Men are a species unto themselves. That’s nothing new. But today’s particular wee gripe pertains to the fact that the ones in my life seem to have some kind of sixth sense when it comes to attempts to jeopardise my dating schedule.
I was making my way into town for an eagerly anticipated first date with a guy about whom you’ve not yet heard (to a large degree, it’ll probably stay that way - he reads the blog. There’s only so much interweb scrutiny I’ll subject the chap to) when I was subject to a barrage of attention from various other male specimens in my life.
Hey, how’s life? Came the text from Long Term Ex. What’re you up to for Easter? Are you going to be at home? I’ve just finished a round of nights - bloody exhausted! x
I’ve not spoken to LTE in months, and not seen him in twice as long. I’ve both spoken to, and seen, his mother far more frequently and recently, not to mention a scheduled visit to his great-great uncle (who just so happens to have a deeply desirable address just moments from Small but Perfectly Formed Agency). Quite why LTE chose that particular moment to message, only the cosmos knows.
Then, thanks to the beauty of technology and the fact that I’ve now succumbed to the iPhone (and yes: portable Google Maps has changed my life), I was alerted to the fact that I’d also received an email that morning from The Yank, with whom email contact has been rather more frequent since he dropped out of US politics. In London for a few days with the new job, he suggested grabbing dinner.
I’ve not seen TY since… ooh, probably about 2007, so it’s not like we don’t have a bit to catch up on, but again: timing.
And then, wholly out of the blue, a message from Military Gal, hovering somewhere above War Zone:
Guards Man due to land home today. Don’t have his number. Pls call him and send love. Almost there now - just waiting to land in camp. See you in 6 months (tanned). Xxx
Which, of course, I didn’t do. On a non-selfish note, I rather think the last thing anyone would want after seven months in a war zone, fresh out of 24 hours’ ‘decompression’ in Cyprus (don’t get me started on the Army’s idea of after-care. It winds me up rather), would be to hear me wittering about… well, anything, actually. And on a selfish one, I had enough to think about, what with worrying about whether Date would notice that one of my newly-painted nails had a teeny tiny cat hair stuck in it (smooth, no?) to be able to process proper news about hand-to-hand combat.
So boys - any suggestions? What is it that makes you lot able to sniff out precisely the moment that people in whom you’ve previously been interested have dates with other men? Or do you just enjoy being difficult?
Whatever it is, please get rid of it, because at best, it’s slightly unnerving. At worst, it makes me think you’re channelling your inner stalker, and that’s not a happy thought for anyone. Let alone those of us whose idea of being able to run their life doesn’t even amount to whisker-free nails.
A very long, very shaggy horse story.
4 hours ago