In which Murphy strikes again...

Forget Voltaire, Socrates, Aristotle: the wisdom for the week seems to have come from a less philosophical source. Carrie Bradshaw may have got it wrong on several occasions, but the gal knew what she was talking about when she said that all one needs to get a date is another date. Because, lo and behold, this is the situation in which I find myself.

One advantage of not taking a date to a ball is that Minor Celebrity doesn’t spend the entire evening being gawped at. And another is that one can spend the entire evening with Best Mate, unashamedly eyeing up the hot boys in their dinner jackets (and even the not-hot boys because, let’s face it, even they look hot in their dinner jackets). And such eyeing up can lead to chatting, which can lead to ceilidhing (I’m still convinced this is the quickest way to take out several people with nothing more dangerous than an ill-coordinated left foot). And this, unexpectedly, can lead to being asked for one’s number upon departure from the post-ball club…

And yesterday, all the above led to my receiving a message yesterday asking that we meet for coffee during the week.

I could (and some argue should) have nipped the imminent awkward situation in the bud on Friday night and churlishly refused to give out my number when asked for it (despite the fact that Ball Boy and I had spent several enjoyable hours together), explaining that I am already seeing someone. However, I’m not egotistical enough to assume that he was doing it for any reason other than he enjoys my company, and the ‘I’m seeing someone’ tack is subject to the somewhat crushing reply, “Don’t worry your over-sized ego, I wasn’t hitting on you. I was just looking for someone to have coffee with whilst my catwalk model girlfriend is campaigning against land-mines in Cambodia.” And, given that there was no improper behaviour, and that we seemed genuinely to enjoy each other’s company, it seemed a little ridiculous to pass up spending time with the guy purely because there’s no prospect of seeing each other naked.

However, this does mean that I have an appointment this week with Ball Boy, who may be construing my casual acceptance of ‘grabbing a coffee’ as a date. Which means I should probably find some way of offhandedly dropping the phrase “the man I’m seeing” into the conversation and hope I don’t get the timing horribly wrong.

This is a critical consideration: do it too early and – again – one risks looking like the charming individual who’s convinced everyone wants to get into their pants; too late and one is officially pond scum (no, I’ve still not entirely forgiven The Geologist for the great Tugging on the Heart Strings of ’05). Of course, there is the third option which, although cowardly, looks inviting: spend so much time engaged in entirely platonic activities with the guy that we drift imperceptibly into the twilight Friend Zone, where neither of you thinks the other is an inviting sexual proposition.

Of course, failing all that, I could implement a little of my hard-gained political knowledge to my personal life: after all, what’s adultery but the application of democracy applied to love?!

Tags: Dating, Men