Wednesday, 29 August 2012
I have been wrestling of late of how to continue telling you about Mr Mensa.  Well, it has been over 5 months since my last post, so I guess that gives some kind of indication of my resistance to proceed. I could continue by reminiscing month by month but quite frankly I don't have the time or the energy.  To put it bluntly, this situation with Mr Mensa lasted merely 6 months and in reality 3 months considering that he worked in Algeria in the oil industry one month on and one month off.

In that time I found myself falling for him but looking back I also know that I was working hard at not ending up with another failed relationship.

At the start of the relationship things started off really well.    It turned out that Mr Mensa didn't need to return back to Warrington as soon as previously thought, he seemed to want to spend as much time with me as he could before he went off to start his new job in Algeria and the feeling was certainly mutual. As luck would have it, my lovely and recently married friend invited Evie to stay for 5 days to keep her own daughter company during the school summer holidays so we managed to spend some quality time together.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd spent such a concentrated amount of time with a prospective boyfriend.  Mr Mensa seemed quite a hyper active character but it was refreshing to be involved with someone who emitted such energy.  It wasn't long however, until I put two and two together though and realised things were not quite as simple as I'd first envisaged.

The sorrowful truth was that as soon as I found out that he had a penchant for the white stuff I should have ended it.  Instead I stupidly thought that once he let me into his life he wouldn't need to get completely shit-faced at the weekend if we were out.  How silly of me.

I thought I could handle it.  I said to him that what he did in his own time was up to him but as soon as it started affecting my home life, that would be it.  I had Evie to think about, not to mention my career and he seemed to understand that. I've been involved with a couple of men in the past who liked to dabble but they never did it in my company, it was a separate part of their life to the one they had with me and they were never serious boyfriends.  I wanted Mr Mensa to be a serious boyfriend though.

What I didn't realise is, that unless you are really into Cocaine too, then the relationship is already on a downward spiral.

The first night I witnessed him take it we had been invited to an engagement party.  He had already been in the pub beforehand and was relatively high when I picked him up on the way to the party.  As the night progressed I watched him be the life and soul of the party while I knocked back the Vodka and Tonics.  When we got back to his place, he continued to take line by line and I started to find myself intrigued by the white powder being cut on the plate.  Within my drunken faze I found myself being extremely affectionate towards him although he explained to me that Coke doesn't have that impact on him.  I went off to bed on my own and asked him if he'd be long.  He said he wouldn't.  This would be a regular occurrence on the very few nights that we went out in the future, me, going off to bed on my own while he continued to stay up and snort coke.

Mr Mensa had been away for 2 weeks when it was coming up to our month anniversary and surprised me by sending a beautiful bunch of flowers to my work.  It gave me some hope that this was a sign of things to come.  The whole first month together was exciting as it often is in a new relationship, the difference being that ours was based mainly on emails and telephone calls following our initial week spent together when we first met. When you're involved with someone who works away for periods of time, you have to work hard at the communication side of things.  Emails have to be carefully written so that they aren't misread.  Phone calls need to be answered because it may be the only chance you have to speak to each other and you constantly focus on the home coming. You are regularly wishing days and weeks away.  I really can't say that Mr Mensa was anything but attentive during that first period.  I really was excited at the possibility of a future together.  Surely the coke would be of no interest to him once he was in an established relationship?  I convinced myself that it was just some daft, silly, single man past-time.  Unfortunately, I was the one being daft and silly.  I was deluding myself.

I'm ashamed to say that I found myself on two occasions trying a line of coke.  Why did I do it?  I guess in a pathetic attempt to fit in, to try and understand what all the fuss was about and probably because I was drunk.  I didn't see the attraction and I never did it again after that.  I was disgusted and disappointed with myself for allowing it to happen.  Mr Mensa and I didn't go out together a lot when he was home from Algeria after that.  If he went out and had a drink he had to get high and I didn't like that.  There were times he let me down because he'd got so wasted the night before and I will never forget the way he looked at me when I challenged him about it.  So in the end, I just stopped making the effort to go out.  We had 2 proper dates in all.  Of course, whenever I said to him that I was worried about him and the impact it was having on him, he would justify it by saying that he'd been doing it for years and he was still ok.  When he'd finally come to bed, just as I was just getting up, I knew that his heart pumping out of chest was saying otherwise.

