher (knee high boots, knee length skirts, sensible jumpers – often in beige, a heavy fringe that at first glance may evoke the feeling of a sixties swinger but on reflection only adds to the illusion of her angelic nature; especially when the rest of her hair has been pulled back into a nice, sensible pony tail – which is often). However, appearances can be deceptive. She is actually highly opinionated and witty, and oftentimes a bit dangerous. Doing exciting things, taking drugs, saying confrontational stuff – just for the fun of it. There are too few people in the world who live their life on this premise. Alice was the one who encouraged me to go after the unrequited-love man, and even accompanied me on my first trip to see him after he and I had shared that fateful love-at-second-sight experience. She has invited me out tonight to help take my mind off ‘things’. Her advice to forgetting about my love is to ‘fuck as many men as it takes for you to stop thinking about him’. She may in fact have a good point. It has worked before and will more than likely work again but this time, I just don’t feel like it. Like I say, this isn’t like me at all.

Sitting, demurely next to Alice is Elle (I was the last one to arrive, maybe they felt I could be distracted by men-by-proxy by arranging the table seatings so I’m parked inbetween the Chuckle Brothers here). She’s nice. Nice nice nice. She says nice things. She has nice hair and nice manners and speaks quietly, if at all. She’s not a knock-out stunna but neither would you be forced to make comparisons to the Elephant Man. Her clothes choices suggest she might be more interesting than her personality would imply. Weird band t-shirts, studded belts, converse trainers, jackets with badges on the lapel. All the staples of the boy-in-a-guitar-band. I’ve known her seven years and have never seen her without one or all of these items of clothing upon her person. I’ve also never heard her enthuse about any of these bands she advertises on herself. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing (there’s nothing worse than a pretentious music-geek, ala me) or a bad thing (she’s being an incredible poser). I get the feeling Elle is slightly in awe of me. Everything I do or say is ‘amazing’ ‘awesome’ ‘so cool’ and try as I might to kid myself that these things are true I know in my heart of hearts that they are not.

Elle’s boyfriend is Paul. Paul is…  well, you know how I said I like Mark as a man on his own terms? I probably cannot say the same about Paul. Everything he says sounds like a sneer, not directed at anyone but it’s a northern-accented-sneer nonetheless. Whenever he does engage in a conversation his forehead furrows and he sort of puts his head to one side like he has to really struggle to get a sentence out to someone he hates so much. And I’m not saying this is directed towards me, he’s like it with everyone. Even Elle. I have no idea why she is with him. He has a tidy, nondescript appearance. Short hair that is so-close-to-ginger-you’d-think-it-was-ginger-but-don’t-say-that-to-his-face-cos-he-reckons-it’s-strawberry-blonde-actually. Medium build. Medium height. You could meet him seventeen times and have trouble identifying him in a line up.

Until he spoke. Then you’d remember the sneer.

Paul offers me wine and tries to get a sneaky peak down my top as he is reaching over to fetch the bottle from the centre of the table. I internally shudder. Without even thinking I pull up my dress at the front a little.

‘What are you doing?’ asks Mark accusingly. ‘I saw you playing with your breasts out of the corner of my eye’.

I mimic the motion of bouncing my boobs up and down with my hands and declare that this will be the next lesson I learn tonight: ‘don’t play with myself at the table. Got it’.

Alice gives him a pointed look and tells him maybe his attention would be better focused on somewhere other than my chest area. Which chides Mark but has an undercurrent warning directed at me to ‘stop trying to entrap my boyfriend with your womanly wiles’. This is the downside of single life. Even the most logical female has that little territorial voice whispering bad-angel thoughts that ‘this bitch better lay off my man or I’ll ‘ave her’. This is why I hate going out with couples. If you talk too much to the girl then the guy thinks you’re rude. If you talk – or even look – too much at the guy then you’re a boyfriend stealing hussy who can’t be trusted. Despite all the social awkwardness in her novels none of Jane Austen’s literary characters ever had to put up with any of this shit. Blur summed it up very succinctly with the title of one of their albums: Modern life is rubbish.

The rest of the evening passes without too much sniping or leering until we get to the point of the evening where the waitress is enquiring who wants coffee. All of us having piped up before she reached the table who is having coffee/cappacino/latte I take it upon myself to order for everyone. Alice comments that she likes how I took charge of the situation. Mark then asks if I always ‘like to take charge of the situation’.

A fairly innocuous comment?

Let me tell you about Dave.

