In which we hit the language barrier...

It’s a fairly well-known fact that boys and gals don’t always speak the same language. A simple, “No, you don’t look fat” can be magically transformed by some evil, ether-residing Babel fish into, “Wow. You’re the biggest heifer since the Laughing Cow”; “I’ll call you” is generally code for, “Goodnight, and good luck ever pinning down a guy, because I sure as hell think you’re crazy”; and any range of things from “I love you” to “you look fantastic” through to “of course I was listening” can mean, “PLEASE can we have sex now?!”

And the language barrier seems to have cropped up here at Blonde Towers.

Having decided to split up with the girlfriend, Old Friend announced to me today that he is unable to come to our annual Winter Barbecue party this Friday because he’s going on a – quote – “dirty weekend away”. With the girl he’s just dumped. Whom he’s been planning on dumping for around the last 8 months.

“Huh,” I mused, not entirely convinced as to the wisdom of the decision. “So you’re back together then?”

“Oh, no!” came the chuckling explanation. “No, but we have taken the step from seeing rather a lot of each other in a pseudo-friend capacity to shagging mercilessly. But it is still very much up in the air.”

I did try to explain to his ever-decreasing intellect (that’s what university’ll do for you – although honestly, what else does one expect from a geography degree?) that a situation that to him is ‘up in the air,’ comprising of merely casual sex will probably to her be the opportunity that she needs to make him fall in love with her all over again – after all, he wouldn’t be sleeping with her if he didn’t feel something for her, would he? Ahem.

Alpha Male’s also been displaying prowess in being entirely unable to understand quite how the female mind works. The announcement that he was accompanying a course-mate on an afternoon of ‘doing cultural things in museums and galleries’ was met with scepticism from Best Mate and me.

“Hmm. And it’s not a date?” I looked at him.
“God, no.” He looked at me, totally confused as to where I’d leapt to the conclusion from. “We’re just hanging out.”

And, it being the one occasion we gave the benefit of the doubt. Then, a walk back from town in the week elicited the following conversation:

Alpha Male: “I think I’m seeing Course Gal on Saturday…”
Me: “Oh yes? What are you doing?”
AM: “We’re going for a walk on the beach.”
Me: “A walk on the beach? With a girl? In OCTOBER?”
AM: “Yeah.”
Me: “So, you ARE dating…”
AM: “No, it’s just a walk on the beach…”

Back at the flat, I enlisted Best Mate’s help in trying to explain why – to the female brain – it sounded like Alpha Male had agreed to go on a date. And once – back from the beach – he’d admitted that he’d asked her round to the flat that evening to “chill out and watch films,” why it sounded like he was exceedingly keen on getting into her pants.

“But we’re just friends,” he murmured, mystified. “I don’t fancy her.”
“You may not,” came the patient response. “But you’re suggesting to her that you do.”

And even a long evening spent watching films, with Course Gal doing what appeared to be her best line in hair flicking, arm touching and laughing at all his slightly witty remarks, didn’t seem to bash the message home: the poor girl –subtly suggesting that she’d rather like to share more than a bowl of nachos – was unceremoniously bundled into a cab at half one, having declined Alpha Male’s gallant offer of the sofa bed.

I can’t work out whether men are from Mars and women are from Venus, or whether the problem’s more local than that and men are merely lunatics and women idiots. Whichever it is, the sooner someone comes up with an inter-species phrasebook, the better.

Tags: Men, battle of the sexes

In which breaking up is hard to do. For some people. Not for others, though...

'Tis the season, apparently, to be single. Which is all well and good – there are countless advantages to being footloose and fancy-free. But some people are not acting as graciously about it as they might…

Finally able to get hold of The Chorister by phone – no mean feat, it seems – Best Mate was able to discuss with him the ending of their relationship. An ecstatic BM leapt into my room once the deed was done, proclaiming happily that she was “Freeeee!” Of course, what she didn’t bank on was the fact that he wouldn’t be entirely okay with the new-found freedom, and would continue to send rather… um, inappropriate messages. Of the sexual variety. Not cool. Not hot, either, according to BM.

And a few weeks ago, Old Friend finally plucked up the courage and did what he’s been talking about doing for months and split up with his girlfriend. There was a fair amount of teary shouting, which is possibly understandable given that their year-long relationship was always volatile at best. What was less understandable was her chasing him down the street, begging him to take her back when he left her house… Yikes.

And a phone call to Long Term Ex’s mother last weekend to wish her a happy birthday resulted in a slightly more awkward conversation than I’d anticipated:

Her: Did you hear the news?
Me: I’m not sure. Which news?
Her: About LTE and that ghastly girl?
Me: I heard he’d split up with Kerry [the most recent girlfriend]…
Her: Yes, thank HEAVENS! She was just dreadful. Don’t know what he saw in her. Yes, very good news, that. I’m sure I shouldn’t say it – least said, soonest mended and all that – but between you and me, I am glad.

I wasn’t entirely sure how to take being told by an ex-boyfriend’s mother that she didn’t approve of other girlfriends, however touching it is that she clearly still feels some kind of loyalty towards me (though I had just sent the woman chocolates, which could have had something to do with it).

And, after a very pleasant third date with Minor Celebrity, I was starting to get a little concerned (in best female fashion) about ‘where it was going’ [in my defence it was a slightly different situation than any I’d found myself in before: I didn’t think I was capable of dealing with everyone else’s preconceptions, the lack of anonymity in public places, the implications his fame would have on us having anything resembling a normal relationship…]. So the fact that both of us neglected to call the other was – yes, cowardly. Not the point – rather a blessing in disguise. Neither of us has bombarded the other with calls or messages begging for contact; no talking up from family members and definitely no chasing, physical or otherwise: just a nice, gentle cessation of communication.