It affected every area of our relationship and when he came round to the house high when Evie was there, I'd had enough.  Shortly after that he was away working.  He'd been moved to Holland with work and I was able to contact him through a mobile phone instead of him having to phone me.  I had sent him a couple of texts but had received no response.  I then sent him a text saying that I was getting worried could he please call me.  That evening I still hadn't heard from him so I phoned, several times.  His phone was ringing out so I knew it wasn't off.  It was the following evening before he phoned me to tell me he was ok but at that point I knew my worst fears were true.  I knew at that point that he had been taking Coke while he was working away.  I was furious and upset that he could be so selfish to put other people's lives at risk because of his habit, because that's what it was.  There was no denying it, he had a habit.  I was angry that he thought it was acceptable to have me worried sick but I knew there was no point trying to reason with him so I decided to send him a email.

I told him that I had been worried sick about him, that I thought he might have been arrested, beaten up by some dodgy dealer or suffering a heart attack.  I told him how I watched him turn into a wide eyed, agitated wreck when we were out together and that I wanted to fall into bed with him, not be getting up just as he was going to bed because he was so loaded.  I said that Evie was the most precious person in the world to me and I was not prepared to let her be in the position where she was let down by the person she looked up to because of drugs. I told him that he was a great guy but the stuff was ruining him and it was now ruining us.  I wasn't trying to give him an ultimatum but I was trying to make him think about the impact his "social" drug taking was having on us and I wanted him to chose us, not Coke.

And in very simple terms, he chose Coke.
Monday, 12 March 2012
I woke up on Saturday morning feeling rather giddy, thankfully not due to the alcohol but with the thoughts of Mr Mensa running around in my head from the night before.  He'd been quite the gent on the way home from our date, quite prepared to just drop me off at my front door but I insisted he come in for a coffee (why does that line never die?) and he did.  I was feeling frisky but Mr Mensa made the point that he wanted to get to know me which only made me want him more.  For once I actually felt like someone was interested to invest the time and patience into getting to know me.  To learn about my daft sense of humour, my ever changing style, my constant self criticism and lack of self belief.  Here was someone I thought, who in time could see me truly naked in the full sense of the word.

When I got a text from him on Saturday late afternoon asking if I fancied going to the cinema, I instantly replied "yes" only to immediately wish that I'd taken more time and appeared a lot less desperate for a second date.  Unfortunately there was the small hurdle of getting Evie babysat for a second night.  As soon as I approached her about the childminder coming round and her mother abandoning her for a second night I could tell that it was a lost battle.  The cinema date just wasn't going to happen, and later on, further down the line, I would realise that invitation would be the only time that Mr Mensa would ask me out to the cinema.

I took a gamble and decided to invite Mr Mensa around for a Chinese take-away if he could face the thought of seeing me in "mother mode".  I wasn't really comfortable at him seeing part of my family life so soon but with the thought of him returning to England the following day, I took my chance.

Evie seemed relatively comfortable with the idea of having a male friend of Mum's visiting for dinner.  As I already have several good male friends who Evie's met, she didn't initially think that Mr Mensa was possible boyfriend material, because I'm sure if she did she wouldn't have mentioned the following as we tucked into our fried rice and shredded chilli beef.......

"You know my Mum does really loud farts sometimes, and sometimes they smell."

Suddenly capital punishment for children didn't seem so bad.  I could feel my cheeks burning up and desperately wondered how one should react to such an accusation under such difficult circumstances.

"Evie!  I do not!"  was all I could mutter in my defence.

Mr Mensa burst out laughing and thankfully his reaction put me so at ease that we all had a good laugh.  Perhaps Evie did know that I was considering him as potential boyfriend material and decided to do a little bit of investigation into his potential herself.  Either way, it definitely broke the ice and made me fall even further for Mr Mensa.

