It’s not entirely unreasonable to say that when it comes to men, I do sometimes make very bad choices. There have, of course, been a couple of notable exceptions, but not enough that when I tell my friends there’s a date in the diary, they don’t cringe slightly and only just resist asking to see a CRB check and a full name and date of birth for an in-depth Googlestalk. But given my somewhat chequered dating history – coke problems; girlfriends; gay – they’re within their rights.
So it’s probably not vastly surprising that my friends now seem to be taking it upon themselves to pick the men for me.
Of late, as previously documented, I’ve rather fallen out of the dating habit, and haven’t really been in the right frame of mind to perform the usual trick of acquiring Potential Un-Suitor-bles on my travels.
It’s turned out not to be such a bad thing for the bank balance; the social life; the sleep pattern; the work performance or the levels of alcohol consumption, but not good for convincing the mother that she doesn’t need to wring her hands in panic at my perpetual singledom.
I’ve been enjoying my few weeks of almost-enough sleep (sadly the commute from the Home Counties precludes there ever being enough entirely); enough free evenings to make the gym membership worthwhile; and proper catch-ups with friends and ex-colleagues, and I haven’t really been missing the merry-go-round of mostly disappointing men.
But, although I might not be keeping my eyes peeled, my friends apparently are: whilst sitting on the sofa post-gym, mid-manicure one evening, I picked up the phone to find a message from The Redhead.
Am in the pub chatting to a guy who’s handsome and Tory. His drink’s gin and tonic. Have given him your number.
It’s good to know that my friends have identified the sort of man they think is suitable for me to date – and that, having done that, they’re able to locate one with ease.
Hi Blonde, came a message some hours later. Handsome Tory here. I’m not quite sure how to go about this, but just wanted to introduce myself and say hi…
Thus it would appear that not only is The Redhead able to locate and approach The Right Type of Man, she finds the specimens that know what to do when given a girl’s number, which – in my recent experience – isn’t always the case.
And, given that Red is (or, at least, is putting up a bloody good show at being) blissfully happy with a new(ish) chap who most definitely strikes me as one of life’s Good Guys, I’m quite happy to trust her judgment on this one.
So much so, in fact, that I might relinquish all future dating decisions, and let The Redhead pick and choose my men from here on it. Because, frankly, she can’t do any worse than I’ve done up till now.
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