Dave is a friend of Mark’s flatmate. One, fairly debauched evening that I embarked on, lead me to handing over my phone number to this man. That was my first mistake. At the time I had just started dating a guy that I knew was eventually going to break my heart so one week after we had slept together for the first time I arranged to ‘go out’ with Dave. The logic behind this was that if I fucked up the relationship first then I won! Yay for me! That was my second mistake.

Dave is not my type. He had badly dyed blonde hair that didn’t look like it had been washed or even brushed in weeks. He had a slightly craggy face, hooded eyes, and a general washed out appearance. I’m guessing this was due to his years and years of heavy drug use (I use the catch-all term ‘drugs’ as he did literally seemed to have done all of them, all at once probably). There is rough and ready and then there is just rough. He fell into the second category. He did have a lovely south Irish accent going for him but that’s probably not the best reason in the world to decide to have sex with somebody. At least not in the long term. So there we have it, an Irish drug dealing lunatic (I later found out he is actually signed off from ‘work’ for his mental health problems) what else did I mean to mention… Oh yes. We may (may) have indulged in some light sado-masichism that night. Nothing brutal but, you know how it is. You meet a man, you arrange to meet up a week later in an effort to fuck up your potentially good budding new relationship before it even really has a chance to grow, and then you let some guy whip you a bit. It’s happened to us all right? Right?

So anyway, I became paranoid that this experience; my one foray into the realms of kinky sex, was being alluded to by Mark. I didn’t know he knew but to what else might he be referring to?

I did what all sensible middle-class girls do. Ignored him and gulped the remains of my glass of Rioja down.

The entire meal was over before 10pm. This is the other thing I don’t understand about couples. I rarely go out for proper restaurant eating meals with single pals (most of them operate under some form of eating disorder to one extent or another) but when we do you drink at LEAST an aperitif, one bottle of wine each, a liqueur coffee, stumble out to the pub and carry on drinking until one member of your party is sick on their shoes. Not tonight Matthew. Tonight we are normal and boring and act like people on rubbish sitcoms in the 80s who still have hold of all their faculties after the meal having all sat at the same side of the table so the camera can get everyone’s faces in. In my jim-jams by 1030. This is what it is to go out with couples.

So the boy.

It was a break from the mundane. Myself and two friends just decided to visit another mutual friend who lived in Cardiff. We are the road trip queens. Sort of like the guys from Pricilla Queen of the Desert but not transvestite men and wearing considerably less sequins and feathers.

Anyway.

Road trips for us are things that are meticulously planned out. Not in the route planning or the gas mileage but in mix tapes and outfits. We will do just about anything if it involves making a mix tape and getting a new outfit (hence my brief and ill-advised foray into the world of being a gym bunny). This is what road trips mean to girls like us. It is the slightly competitive nature in us all that fuels it. I, being a good ten-years younger than the other two means youth sometimes plays to my advantage:

‘I haven’t heard this band before’

‘Oh yeah, they’re sort of new but they broke up before anyone ever really knew they existed’

And sometimes does not:

‘Don’t you love the Soup Dragons?’

‘Who?’

‘Fuck me! You’re kidding?! I thought you liked music?’

I don’t always understand one hundred per cent why these two are my friends.

I met Luce seven years ago. She was my assistant manager in the music shop I had found myself working in after a particularly bad breakup with the only man I have ever loved (well, up till now) and subsequent drop-out of art school in a Rob Gordon-esque fashion.

She was my saviour.

Even before we spoke I held her up as the coolest person I’d ever been in the same room with.

I used to shop in that store all the time. I would wear band tee shirts and badges that I thought might catch her attention so we could strike up a conversation and become bestest best friends.

It never worked.  

She was always too engrossed or too short with me or just plain disinterested. I never made an impression on her the whole time. She’d stand in front of the counter sometimes, thumbs inserted into her back pockets, chest forward (not in a slutty way, in an aggressive – almost cowboy shoot out way), chin tilted down and her dyed-black hair falling into her eyes while she made sarcastic comments to some other guy stood on the serving side of the counter about how little work he was doing. The guy never seemed to mind. The guys there would change depending on the time and what day it was but you always knew one thing: they were in love with her as much as me. Maybe love is the wrong word. I suppose I mean something more akin to ‘awe’. They were in awe of her.

And so they should be. She’s quite an imposing individual. Not with her body, she’s fairly lithe and of average height, but with her personality. On first meeting she can be, well, one of about three characters:

-          If you look like her ‘type’ of person then she will be charming and friendly and smiley and chatty.

-          If you look like someone that knows nothing about her preferred genres of music then she will be polite but a little short with you. They’ll be no jokes or smiles, unless she is laughing at you.

