Someone’s Getting Married in the Morning…

So we went to a wedding this weekend, because are fancy wedding guest type people. Usually, I am bit the cheeriest if wedding guests if in honest. I love the notion of them and people wanting to celebrate their love in front of a jury of their peers, but am often made heavily anxious by the amount of unknown quantities e.g people, places and the high potential of fighting of the question “so when are you guys tying the knot?” (WE’RE TRYING ALRIGHT SUSAN. WE’RE JUST POOR, NERVOUS AND TERRIBLE AT PLANNING. *We don’t actually know any Susan’s and I don’t think there were any at this wedding, but it seemed like the right name for this joke.

I have to admit, I do think I’m getting better at coping with these kind of social panics, but by Friday morning I was in a terrible period based funk and after the Drama of the Missing Dress (see more below) I was only about 28% ready for nuptials of any kind.

I had been rather involved in the build up to this particular celebration – the bride is a close work friend and in her infinite foolishness, had asked me to create the flowers for the wedding (buttonholes, corsages and bouquets for those of you who are interested) out of paper craft. I was obviously honoured until I got half way through and released the daunting pressure of having to get the right or being forever branded in the brides mind as the friend who ruined her happy day (this is mostly my mentalness talking, I’m actually pretty sure I could have just given her a screwed ball of paper and she’d have been grateful because she is THE MOST LOVELY ANGEL EVER, but still). Honestly though, she was delightful and so thankful for all the things I made, despite my protestations that they weren’t that great and could be better and was she sure she wanted me as a friend?

However, she was insistent that she did want me as a friend and a paper florist and after a lot of stressing, glueing and paper cuts galore, everything was finished in time and the bride was thrilled, so it all paid off. It also meant that I’ve been getting rather excited for the day and getting to see them, and her, in action.

Due to TMMs strong assist throughout the crafting process, and also the fact the bride knows what a useless human being I am, he was kindly invited to the day do too which helped a little with any pre-wedding jitters. (You’d literally think I was the one getting married, wouldn’t you?)

This led to a quick nip to Matalan to get some new trousers after it became apparent his standard wedding trousers were now a touch on the snug side and we hadn’t really thought about the fact that we would need to be ready for the day ourselves, not just our crafts. I was smug in the knowledge that I didn’t need to go and get anything prep wise, as I was going to wear the dress I wore to TMM’s sister’s wedding and be done with it.

OH HO HO. What a fool I was.

I went to the wardrobe with great confidence a day or so before the big day to get out the very dress I had been telling everyone that I would wear, only to discover it had been stolen by pixies and was nowhere in sight. Despite TMM’s great Hufflepuff locating skills and my continued threat of a tantrum, the dress failed to materialise. We looked in, under, on and behind the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, all the radiators we could find, even the tumble dryer which we haven’t used in ages, but to no avail. The dress remains distinctly not where it is supposed to be.

Somewhat fortuitously, late night shopping is a thing on Thursdays nights, so it was much hysteria and calming words from TMM that we screeched into town after work and set about locating a replacement. Thankfully, the whole trip went much better than expected and I came away with a lovely little dress in the sale (£15!) and KFC for tea (TMM had the inspired idea to save some chicken to have when we got back drunk). I had been, in my glass mostly empty way, fully prepared to have a loud and embarrassing breakdown right in the middle of the shopping centre, but we were actually home before 9 so that was that. Admittedly, that should have perhaps been a sign we were being too cocky when the next morning did then find TMM having to journey to town to get a new shirt, which he then promptly ruined with the iron (God love him), and a dead man’s sweater vest from a charity shop, but we eventually made it out of the house, suited, booted and with time to spare.

Once there, we only had half an hour or so of awkward waiting around (I expected much more so that was a pleasant surprise), and we soon made friends with the bride’s boss who I knew in passing and had come on her own because she was a braver soul than I. Before we knew it though, we were hustled outside to out seats and I promptly burst into tears as the beautifully blushing bride walked down the aisle to her handsomely kilted husband to be. (Worry not though, I knew this would happen and brought tissues for classy eye dabbing). It was a short but perfectly formed ceremony and TMM got a lot of good photos and hugged me through my weeping like a good fiance.