There was no question about whether he would stay that night, he wouldn't, not with Evie at home.  But all was not lost.  He no longer had to return to England as soon as previously thought.  He would be here for a further week at least until his new job in Algeria started.  I began to feel myself really getting excited about the possibilities and found that my romantic notions were running amok.  I kept questioning it, he ticked all the boxes, but there must be something?  And there was, and although my instinct had tried to kick in on that first dinner date to raise a question, my romantic self had overpowered it telling me that love would conquer all but not reminding me that love was also blind.

Monday, 6 February 2012
"I think I've scared him off", I said to Miss Brodie by text on the Monday morning while sitting at my desk constantly checking Facebook.  I was of course referring to Mr Mensa and not Mr Shorty, although, in theory the text could have related to either.

I began to analyse my apparent keenness.  I guess I saw an opportunity and had just grabbed it, as far as asking out Mr Mensa had been concerned.  Online communication allows that, especially on Facebook, after all, if he knocked me back it's not like I needed to worry about bumping into him, hell, I could even de-friend him.  The ultimate rejection in social networking.

I needn't have stressed though, as just before my lunch I received that familiar alert on my phone, I had a Facebook message.  Eagerly opening it, I quickly noticed that Mr Mensa had put his phone number at the end of the message so that was obviously a good sign!  So I did what any self respecting girl who wanted to play hard to get wouldn't do,  I sent him a text straight away and he replied promptly.  Screw The Rules!

We communicated that way over the next few days until he phoned one afternoon and I heard his voice for the first time.  I really didn't need to have any concern about any difficult silences because Mr Mensa spoke like a runaway train and although I worried about him taking appropriate breathing gaps in the conversation, overall, he was funny.  I liked speaking to him, he seemed to exude a level of energy that I hadn't been used to and he intrigued me.  My god, I thought to myself, maybe this could actually be it.  Perhaps this was the beginning of what I'd been waiting for.

Our date had been arranged for Friday that week.  He'd organised the dinner booking and we agreed to meet in a cocktail bar beforehand.  I decided to try and go for a vintage look with dark cropped narrow trousers, leopard print cardigan and black vest, although the only vintage part of my outfit was me.  I also had my signature "Dorothy" shoes on and bright red glossy lipstick to match. 

I walked in to the bar and immediately saw him sitting down at a table.  I have to admit that there wasn't an immediate attraction for me, I initially thought that he looked older than his Facebook pictures but I was open to see how the evening would go.  We ordered drinks and had barely got into conversation when Mr Mensa said something that  immediately made me feel crap and lose all confidence.  

"Em, you've got a bit of lipstick on your teeth there".

I felt 2cm high.  Embarrassed, I rubbed away at my front teeth as subtly as I could.

"Nope, it's still there".

Damn you Lancome!  

I can quite honestly say that at that point I just wanted the date to end.  I suddenly wasn't sure how to take Mr Mensa, he didn't appear easy to read and although I understand he most likely had the best of intentions behind telling me about the lipstick on my teeth, for me, it had set a bad tone to the start of the date.  He also answered his phone and had a conversation which I felt wasn't exactly dating etiquette.  Of course, months on and in reflection, I would realise that it was probably my gut instinct kicking in.

We proceeded on to the restaurant and things seemed to pick up from there.  In fact I began to really enjoy myself and we appeared to be getting on really well.  During the meal Mr Mensa stated that he would have to leave the table briefly to pick up some money that a friend owed him.  I thought it strange and wondered to myself why he hadn't done this earlier, before the date but then I remembered that he had driven up from Warrington, a full 7 hours drive earlier on that day so time would have not been on his side but still, couldn't this have been something that could have waited until the next day?  Not wanting to appear needy on the first date I smiled as he left the table and continued to finish my glass of wine while he was gone.

After we'd finished the meal we headed off to a few bars, by this point and probably with the help of alcohol I was fully in the swing of things.  In fact I felt that Mr Mensa was letting his guard down too, perhaps my initial concerns were unfounded?