-          If you come across as arrogant she will do everything short of physically pushing you away and out of her eye line.

So you better hope you fall into the first category.

For some bizarre and unexpected reason when I first started working there I was lucky enough to do just that.

Let me just get something clear. I’ve never been the cool girl or the popular girl. I’ve oftentimes been the ‘funny’ girl or the ‘smart’ girl but despite what TV, movies and literature would tell us - the funny, smart girl rarely wins out in the end (I think this is because a lot of the time the funny smart girl is the one who ends up writing these things in the first place. It’s what we do). Also, in those sorts of scenarios the funny smart girl also has beauty working in her favour. I’m not about to draw any comparisons between myself and the elephant man but I’m also not going to be entering any ‘High Street Honeyz’ competitions any time soon.

So, this is a very long-winded way of saying that I was not used to being treated as the new cool popular girl. And yet this is how Luce treated me.

For the first year of our friendship I was almost her apprentice. This of course gave the relationship a somewhat unbalanced quality. Which was fine for both us, I got to hang out with the coolest person I’d ever met. She got to be worshipped by someone.

However, things change. Invariably, things always change.

We had got to the point now where I was an almost entirely different person to who I had been when we first met and Luce was still pretty much the same. This is the sort of situation that can make-or-break a relationship and my falling in love with this boy brought things to a definite head.

We set off for Cardiff an hour or so later than intended (as is always the way when the three of us make any plans).

Motorway driving never holds much allure for most people but I love it. Except for that split second when your accelerator foot goes from being comfy to crampy. And you know there’s nowt you can do about it except for plough on, deal with it and keep going. Maybe turn up the Girls Aloud Greatest Hits CD and try and keep your mind off the discomfort with a sing-a-long burst to ‘Love Machine’.

But then, that’s just me.

On this day it was Luce’s turn at the wheel. Star was next to her wittering away about the problems she was having with her older brother. Oh what it is the be the youngest child, all the benefits and none of the responsibilities. Not that I’m bitter. However, four younger step-siblings and one younger brother can warp your view on these things over the years. I stared out the window and then rolled another cigarette. Something about driving makes me smoke even more than I already do. I think it’s because, in situations like these where you are just watching the world go by it makes you feel like you are in one of those linking bits in films and TV shows where the protagonist is shown to be going through their inner turmoil by taking a drive, wearing a scowl, and holding a smoke.

I watch way more TV than is necessarily healthy.

This was my second time in Cardiff. The first time had been about a year after me and Luce first became friends. It was a big deal to be invited to stay in Cardiff. I knew this for a fact. We stayed with Luce’s best-mate-since-she-was-four-years-old. Luce did not introduce just anyone to this man. This makes it sounds like I’m her girlfriend and he’s her dad. Well, intense friendships between straight single girls ARE like romantic entanglements. Just without much of the classic roses-and-chocolates romance. Or any sex. I think this is just the way people are. We need to need somebody. This is why friends often get left behind when a woman gets a new fella. She has someone to fill the gap that her friends were there for.

Due to all of this I was extremely nervous. This was also back when I didn’t speak to anyone unless I could be certain it would resolutely be one-to-one and no other bugger was listening in. Even then I found it really hard to be myself in front of people. I have trouble sometimes remembering that that person was in fact the same human being that I am now. When I think of myself back then, back when I was pathologically shy, it seems like some girl I sort of knew but wasn’t all that close to. A second cousin maybe, (that would explain why we looked so similar). So, in effect, my memory of lover boy was not particularly crystal clear. We had sat in the same pub, round the same table, I remember thinking he was sweetly geeky looking (one of my two distinct types – the other being hairy, grumpy, and chubby) but neither one of us had made a lasting impression on the other. I don’t think.

Thus, it was fated to be ‘love at second sight’.

I had only really come out of my shell thanks to the guy I had dated and subsequently fucked everything up with by sleeping with Irish. He was called Ian. Ian is not a name one tends to associate with a man in his mid-twenties. Ian was lovely (and of the hairy/chubby genre to which I am often partial). Only about as tall as I am which made things awkward on our first proper encounter. Sad to say our introduction to one another had been through the internet. Not a dating site. Well, not an official dating site. He had come across my profile on myspace. One thing lead to another. We found we both enjoyed the banter that comes with discussing our geek passions; Buffy the Vampire Slayer (both), Ford Capri’s (him), brand new items of stationary (me), TV detectives (both). A meeting was inevitable.   