The customary photo parade followed, paired with tasty little canopies and tea cups full of passion fruit/watermelon gin, and then the most amazing 4 course meal (which I proceeded to gush about to all colleagues as and when they turned up). We were seated with two other couples (plus one mother in law who was a right laugh) who were chatty and delightful and thoroughly made the meal a lot more enjoyable and anxiety free than I was anticipating. There were Mark and Shanny (plus Shanny’s mother) who had stories for days, but were also really invested in learning about the rest of us and complimenting my hair (I got so many compliments, it was great). I was next to Phil and Karen who are my actual #couplegoals from now on. Phil is retired and Karen is a bit younger than he is but God are they in love. They got together at work, got married in Vegas (they looked the exact opposite of what you imagine a Vegas wedding couple to look) and now live in a lovely little village with two young daughters named after flowers, and a small holding full of ponies, fowl and alpacas. Phil spent a good chunk of the meal telling me I should become a teacher (for anyone who knows me and my dislike of nearly all children, this might seem a folly) with such intense and unwavering belief, I almost felt like I should give it a go, just so I didn’t let him down.

By the time pudding came around I was dangerously enamoured with them and when Phil told me at the end of the night that he was thankful to have met me, I died a little of joy. TMM says were going to find them again and become best friends, partly because they’re so lovely and partly so he can get free alpaca wool so that’s something to look forward to.

After that, it wasn’t long until the rest of the work rabble turned up and we spent the night dancing like utter lunatics and taking a disproportionate amount of selfies (as millennials are want to do). I managed to cut my toe (the shoes were off by 10pm), have a great dance off with Phil to Toto and cry happily whenever the bride and groom were near each other so I’m counting it as a good night.

They are also the only couple I know who had Rammstein songs on the disco playlist (a novel choice for a wedding) and let me tell you, there is nothing more romantic than a couple shouting at each other in angry German with love in their eyes.

Eventually, the night came to a close and we managed to a wrangle an uber like the cools kids that we are and were home by 2am, eating cold chicken in bed. This was obviously great at the time, but boy did the late night hit home the next day and meant TMMs poor mum was left waiting for us to recover enough to be able to drive us to pick up the car.

The whole event was over before I knew it though, and I can’t imagine how strange it just be for the couple, knowing how bereft I feel now that the two years of prepping are over. Still, if nothing else, it means we can maybe possibly kind of start thinking about ours nuptials, if only to keep the questioning Susans of the world happy.

London Calling

I actually did have a post that I was going to share last week (well, strictly speaking I had about 1/3 of a post and a picture, but it’s the though that counts) but I honestly was too distracted with London to do anything with it. To that end, it will be relegated to the scrap heap of unfinished blog posts know as “Drafts” to be completed and polished up for your enjoyment at a later and currently unconfirmed date.

Don’t worry though, this week is a good one and there are A LOT of pictures to make up – please direct yourself to my Facebook or Instagram for all 75,000 that I took but can’t fit onto WordPress. They are worth it, honest.

I have to say though, I think last weekend was a resounding success. I have coveted a trip to Kew Gardens for years and it was only by chance that I fell across a deal that offered a 2 night stay in a Richmond hotel, (1x meal per person included) and a trip to Kew for 2 lucky people. It seemed foolish to give up the opportunity and after about 10 minutes of back and forth between myself, TMM and our savings account, the reservation was wending it’s way to TMM’s emails. (We have a good relationship in which I pay for most of the bigger expenses but everything goes in his name so I don’t actually have to talk to anyone because, ew).

As it was getting closer, I think we were both were experiencing a little trepidation about the whole event. Originally coming from Manchester, I am a little more used to the city life than TMM (who although raised in Warrington has the soul of a mountain cave dweller and does not enjoy crowds, big buildings or the hustle and bustle of the urban labyrinth), but after a few years living in what my sister has affectionately dubbed “The 100 Acre Woods”, we were a tad concerned about how we would fare in the capital. To avoid repeats of similarly previous trips with less desirable outcomes, we sensibly planned our trip; an impressive feat for two very indecisive people, and TMM even decided to drive. Mostly he said it was so we could stop off at other places and enjoy the scenery at our own pace, but partly I think it was so we could just run away if it got too much. We had a pencilled in list of the sights we wanted to see, but left it flexible enough that we could avoid anywhere too stressful and not feel too guilty for missing out on anything. In a word, we Bossed it.

The journey down went smoothly, if only an hour behind schedule. We arrived in the Big Smoke around midday – thankfully our hotel was on the outskirts so TMM didn’t have to navigate round the maze of terrifyingly manic and busy roads that wind their way through the centre of the city. There was a slight feeling of hysteria as we got closer towards civilisation, but my navigation skills and supremely calming attitude coupled with TMM’s determination to not to lose his temper and kill anyone saw us glide into the hotel car park without a hitch. Seeing as check in wasn’t until 3pm, we ditched the car and boldly strolled forth to battle the public transport system. Which as sad as this is to say, I absolutely LOVED. Seriously, London know how to functionally run a bus/tube/train service. Did you know that not only is everything basically running 24/7 and never more than 10 minutes away, but everything is contactless? At first this terrified me, but after not having to desperately scrabble for change, panicked try and explain to the bus driver where we wanted to go without actually knowing ourselves and being made aware of the fact that no matter how many buses we got, we couldn’t actually spend more than £4.50 a day, I was pretty much sold. At home, my bus comes once an hour between the hours of 7am-7pm Mon-Fri and is usually late, manned by an incredibly grumpy selection of balding men or one really angry lady and inevitably full of scary old people who insist on giving the beady eye and coughing unattractively at you. It’s just not the same.