Suddenly it began to feel like Mr Mensa and I had been in a relationship for some time, I found myself feeling so relaxed and at ease in his company as the night continued.  The final bar that we ended up in had a local band playing live and we managed to get a table to ourselves.  As I turned away to watch the band I felt something brush against my arm.  I looked back at Mr Mensa who was sitting opposite me, smiling.  

"That was me" he said as he reached out and placed his hand on my forearm, then he lent across the table and kissed me.  At that point the embarrassment of having lipstick stained teeth paled into insignificance and I knew then, that he'd caught me, hook, line and sinker....
Saturday, 28 January 2012
So there I was, getting ready for my date with Mr Shorty, wishing that I was going out with Mr Mensa instead. 

I walked into the restaurant where I was meeting Mr Shorty and quickly scanned around to see where he was seated.  Oh, nowhere.  The waiter came up to me and asked if I was looking for a table, I gave him my surname (I'd booked the restaurant - warning sign number 1?) and he duly took me to my seat.  I checked my phone and there was a text.

"Running late, be there in 5 minutes"

The text was sent over 5 minutes ago and there was still no sign of him.  Fifteen minutes later (warning sign number 2?) and Mr Shorty walked through the restaurant door.  I saw him before he saw me and I knew instantly that there was no attraction.

He seemed extremely nervous and I began to find it really difficult to hold a decent conversation with him.  I ordered another glass of red wine, this was going to be a long night.  I should have really ended the date there, but I didn't.

We moved onto a couple of bars after the meal, ending up in a pub that I tend to favour when I want to have a good dance.

I must have been very, very drunk at that wedding because when I got on the dance floor I certainly didn't remember Mr Shorty dancing like an extra band member of New Kids on the Block.  By this point I'd moved onto the Vodka Tonics to get me through the night.  Again, why didn't I just end the date there?  I seem to be a glutton for punishment or have some kind of delusional faith when it comes to dates that are perhaps not quite going the way I'd like them to.

In a bid to get a break from Mr Shorty's flailing arms and legs, I went to the toilet.  I didn't need the toilet but I did need a breather to gather my thought and think about the next plan of action.  What I hadn't intended part of my plan to be was to find myself sending Mr Mensa a Facebook message asking him to take me out the following weekend when he was up.  I think it was at that point I realised that I had to bring the evening to an end.

I went back out to face the music, literally and to tell Mr Shorty that we should just end the night. 

I think Mr Shorty must have sensed I wasn't interested as out of the blue he turned round to me and said "I think I'm too vulnerable for you". This was a very unexpected statement and one that I'd never heard before in all my years of dating. Mr Shorty went on to explain that he knew I would end up breaking his heart and that tonight he had realised that he was still trying to get over the break-up from his ex partner and mother of his 3 children.  I appreciated his honesty but really this was a first date and to me it appeared that he had put an awful lot of pressure on himself and his expectations of the night, even by my standards (warning sign number 3?).

As we got outside it suddenly dawned on me that Mr Shorty had been drinking all evening and he lived over 2 hours drive away.  I presumed that he had arranged a hotel for himself, I should have checked this presumption.

Upon approaching the taxi rank, Mr Shorty turned to me and said "where are we getting a taxi to?"

I explained that I was getting a taxi home and asked him what his plans were.  He explained that he'd taken a sleeping bag with him but it was in his car that he'd parked on the other side of town.  Like the softy I am, I said that he could come back and stay at mine and borrow one of my sleeping bags.  I suspect that I was feeling sorry for him at this point and my motherly instinct had set in. 

I made him a coffee when we got back to mine and we chatted for a bit.  I felt in a way that I was giving him counselling and it became apparent that he was very far away from being ready to date.  Mr Shorty asked what I was looking for in a partner and I explained that I needed someone strong, someone who could take control now and again.  I basically explained that I was a traditional kind of girl, I wanted someone who would take care of me, who would love me and support me.  I wanted a soul mate.