A great man once said that parting is such sweet sorrow: sweeter, it seems, for some than others. But knowing where to buy one’s chocolates will see to it that it's as sweet as possible…

Tags: Dating, Men

In which talk is cheap...

There comes a point in any new flirtation when one’s friends will start to give their opinions – asked for, or not; good and bad – on one’s date. Frustrating enough when all parties concerned know each other, or it’s just one’s very best friends giving their most well-meaning advice. But when one’s dating someone who happens to have been in the public eye, the world and his dog feel they have a right to stick their oar in.

And it appears that I have reached that point in my dalliance with Minor Celebrity.

The news that I was planning a third date last week was met with a variety of opinions, from hysterical laughter terminated with comic abruptness on the realisation that I was serious (The Metrosexual) to total support, complete with hugs (Alpha Male) via total horror (a gal pal of mine presently living in Paris, with whom a more customary conversation includes the current direction of the Conservative party). The news that I’d had a great time on said third date (drinks and an awesome film) was enough to send people practically apoplectic.

Given the subsequent discussions with – seemingly all – my friends and acquaintances [my social circle seems to be populated with none but the planet’s most indiscreet boys. Girls’ gossip techniques have NOTHING on this lot], there seems to be no one thing that people are finding offensive about my dating Minor Celebrity.

Dating anyone comes with the obligatory Friends’ Opinion pitfall, but when one’s friends have made up their minds about a man based purely on what they’ve read in the tabloid press, the hurdle to jump becomes less of a Pony Club cross-pole and more Becher’s Brook at Aintree.

I have absolutely no desire to be told that I shouldn’t be dating a man because the News of the World has ‘discovered’ an objectionable piece of information about him. If I’m going to break things off with a guy because I don’t like what he does in bed/how he purportedly treated an ex-girlfriend/the colour of his cat’s food dish, then I’ll discover it for myself and not from grimy newsprint smeared over my friends’ fingers. If I hear one more sentence that starts with, “but I read on Google that…” or “but the Sun said that…” I shall not be held responsible for pulling out the offending speaker’s entrails through their nostrils.

Then there’s the age gap – I can count on considerably less than one handful of fingers the number of people who aren’t scandalised by the fact that MC is rather older than I am (one of whom has a boyfriend older than MC, so her lack of surprise is, well, unsurprising).

“Huh,” people say when they hear his age (which they inevitably know, having already Googled him. Several times), “so, why are you dating him? Oh, it’s the money, isn’t it?!” To which I object, in the strongest possible terms. If that were the case, I wouldn’t have insisted on paying for our third date (which I did): dinner in a busy George Street restaurant I may not – as an impoverished student – be able to afford, but the cinema I can (knew I should have gone on Wednesday instead of Tuesday, though).

It seems beyond the comprehension of many that I might be spending time with a man whose company – if not the CD collection in his car – I find engaging and fun for no other reason than I find his company engaging and fun.

Wilde was right: there is only one thing worse than being talked about. It’s being talked to.

Tags: Celebrity, Dating, Friends, Men

In which time seems not to be of the essence...

I’ve never been much good with time: more often than not, I’m running late; the GMT/BST changeovers confuse me every year and I just don’t do mornings. And there are occasions when I’m quite convinced that I’m not the only one not entirely at ease with the concept: given that one of my lecturers thinks it fitting to discuss whether Hobbesian-influenced Realism is a dangerous ontology within in the sphere of International Relations at 10am and that Sainsbury’s have Christmas displays up before Hallowe’en is anywhere near – let alone on – the cards, I’m pretty much convinced that time and the bearing it has on the events in one’s life is a fairly elastic concept.

Which seems borne out in the fact that whereas I would say 4pm (whether it’s Friday or not) is too early to crack open rather too many bottles of wine, Minor Celebrity seems totally au fait with the idea (I would also say that it’s always the wrong time to approach someone you think might be famous in a wine bar, where they’re quite clearly enjoying a quiet drink, asking, are you who I think you are? before going on to ask for an autograph… But apparently some people wouldn’t. Ho hum).

I would also have assumed that 7pm on a Friday would be entirely the wrong time to be able to walk into a busy Edinburgh restaurant and get a table for 2 without having booked. But, as it happens, it appears to be the perfect time to do so: the manager will even throw in a complimentary bottle of champagne after he’s seated you at the best table in the house. Of course, champagne – complimentary or not – consumed in the right quantities does tend to provide all the effects of drunkenness. Which is fine. Just that many effects of drunkenness. And not by 8pm.

And, for some people, a second date would be far too early at all for anything other than a peck on the cheek at the end of the night from one’s date. But for others, it is entirely appropriate behaviour to stop one’s date whilst walking along a square in a fairly busy city, and kiss her in a less-than-reticent manner. Those same people would probably think that when she decides to pull away and continue walking, this is a perfect opportunity to grab her hand, inform her that they want a proper kiss and, well… Get one. Or several. Ahem (personally, I’m of the opinion that any time before I’ve had a chance to stock up on Elizabeth Arden’s 8 Hour Cream is too early for so many kisses, given that the stubble rash-induced dry skin on the tip of my nose and chin now makes it look like I’m sporting an attractive set of scales).

All rather a case of time, gentleman, please…

Tags: Celebrity, Dating, Men