Buoyed by our successful navigation, we entered London proper with light hearts and open eyes. I have to say, I was particularly surprised at how close together everything was, and how easy it was to access it all. I expected a sprawling metropolis, but we managed to tick off nearly everything on our list with relative ease and only slightly aching feet. We started in Covent Garden (partly because that is where Peter Grant starts out in the Rivers of London series that we are currently listening to on Audible, and what’s good enough for him is good enough for us – I recommend that you all read those books, seriously). We watched a street performer on a giant unicycle intentionally dislocate his shoulder (strange job but I suppose somebody’s got to do it?) which I feel really just set us up for the rest of the afternoon. We wandered slowly, pausing for TMM to take many a arty photo before nipping into the Moomin shop for a little peruse. It was completely darling and I think it may be my spiritual home.

From there we traversed the markets merrily, moving along to gawp at Nelson’s Column – I was only confused at how small it was for a moment or two before TMM pointed out that I was just staring at a random obelisk and the monument I was looking for was a little to the left (spoiler – it was as big as I originally thought). From there we wandered down to the governmental heart, pausing briefly to give the finger to Number 10 and enjoy the scaffolding around Big Ben (bad timing there on our part) before walking back along the embankment past Westminister and up the road to Buckingham Palace (stopping for a sit down and nutella waffle with the herons and unexpected pelicans in St James’ Park) and finally ending up at Leicester Square. By this point, we were pretty proud of ourselves for having gone hard at the whole tourist thing and not having a “country panic” and decided to head back to the hotel to check in.

The hotel itself was rather nice and we found ourselves in a rather ginormous suite with a bed so big I actually think I lost TMM at one point in the night. Tea was a rather sedate affair, made 100% better by the two older ladies who came in after us, insistent on speaking at 5000 decibels and salivating aggressively over the cheery young waiter. At first we were a little concerned for his safety, but as the night wore on we came to the conclusion he was egging them on and left them all to it. We were both mildly surprised to see him alive, unharmed and not tied to someone’s bed by his socks the morning after.

The following day saw us up bright and early and after stuffing ourselves at the buffet breakfast (o did that awkward thing where you panic at the bounty table and end up with a plate of unexpected and not particularly complimentary items, though it turns out cornflakes go surprisingly well with desiccated coconut so that’s good to know). Two perfectly easy bis rides later (contactless payment, it’s the way forward I tell you) and we alighted at the main event…Kew Gardens.

Honestly, there isn’t really much I can say here that isn’t just high pitched Guinea pig noises and scrunched up expressions of childish joy. That place is fabulous. We spent about 7 hours there in total, and I truly believe you could spend double that time again barely scratch the surface. Gallerys sit alongside huge glass houses, fantastic art sculptures next to natural behemoths of nature; there is quite literally something to explore every which way you turn. Wiselt, we followed the freely given map with dedicated sensibility, otherwise I would have lost hours just wandering around aimlessly with a wild grin on my face.

My two favourites though were the Marianne North gallery and the Palm House. The gallery was set up by the titular Miss North, who I kind of feel was the David Attenborough naturist rockstar of her day. After spending most of her formative years travelling the world with her father, and once he died she upped and went exploring on her own, capturing the beauty and wonder of all that she saw through her painting. The gallery itself is quite unimposing from the outside, but after a sparsely decorated gl, you open two large wooden doors and enter a paradise of artwork. Over 700 paintings plaster the wall in a carefully thought out jigsaw (designed by Marianne herself). Photos were not allowed, which saddened me a little, but I can see why because walking into that kaleidoscope of colour was mesmerising.

The Palm House though, The Palm House was perfection. Just in front of it sat a piece of art work from Dale Chihuly’s collection “Reflections on Nature”; an intricate, spiralling, explosion of glass work which perfectly matched my hair by complete coincidence and brought joy to me and thousands of old ladies. Many of them actually came over to say how pleasing they found the while affair and one even asked if she could take my picture, which was a little odd but massively endearing. After posing for a few selfies (who was I to deny the masses?) we tripped up the stairs and stepping in to the Glasshouse and I promptly lost my shit. Thankfully everyone’s glasses steamed up immediately with the humidity, which gave me time to surripticioisly wipe my eyes because I may or may not have teared up a little. A veritable jungle of giant, almost obscenely sized verdant fronds; vines creeping round stately Victorian ironwork and bright surprising flashes of colour from hidden flower heads peaking through the undergrowth. Everything was warm and humid and constantly being spritzed with a fine misting of water and I honestly believe I could have stayed there forever. One day, when I have my own house, full of windows and sunshine, I will populate it with greenery like that and never feel sad again.