Mr Shorty then stated that he got the impression someone else was on my mind.  I wondered if he'd picked up on the flirty comment on Mr Mensa's Facebook page and put two and two together.  I'm not sure why, but I didn't answer him either way and instead suggested that I get his sleeping bag as I needed to get to bed.

He said that he wanted to share my bed, that he didn't want to sleep alone.  And yes, you've guessed it, I said he could but nothing would be happening.

As I got changed into my pyjamas, I looked round to see Mr Shorty standing donning a pair of Superman boxer shorts.  I'd suddenly recalled saying to him in a text message ages ago when we were arranging the date that he'd better be wearing his lucky pants.  It was a joke and in fact I think it's a line I use regularly if I'm going out on a date, it won't be a line I use again.

He'd seen the pictures of me dressed up as Supergirl at Glastonbury and decided to be my Superman, tragically he was anything but that.

As we got into bed, around 3 am, it was clear he was still optimitic about getting a bit of "how's your father" but I made it quite clear that it would not be a good idea.  And ridiculously, in a bid to ease the rejection I asked him if he wanted a cuddle.

So there I was, lying in my bed, cuddling a grown man and effectively being his mum, telling him everything would be ok.

I woke up around 8.30 am on my own.  I suspected that he may have got up and gone down to sleep on the couch in the living room, so I ventured downstairs.

No sign of him.  I checked Evie's room on the offchance that he may have gone in there.  Nothing.  I ventured back down stairs again and realised that the front door had not only not been left unlocked, it hadn't been closed properly.  By this point I was getting really concerned for Mr Shorty.  He didn't know the town that I lived in, where had he gone?  He surely didn't go to get his car, he would have been over the limit.

I checked my phone, 2 texts.

The first was apologising for leaving, that he'd felt pathetic and that he wished me the best.  He finished the text with a Lord Byron quote.

I was increasingly concerend about his mental state at this point as I began to open his second text.  It was sent just 20 minutes before I got up stating that he'd walked around the town for 2 hours to sober up before driving home, that he'd arrived back safely and he hoped I was ok.

By this point I was actually very annoyed.  I was annoyed that he'd put me at risk by leaving my house unlocked.  I was annoyed that he'd put himself at risk by walking around a town that he did not know in a drunken state and I was also of the opinion that even walking around for two hours would not have meant that he was safe to drive.  But then I began to feel sorry for him.  Here was a man who could not move forward, who was still, in my opinion, in love with his ex partner and desperately missing his children.  He was right, he was vulnerable.  But he was also right about something else, someone else was on my mind and as the memory of sending Mr Mensa a Facebook message floated back into my head, I wondered if I'd just opened a brand new can of worms...
Friday, 20 January 2012
Back in May, following a meeting in Stirling, I got on the train back up north and bumped into my good friend, Miss Brodie.  We chatted away about what we'd both been up to and before long she asked me the now typical question, "how's the love life?"  I began to wonder if I should just start wearing a badge with the statement "my love life's non existent".  Maybe that way people would stop asking and I would stop feeling like a relationship failure.  As it was I gave Miss Brodie the generic answer.  She seemed to think she had a solution to my now regular issue and recommended I checked out one of her male friends as she was certain he was single and keen to settle down.  Naturally I was sceptical at first.  After all, this was the woman who had tried to set me up with her future Brother in Law who appeared completely illiterate even by text standards.  This guy did seem promising though, 6ft, had hair and more importantly was English.  Yes, I have a "thing" for Englishmen. 
She seemed convinced that I knew this guy she was suggesting, that we must have been in each other's company back in the days when we were 18/19 years old and hitting the pubs.  The name certainly seemed familiar but I definitely couldn't make a connection.  Miss Brodie suggested that I check him out on Facebook as he was one of her friends on there.  I explained to her that I'd come off Facebook in the New Year and didn't access it anymore, so that was that.