It so happened that for various reasons I could not meet him as soon as I had hoped. A wedding one weekend, a trip to London the next, no-one to accompany me a third (I can be impetuous but I’m not fucking stupid). Fate seemed to be telling me to STAY AWAY in three foot high neon lettering.

That only made it all the sweeter when we did set eyes on one other for the first time.

As we approached the toll bridge (you have to pay to get in but it’s free to leave. Take that you English scum!) the rain started really hammering down which gave the whole experience a kind of bleak post-apocalptic feel. The bridge is like something out of Fritz Lang’s Metropolis already without all the dramatic metaphorical weather. Just as soon as it all started it stopped. Cardiff heralded our arrival with burst of sunbeams escaping through the cracking clouds above. I love and loathe the smell of the air after a rainstorm. The freshness of the water coming down mixes with a mustiness that lays dormant in the roads and pavements and grass until dampened. It feels like everything has been rinsed but not given a thorough scrub, just a cursory clean. Maybe it’s that I can’t stand a job half done.

I’ve always been like that. I think, in essence that’s why I can never leave a relationship until I’m certain that every aspect of it is completely destroyed. That I have done everything in my power to make sure there’s no going back. It’s a great system. It means I never actually have to fully commit to anyone.

This is what I did with John.

John was the first man I loved.

I say ‘man’, we were really still children despite being way past the age of consent and blessed with maturity beyond our years. We just didn’t have the life smarts that you need to be a fully functioning human being.

We had actually been at school together although I never spoke to him back then. It was on our first day of college that we were introduced by a mutual friend (someone that I’ve never seen since and I’ll be shocked to the core if she hasn’t come out as a rampant lesbian by now). He knew me. Everyone from that school had known me. I was the ‘new girl’ from the start of Year 9. Everyone always knows the new girl. This always pits her at a distinct disadvantage. Some people rise to the challenge and use their notoriety to their advantage. They are the sort of girls that know what it takes to fit in. They are blessed with an innate knowledge of what the social rules are. They know that you get your school skirt from New Look, not the official schoolwear outlet. They understand that getting up three hours before school starts to groom yourself is a necessary sacrifice if you want to look good. They get what all the sexual slang words mean and even when they don’t can laugh convincingly enough so that you think that they do. They are just really cool.

I was not that girl.

I did not come fully equipped with all the knowledge it takes to be popular. The knowledge that no one ever explicitly expresses but you HAVE to know if you want to not be mocked.

I would love to go back and explain some of those rules to my 14 year old self but sadly a DeLorean and a crazy haired scientist friend have thus far eluded me so it’s not really an option at this point.

So John knew me. He knew that I was the weird oddball. The chubby shy girl that, when she wasn’t being deliberately avoided, was pointed out as being the weird chubby shy oddball girl. But that was ok with John. Because John was the weird oddball guy. Sensitive and quiet and skinny and riddled with acne.

Kids like us rarely catch a break in a school environment. It’s just not how these places work.

So on the first day of college we were able to reinvent ourselves to some extent.   

I wonder now if that’s why I found Joe so intimidating.

To be continued…

Broadened Borders

'You don't want to do that' he said.

I looked at him: tall, wild hair emanating from his head in little curls, unshaven, oozing arrogance and low self-esteem in equal measure.

'I'm pretty sure I do want to that' I replied smiling sweetly.

'Nah, you should go round the world. See other cultures you've never seen before and stuff. It totally opens your mind. Europe's boring to me. I don't get it'.

These are the things I wished I said:
- You've only been away to resorts in far flung places. Not exactly emerged yourself for months at a time in the cultures of Amazonian tribes people. I don't think that lounging around somewhere for two weeks that advertises itself as 'all inclusive' counts as "seeing other cultures".
- Clearly all this amazing travelling you've done has not opened your mind one little bit if you feel comfortable telling me that "Europe is boring". Europe is a fairly big place and isn't exactly bereft of history or different cultures.
- It's my fucking decision what I do with my time and money. At some point "being honest" and "just sharing your opinion" becomes unbearably narcissistic. Unless it affects you directly just be fucking supportive, like I am when you tell me about the holiday you're going on to the place that advertises itself as 'all inclusive'. "Wow. That sounds awesome. I'm sure you'll have a brilliant time" is all anyone needs to hear in a situation like that. If I was arranging going away with you then getting your honest thoughts and feelings about it might be appropriate, but heaven forbid, as I would rather slit my wrists than spend any real quality time with you, you smug, socially incompetent asshole.

This is what I did say:
"Well, each to their own I guess! How is your new job going?"

