Exceeding Expectations

Sadly, I have recently come to expect less-than-perfect behaviour from those specimens of the male of the species in my life. When one can't take one's eyes off one's date, not because he's the dreamiest thing since Clive Owen, but because he's wearing red braces, or one of your friends goes and ruins things by running off and getting married to his sweet but very dull girlfriend expectations do seem to hit somewhere near rock bottom.

English Guy hasn't been helping this speedy downwards spiral thank to his relentless persistence in the "please, please screw me," department, that's become a shameless and embarrassing exercise in how little pride one can possess before true mortification sets in. I'd have thought we passed that point weeks ago, but he still seems good to go.

I crawled into bed, exhausted, at 10pm last night, planning to watch Absolute Power and then fall fast asleep, in spite of near-debilitating period pain and the noise that Younger Sister and friends were making in the sitting room directly below. If I ever have children, there will be no electric guitars, sleepovers, or age 13 - and definitely not a loud and excruciating combination of the three.

Sadly, it wasn't to be. In addition to the cramps and pretence at A minor, I was subjected to a barrage of messages until 11.30, all containing thinly veiled attempts at initiating text sex. What r u wearing? Huh. My free BA pyjamas and a hot water bottle. GO AWAY.

In the past few days, I've also just started hearing, spontaneously and frequently, from Lefty Neil. This alarms me, and if I could read men, I would think that his messages were verging on the flirtatious again. But as I can't, I won't.

But, happily on this occasion, there's always an example that bucks the trend, and in this particular instance, the fact that it was unexpected made it all the more pleasant. I left the theatre on Tuesday night (Measure for Measure - part of the Cambridge Shakespeare Festival; excellent performance) to find a torrent of messages left on the phone, mostly from English Guy (as I said: no pride)... and one from Insulted Usher.

I had thought that his very hasty exit early on Saturday evening, professing a prior engagement at a stag party in Birmingham, meant that my little foot-in-mouth episode had done the trick, and that would be the last I heard of him. Apparently not. And he stuck to the Three Day Rule and everything. It was nothing worth getting excited about - merely the fact that the next time he's in my part of the world, we'll hook up for drinks - but I thought this rather a success considering I'd previously smeared his profession in so carefree a manner.

I do like it when men defy my expectations. Only because the expectations are so consistently low - and then it's only because they have call to be. But if men are going to start playing by the rules (or even The Rules), then I'm going to start knowing where I stand... Which can only pose a whole new set of problems...