On my way home from Glastonbury while standing in the Sleazyjet queue at Bristol Airport I spotted a guy who looked suspiciously like he was also returning from the muddy fields.  Ok, so it was the wellies and Glastonbury wristband that gave it away.  Once I was on board the plane I decided to make a bee-line for Mr Glastoman as I was desperate to speak to anyone who was willing to listen and share experiences about the last 5 days.  He seemed more than happy for me to take the seat next to him.  As luck would have it the third seat in our row was taken up by another guy that had been to the festival along with his brother who was seated across the aisle.   The two brothers were veterans just like myself but Mr Glastoman on the other hand was a first timer and was still on a high from the experience. It didn't take us long to get into conversation about our festival highlights past and present and resulted in the flight feeling like it had passed in seconds.

While at baggage collection waiting for our respective dirty rucksacks we all discussed meeting up for Glasto 2013 and so went about friend requesting on Facebook, except I hadn't been on Facebook for over 6 months, well, my personal page wasn't on Facebook but my blog page was still up and running.  However, I'd only just met these guys and I wasn't so sure that I wanted them to have access to my blog when many of my own friends didn't know about it. So, after very little persuasion I rejoined Facebook so that I could stay in touch with my new Glasto buddies and little did I know what the result of that would be.

That Friday night, 3 days after I'd rejoined Facebook, the night before my date with Mr Shorty and after a few glasses of wine, Miss Brodie's earlier recommendation of a potential date popped back into my head.  I'm not sure what triggered this, but triggered I was and searching through her friends list, I came across him.  His photo was a little fuzzy so I clicked on his profile but his settings were set to private so I thought what the hell and friend requested him.  He accepted almost immediately and I went straight on to his profile to view his photos and see whether Miss Brodie's recommendation was an improvement on her last.  I certainly didn't recognise him but regardless of that, there was no doubt he was handsome.  Suddenly I had a message from him.  I opened it eagerly and it read:

"Hi, nice to see you again - hope things are good with you x"

Nice to see me again?  When did he first see me??

I responded stating that I had no idea who he was although Miss Brodie had assured me that I would know him from the past.

His response had me in fits of laughter, he had no idea who I was either and so that was the beginning of a beautiful new Facebook friendship.  We had a few email exchanges and he seemed to be ticking a lot of my boxes, he appeared to have a sense of humour, was literate and a member of Mensa!

The following day we had a further email exchange while he was on a train to Edinburgh, I remarked how he should have travelled further north and he replied that he'd be doing that the following weekend, which filled me with a little excitement.  Suddenly I found myself wishing that I was going out with Mr Mensa that night instead of Mr Shorty and surely that was a bad sign?  This was only the tip of the iceberg of things to come.....
Wednesday, 11 January 2012
Glastonbury Festival - I love it.  I've been going since I was 17, although I did have a gap where I didn't attend after I had Evie.  A gap of over 8 years.  You may have noticed that it's the new year and I'm speaking about Glastonbury Festival, but I'm behind with my blogs and to bring you up to speed I have to first tell you about what and who got me to where I find myself now.

After taking Evie last year, I decided that this year I wouldn't.  I'd found it particularly stressful last year, although I suspect a lot of that had to do with my state of mind following my involvement with Mr Rockstar.  Evie of course, having been bitten by the Glastonbury bug and being my daughter, was most agrieved.  I had to strike a deal.  Glastonbury every second year and a local music festival every other year.  I kept the fact that the festival would be off in 2012 due to the Olympics to myself though.

So there I was, child free at the best music festival in the world (in my humble opinion), ready to rock 'n' roll.  I was attending with 2 Glasto virgins, my cousin Molly and my ex Mr Skinny Jeans.  Although the journey down had been relatively straight forward, once we arrived at the site it was a different story.  The infamous mud had appeared due to the rainfall earlier that day and even though we arrived early afternoon on Wednesday, it was proving extremely difficult to find a pitch, let alone a good one that was still grassy.   We eventually found one, not too far from the toilets (ahem!) but far enough not to smell them and after getting our tents up we set to work exploring.  Being an old Glasto goer I took on the job of being tour guide and advising on the different types of toilet facilities, "long drops", portaloo, flushable (yay), shepee urinals and compost toilets.

