BEEP BEEP

In my circle of friends, or any circle of friends for that matter, there's one that seems to … disappear. They come, they're fickle, they put their left leg in, they put their right leg out, flutter round the venue acquiring new bosom buddies, littering their night with flirting, loosening their tongue and losing the ability to control their emotions.

That friend is me. I admit it.

On reflection, I can see how vexatious this standing must be for my cronies, but, call me egocentric, I cannot help it.

Take last night for example. Libation and snacks kicked off around 4pm at work, I hop on public transport around 7 to meet a dear friend of mine in a local joint. We chitter chatter for an hour til I see the girl who washes my mane, I invite her to join us, I'm just nice like that. She brings her strange chum who I can only descirbe as an annorak. The most thrilling sentence in his stream of gab included his supporting of gypsies and paying in cash rather than credit. Interminable.

My eye is caught. I see someone who I vagualy know, but names or any details escape me. Sane members of society would leave it at that, wake up the following day in a lightbulb moment and think 'AH, that's who it was'. Not I. I stroll over, interrogate him as to how I know him and after what seems a frustating exchange, my Eureka moment came. He was holidaying in the same resort as I a mere 5 years ago. Not only that, but my best-bud had a hol-romance with him, that old chesnut.

Where is my dear friend in all of this? Sat with wash and anorak, I cleverly combine both parties to make an awkward assembly. Another bottle of wine comes and the evening takes a queer turn, I'm sat surrounded by a troupe of mis-matched proportions: a Greek Othadox priest, russian waitress, insurance broker, a dentist who converted to Greek Orthadox 15 years ago (bought yours truly a drink), all who drank, smoked and were seeminly normal. 

I found myself deep in conversation* with the priest who I decide to tell all my problems to – from my absent father, to my decision whether to study for more qualifications. I'm travelling down to crazy town making like road runner. I'm offending people with my narrow minded, parsimonious opinions.

Crocodile tears fuelled by liquor ensure. Coyote got me.

If my blonde-bombshell casts her eye of this, I apologise. I may get a set of reins like I had at the height of toddler chic. Smooch central.

Note, one drink is never one drink. It's a cyclonic episode of catastropic proportions that will form yet another story for a female who already has too many unfabricated absurd incidents in her catalogue.

*incoherrant babble

High Vis Dating.

I'm staring wistfully outside. There are three reasons:

Sun

Men

Squirrels & adorable creatures of nature

NB, not in priority order

Being trapped indoors due to gas pipe maintenance has its (minor) perks. The high-vis clad men rat-a-tatted on my door at 10, I flounced out all 'just got out of bed' when I'd done 2 exercise videos, washed my hair, slapped BB cream on and filled in my brows. You know, casual. We engaged in light banter as they took up some flagging. & I indulged them in tea and biscuits. I'm nice like that.

Flirting, tea making, flirting, laughing about my inability to find gas meter, flirting and hair swishing.

Not sure why, but gritty Mancunian accents with an equally weather beaten stance has an amazing ability to reduce me to what can only be described as a middle-aged single tart. I'm no giggler, but Jesus, one slightly amusing line escaped their mouths & I was throwing my head back hyena-like and wiggling as I dashed to make their brews.

This shameful action led me to contemplate my current love life. My being excited at 12 young strapping builders being outside, reflects just how (in)active my dating-sphere is.

Since moving back from London (10 days ago) I joined a dating site. Be it through boredom or being inspired by a friends new lady (met online), the traditional notion of 'internet dating' shed some of its stigma. Either that or my desperation swelled.

To be frank, bar/club hopping has lost its appeal. A few issues:

Gaining attention from (any) men is difficult if you don't resemble one of the Saturdays

If the male crowd are 'alternative', you're never 'alternative' enough

I'm not an (attractive) dancer

You can't hear more than 25% of the conversation

I only attract very strange men. No exaggeration.

As I'm not going to squeeze into a bandage dress or watch TOWIE for pulling tips or any time soon I'm thinking 'outside of the box' (hardly).

PROFILE:

Just moved home to Manchester from London. Working in PR and starting a male style advice site come Summer, this is not to say that I'm a fashion obsessive or overly critical of anyone else's style. Aged 23, with a penchant for 50s/60s related music and style, indie music, a keen interest in discovering new places, people and actively avoiding the humdrum of reality. Dry humoured. I appreciate wit and the ability to spell correctly. No cliched characters need apply. Cannot abide frugality (bad experience).

Standard right?

Within 4 hours I'd had 30 responses, 95% asking whether I'd like some 'fun' (substitute the word fun with a more colourful action) or worse, a sob-story (this isn't an X-Factor audition). What really got my goat was the inability to read. I'm from Manchester, I don't need 'showing around' and I specifically noted I appreciate the ability to spell correctly. One message;

'Hey ther, how it going? cool profile, love thoes picturs, anyway im kinda new to dis. Not sure i should say, but if u chek my prof an like what u c, id love 2 talk mre. Anywy peace xx'

I ask you. This was from a 26 year old male who develops software. Education?

Still. There were one or two who seemed relatively normal who contacted me. I've agreed to a date (after some witty error free banter) with a Graphic Designer. We'll see.

On telling my friend I was embarking on this, she gave me a rape alarm. I certainly know how to pick them.

Chalkboard.

Slid on a slush-puppie left from Mother Nature on the trudge home from the tube last night. First sight of London in 10 days, evidently missed.

My time at home (Manchester) threw one or two realities at me;

I drink 2 pints of skimmed milk a day. Minimum.
I can't stand eating alongside people who either chew with their mouth open or make a peep whilst chewing.
There's a group called overeaters anonymous. I should join. It's unnatural eating all this cereal & slurping all this milk.
My mother is a feeder. No joke. (I either blame her for or accuse her of all of the above)
Technology of the modern age is wasted on the majority of those aged 50+.

I'm being a negative nancy.

True friends are like family, but you can pick them. Rather than sour, shriveled blueberries whose taste can be sugarcoated temporarily (family party, once a year), my buddies are juicy, pack a punch and liven up an otherwise mediocre cocktail. Pals.

Mother is simply the nicest lady I've ever met. I could gush about her super-powers for a while, but that's a snore and to be honest she bugs the fluff out of me regularly.

I love tea. Northern tea. Last Tuesday I had 12 mugs, slip me on a building site.

Here's the quandary. I live in the capital & work as part of management in a retail environment. I'm not passionate about it, not by a long chalk. I'm energised by the branding, marketing and PR side of retail. I'm not sure how I've boxed myself off into this role. Like every Tom, Dick & Harry, I've done my fair share of internships. Most dire, some life enhancing and its those that fall into the latter that motivate me to carry on to achieve a f/t paid role.

THUD. I've gotten through to the final few in several prolific companies. Keep catching my ankle on the last hurdle. Must raise game.

I'm drained of energy, revenue and passion.

It's clear that if I were to undertake another unpaid internship I'd walk the next interview. Scratch cards aren't playing ball. Mothers bank balance is rouge tainted. Spiraling into retail disillusion.

I'm considering moving home. Bosom of the North. Re-think things; Centre my yang (?), escape to the country (ish) and admit defeat.

My mind resembles this, head/heart spiel;

I'd consider yoga to relax, but last time I went I got asked to leave (inflexibility is a distraction).

Manipulating the words slightly, I think David Attenborough is suggesting I move home, or become a nomadic herdsman;

'An understanding of the natural world and what's in it is a source of not only a great curiosity but great fulfillment'

Then again, I have read The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Life is heavy. But he was a bloody surgeon, at least that's a profession.

Fickle, me?