Call it half past two in the morning – you can do, it is – call it the fact the I’m tired beyond tired, call it the fact that I’ve been dancing like a maniac. call it the fact that no-one but no-one is listening but I feel like talking this evening. Talking and talking and talking.
I’m just home from the disco, where I did dance, oh yes I did. muchly and muchly and muchly. To everything. In the world.
So, the staring situation went badly. Not hideously hideously wrong, but badly. I did. I admit, go down to the pub with only the intention of seeing him, and when walked in, he wasn’t there. I was sad.
So l sat, and talked to darling friends and drank beer and other things for a good long time. And then he arrived. I was aware, believe you ire. I was aware. And do you know what I did? Do you know what I did to compensate for the fact that some-one I *really* fancy had walked into the room?
l flirted outrageously with every male friend in the place, i giggled, squirmed. blushed and girly-ed myself into the ground. Did, you ask, this help my cause? l think not. I mean. no. He went home. Not to the disco or anything.
I’m sitting here, and talking to one of my favorite people, the loud American with the pornographic folk songs, while I’m writing, and we’re having a long and involved conversation about why all my best friends are boys and yet no-one fancies me. It’s never gone well for me.
Where shall I start? First kiss or first date?
Well, first kiss is easy. that was Edward, and l’d fancied him for three solid years – through thick, through thin, through the fact that he went out with two of my best mates, through the fact that, looking back on it, he wasn’t really that attractive.
One day, in his family’s flat in a terr’bly posh part of London, one day when we happened to be having some kind of tickling fight and, we ended up on his bed, and he kissed me.
And it was *horrible*.
It was like having a large cold carp in one’s mouth, thrashing around for want of life. I left the flat as soon as I could. Then I was sick… the whole me being sick thing is a different story. I was always sick. It’s a nerve thing.
And my first date, well, really, my only date, I’ve never had such a *date* date since. His name was Anthony, he was in some way American. I’d met him through my best friend Rosie, and he’s asked me out some few days later.
We went to Pizza Hut.
That day, in a rush to beautify myself, I’d used some new kind of moisturiser, or my sister’s or something, and my skin had reacted to it, and my face was as red as a baboon’s arse. This was only the first glitch.
We went to Pizza Hut, and because of the aforementioned nervous thing, I picked at my food. Very, very slowly. And then I threw up. Then I threw up again. We moved on to a coffee bar around the corner. I threw up again.
This time, on the way back to my seat, I burned my hand really badly on his cigarette, when I’d sat down, we had the following conversation, with him being terribly American and me being terribly, terribly English.
HIM: I’m quite upset, my friend was in a drive-by the other day…
HIM: Erm, yeah. My friend was in a drive-by.
HIM: My friend. In a drive-by…
HIM: Do you understand? My friend was in a drive-by!
ME: Yes. Like McDonald’s. Right?
Apparently, that’s “drive-in.” At the end of the evening, we parted company and as I waited at the bus stop he told me that he was in love with my best friend. Still. It’s not got any better since.
My darling boy has gone to bed. No the eye-lashes one, the loud rude one. The one who tonight said he’d marry me.
“As my back-up?” said I, “For when I’m 30 and have no-one else?”
“No,” he said. “You’d never be my back-up,” he said. “You’ll be what I’ll do forever when I’ve finished making mistakes.”
This is the man with whom I’ve had one of the most beautiful flirtatious conversations ever.
HIM: So where will I find you tomorrow?
ME: Somewhere. I’m sure. Wherever you find me, that’s where I’ll be.
HIM: I’ll see you there.
And the man is my best friend. Or one of, at any rate.
I’m so impressed. I managed to get from the village hall to the office—about one mile—with no streetlights, in the rain, without treading on a single toad. I’m shocked, amazed, and delighted.