Unfortunately we would later discover the huts that used to house the compost toilets now resembled something from a third world country, i.e going to the toilet involved squatting over a hole in the wooden floor of the hut.  Over the years I had got the skill of using a Glasto toilet down to a tee, reverse in, hold breath and don't look down but this was a new challenge, as was using the Sheepee urinals.  Looking around at women standing, some with their bums exposed, holding cardboard funnels was all too much for me.  I got stage fright and couldn't go.  I was desperate but it just wasn't happening.

"Relax," Molly said mid flow.  "Pretend it's a penis."  So that's what I did.  I stood there, taking deep breaths while silently telling myself that the cardboard funnel I was holding between my legs was indeed a penis and with this cardboard penis I could pee.  But no matter how much I tried the whole mind over matter thing it just didn't happen and I had to dispose of my "penis" and rush to the nearest portaloo.

It's fair to say that on the first night I let my hair down so much so that Molly, who is ten years younger than me, wasn't entirely happy with me.  I could have blamed the cider for kissing two blokes but I certainly couldn't blame it on one of them being married. The next morning I felt decidedly ashamed and apologised profusely to Molly.  The rest of the festival pretty much took a more subdued tone after that.  Molly would return to the tent every lunch time for a sleep and I felt that she wasn't really enjoying herself, which to a degree I felt responsible for.  This was her first Glasto and I wanted it to blow her away, unfortunately I think it was just too overwelming for her and with having had a run up of nightshifts prior to the festival, it was maybe just all too much for her.  Or maybe I was.

While at the festival I was texting Mr Shorty and we arranged a date for my return, the following Saturday.  I wasn't quite sure what I was expecting but it was only dinner so what could really go wrong?

Glastonbury came to an end and as we left the festival site I reflected on what had been the highlight for me, watching the Chemical Brothers for the first time, headlining on the Saturday night. I'm not sure whether it was the fact that I was dressed up as Supergirl wearing a purple wig but for some reason that night, completely on my own in a crowd of thousands I didn't feel lonely at all, in fact, I felt ready to take on the world.

Wednesday, 16 November 2011
There’s an unwritten rule that at a wedding, the best man has the choice of the bridesmaids. Well, in this instance I wasn’t a bridesmaid and the best man was married. It had also been made very clear to me by my bride-to-be friend that there would be no eligible single men attending. It would appear that the odds were stacked against me, this was not going to be a wedding which would result in a drunken snog, let alone anything else.
The wedding reception was held a week after the hen night and as I walked into the little country hall I suddenly felt like the pressure had been lifted. As I wasn’t out to impress a potential lumber I could just let myself go (read – get absolutely shit faced) and have a good time. I wouldn’t cry into my glass of Champagne that I was the only single person there, that I was always the only single person, no, I would embrace the fact that no-one could tell me that I’d had too much to drink or that I was dancing provocatively.
It wasn’t long after I’d experienced this epiphany, that I suddenly noticed there was a guy looking over at me. My newly wedded friend came over to me and having originally pre-warned me that there would be no single men, pointed out two potential suitors, one of which happened to be the guy I had caught looking over at me.
I gave him the once over. The first thing I noticed was that he was short. Although I was wearing extremely high heels I still got the impression that even without those he’d be shorter than me. He was dressed in a kilt so it was difficult to tell what his dress sense was like or if he had any at all! But wait a minute – wasn’t this all a little shallow? Let’s face it, it had been a while and I really wasn’t in the position to be so judgemental without speaking to the guy first. The second guy looked in his mid 40s at least. He was wearing a red gingham shirt, tucked into jeans and a pair of brown suede brogues. He was the divorced husband of newly wedded friend’s cousin.
Comparing the two of them, there really was no competition. There was no competition because neither of them had made any initial impact on me. However, as I gave Mr Divorcee another appraisal, he looked like he might have the potential to be quite quirky. I decided to ask him for the next dance.