I tune him out as he chatters away inanely about things he finds interesting and look around the pub. Empty. I feel empty. Everyone is just having conversations like this; nothing real, no honest connections. Just people drinking to drown out the sound of each other. At least that is what I am doing. I am also drinking as it's the only fun thing I know at the moment. My job is achingly terrible. Truly, astoundingly, awful. Each minute trails by agonisingly slowly as I sit there, attempting to look busy by writing epic emails about how miserable I am. My manager is a strange little wiry white haired man who thinks I am incredible. I often wonder what he would make of me if I actually put in even an ounce of effort. I think he likes me mostly because I laugh at his jokes and no one else does. I do hold genuine affection for the man, but also, I hate him. He is the reason I am employed here.

My whole body is rebels against being forced into the council building each day. I will sometimes miss my turning for the car park. Or I'll go through the doors and suddenly feel so nauseous I have to turn around and go and sit down on the benches outside till I regain my composure. Worst of all (perhaps) are the spots I keep getting. Huge, ugly bumps in very visible positions over my face. Above my left eyebrow, in the middle of my chin, right on my cheekbones. They mock me. Filled with pus and painful to touch. They throb enticingly, promising riches for the spot-picking connoisseur such as myself, and then produce nothing but horrible flaky scabs that call like a beacon to anyone I converse with. No one has looked in my eyes for months now. The dry, flaky, pus bumps draw the eyes of all those who gaze upon my face. As soon as one goes another develops. To be honest, there is actually something quite gratifying about them as they give me something to think about and tend to throughout the day. I am constantly having to go to the strip-lit ladies toilets to peel the scabs and apply spot cream and re-apply the cover up make up (which in fact just makes it look like I've got a tiny UV light shining on my face). But while I can think about my spot of the week, I'm not thinking about how utterly broken I am from the monotony of each day.

You may think all of this is an exaggeration. Surely nothing can be that bad? But it is, oh dear sweet lord it is. Steady yourselves:

I work. In the planning department. Of the local council.

Fucking hell, I know right? Can you imagine the horrors? Beige walls filled with beige people doing beige things. It's the singularly most mind-numbingly dull place that has ever existed in the entire history of the known universe. If alien races accidentally fell to earth and found themselves stuck inside the planning department of the local council they would zoom home as fast as possible.

It would be funny how boring it is, if it weren't so unendingly boring. Joy comes here to die.

My work hours, as a result, tend to go along the lines of something like this:
9.15 to 9.30am - Reluctantly enter the building and take my sweet time about sitting at my desk (go get a coffee, go the the loo, check my face, take my coat off, hang it up, go get it again to find my lipsalve, hang it back up again, etc etc)
9.30 to 10am - Get on with the work I am tasked to do that way.
10 to 12.30pm - Silently wish I was dead
12.30 to 1pm - Eat lunch, read my book, feel a crushing weight of horror descend knowing I only have 30 minutes reprieve from silently wishing I was dead
1 to 4pm - Maybe attend a couple of meetings. Say nothing throughout. See meetings as an opportunity to silently wish I was dead in different chairs and in different rooms.
4 to 5pm - Relentlessly look at the clock as the seconds hand mocks me by going ever slower the closer we get to the end of the day.

Also, don't forget the liberal sprinkling of spot checking/picking breaks and going to the water cooler breaks throughout the day. These (plus lunch) are the only sources of joy for me. When picking flaky skin off your face and carrying cold water to your desk count as high points" you can be pretty assured that your life is FUBAR.

Though, of course, there is always the aforementioned drinking. Drinking alcohol has always been a great source of joy for me. I love being drunk, and I am so much more fun/bearable when I am drunk. (I don't drink during the day so I'm pretty convinced everyone at work thinks I'm a totally miserable bitch who has never enjoyed anything in her entire life). Each day, as the black hands of the stupid, boring, white faced clock edge ever nearer to 5pm I  feel my heart rate increasing as not only will I soon be free of the confines of the claustrophobic concrete monstrosity that is work but I will also be able to drink alcohol. Lots of it. And maybe take some drugs. And be this boozy, witty, tragic figure that everyone feels a bit sorry for but who doesn't care because everything will be blotted out for a few sweet hours, till I find myself in a dreamless sleep and have to get on the hamsters wheel and start it all over again.

So when this man looks me dead in the eyes (not at one of my weird spots for once) and suggests that going round Europe might be a bad thing for me in any way shape or form I know that, whatever happens, he is wrong.

There is no way anything could be worse for me. In fact, little am I to know right then, as existential angst grips me in a Weatherspoons on a Wednesday night (we've all had that I'm sure), that everything is about to get immeasurably better...