This is one of the advantages of being a guest at a proper Scottish wedding. Scottish country dancing allows you to get your hands on any bloke. However, I quickly regretted my decision. Mr Divorcee not only had two left feet, but he lacked any social skills whatsoever. I was relieved that the dance was fairly short lived and immediately quaffed another glass of Champagne to prevent any memory forming. That left Mr Shorty.
As it turned out Mr Shorty ended up dancing with me inadvertently and he was definitely an improvement on Mr Divorcee. I'm not sure whether it was the combination of the whirling around on the dance floor and the Champagne bubbles but suddenly Mr Shorty was looking more and more appealing. Not only that, but because I had removed my heels and put flat shoes on, he didn't seem so short. As the hall heated up I headed outside to cool down with Mr Shorty who was taking a cigarette break. The minute I stepped outside and the fresh air hit me, the effect of the many glasses of Champange I'd drunk suddenly took hold and my inner animal was unleashed. Before Mr Shorty had a chance to put his cigarette in his mouth, let alone light it, I had him pinned up against the wall at the back of the village hall and had locked lips. He seemed keen to particpate, in fact so keen I had to prevent him from moving onto 2nd, 3rd and almost 4th base!
In my very drunken eyes, this seemed to be going particularly well, in fact maybe this was the turning point for me. Perhaps Mr Shorty would win me over so much that my discrimination against short men would evaporate into thin air?
Of course, had I not drunk so much, I can pretty much guarantee I would have ignored that thought and I wouldn't have done the following:

  1. Ventured through the countryside in the pitch black night with Mr Shorty trying to navigate a route back to my newly wedded friends' house instead of my friend Julie's house where I was meant to be staying with my father.
  2. Tried to jump over a barbed wire fence not once but twice in my gorgeous Monsoon dress which resulted in falling down a ditch and losing one of my shoes. 
  3. Asking Mr Shorty to join me on an inflatable mattress that I was going to be sleeping on that night and finally,
  4. When asking Mr Shorty if he had "anything" with him and he responded, "it's ok, I've had the snip and last time I had a test it was negative", I really wish, I'd come to my senses and made a stagger for the hills.

To say it was awkward in the morning would have been an understatement.  Flashbacks began as I tried to piece together the evening that had preceeded the very hungover morning.  Mr Shorty sat directly opposite me in the living area, while the newlyweds provided cups of much needed tea and coffee.  I found myself trying to figure out how I felt.  Looking at him, he definitely wasn't my type but it had been pretty exciting the night before, or was that just the alcohol clouding my judgement?  Either way, I felt extremely uncomfortable and just wanted to get away from the situation.  I said my goodbyes and my newly wedded friend drove me back to my friend Julie's to pick up my stuff and get cleaned up.  I hadn't realised that the fall into the ditch had resulted in a number of scratches and scrapes to my arms and legs.  Well, at least I didn't have to do the walk of shame.

When I got home that evening and for the rest of the week I found myself feeling very guilty about the way I had brushed Mr Shorty off.  I suddenly realised that I didn't even know his name.  I decided to text my newly wedded friend and ask for his number.  I wasn't sure I was doing the right thing but I felt that I had to apologise for my behaviour. I pressed the send button and waited anxiously.  I waited a little more.....and then a little more.  In fact as I waited, I realised suddenly that I was thinking about Mr Shorty more and more.  Talk about playing it cool, after 3 days of waiting, he finally replied and the wait was very much worth it.  He had responded in such a humourous and articulate way that I found myself beginning to consider seeing him again, having previously ruled it out.  Amazing the impact of a well written text.

When I discussed this with newly wedded friend, she was somewhat surprised as she too didn't think he was my type but I explained that I felt there was something quite intriguing about him and certainly a lot more depth to him than I had originally thought.  As the texting continued throughout the following week, his potential as a future date became more likely but first I had to get Glastonbury Festival out of the way.



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Bird on a Wire
Imagine Carrie from Sex and the City morphed with Bridget Jones and a baby thrown in for added entertainment – that’s me, the ever optimistic romantic looking for my Mr Big but already with child! Read my blog from the beginning where I find out I am pregnant following a brief fling with my much older male colleague and fast forward to where I am now, stressed out working mum to my beautiful 10 year old daughter wondering if love really does in fact exist at first sight.
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