Obviously, many photos were taken, and we stopped for the customary pose on the spiral staircase, patiently waiting for two very pretty girls who were clearly far more practiced at the whole affair than we were. Eventually I was able to tear myself away to visit the rest of the delights Kew had to offer (not at all limited to the gift shop where we got our customary tourist Christmas decoration and postcard for the travel wall), but I already long for the next time we can go.

The final stint of our holiday was a trip to Bletchley, the home of the world war 2 code breakers. Thankfully, a ticket purchase there allows you to visit as many times as you like within the year, because we did not manage to spend as much time there as we would have like, but that is somewhere else I would highly recommend. The history of the place is almost overwhelming and the contrast between some of the stories; the successes of cracking Engima set against the constant undercurrent of war was amazing. There was one story of a young girl who decoded a message that informed them that the battalion her fiance was in had experienced heavy loses and having to carry on regardless really drove home the severity of the work they were doing. Hopefully we’ll get chance to go again soon.

Overall I would say the whole thing was a resounding success, not even spoiled by the pile of cat vomit I found on my pillow when wr got home, and I think wr can definitely chalk that up as a win. Now we just have to wait until November for the next one…

Bros AND Hos – the eL Word Edition

Today class, we’re going to talk about homosexuality. It’s Pride month and it’s about time I jump on the bandwagon and get all up in this. It is also a subject that is very close to my heart and I am about to deliver some home-truths unto you all – best strap in mother-effers.

Pride is a fabulous time. It’s a constant celebration of confidence, inclusivity and joy. It’s exuberance and delight and pure unadulterated fanciness crammed into a month of partying. It’s literally a group of people sharing what makes them who they are and what makes them happy wrapped up in a giant fucking rainbow. Well, at least that’s what it should be.

Instead, Pride is a battle ground; it is the constant painful struggle of people fighting for their right to be who they want and love who they choose. Of those who will refuse to be silenced, who will stand tall and bloody, and who will not let hatred and ignorance dictate to them what they should be. These are the people who are parading – who are fighting, who are dying for the pride they have to live as they are.

For every glorious picture of a drag queen on a parade bus, there’s a truly appalling news story about someone being hurt. This last week alone, I’ve watched a video about Durga Gawde, a genderfluid artist and activist, who was pulled from their motorbike and brutally attacked in Goa. I’ve seen the picture of a bloodied Melanie Geymonat and her partner Chris, who were taunted and beaten on a bus in London by four men for refusing to kiss on command. I’ve read an article about Chynal Lindsay, who is the third African American transgender woman found dead in Dallas since October last year. These aren’t even isolated cases – this violence is happening everywhere and it is happening constantly. There have even been calls for “Straight Pride” because a group of moronic and self-obsessed idiots don’t understand that NOT being beaten, ridiculed and threatened for your sexual preference or gendered identity is a privilege, not pride.

It’s heartbreaking to think that we are living in 2019 and these problems are still as prevalent today as they have ever been. The issue is that it’s so easy to just brush them off; to see them, feel sad, and then move on. We are very much a disposable society – our emotions and opinions can be negligently discarded just as easily as our rubbish. But it shouldn’t be like this. We should be outraged. We should be furious. We should be making a difference. Yet I understand how difficult that can be – it’s scary to protest and it’s hard to make a stand sometimes. But even the smallest acts of compassion and empathy can help. Sometimes the simple choice of standing up and identifying yourself as an ally can be a start.

Now I know that I am a very liberal person. I often like to make people aware of just quite how liberal I am and I’m fully cognisant that this can probably get quite annoying. However, I’d much rather people think I’m bloody hippy instead of a close-minded bigot.

I quite happily blame my family for this particular personality trait and am not ashamed to admit it. They did an excellent job of raising me to be as accepting and encouraging of people as possible, and to be proud of that and of who I am. Each of them reiterated again and again in their own way (be it in the way they acted, the TV shows they watched, the conversations they engaged me in) the importance of being decent enough to accept other people for who they are. I was taught to understand that what makes a person happy is what’s right for them, regardless of what I think or what the rest of the world says. It’s a lesson I have taken to heart and I’ve done my best to surround myself with like-minded people who have the same philosophies and it’s done me well throughout my life.

It speaks to me on a personal level though because I am a card-carrying bisexual and have been for as long as I can remember. It wasn’t something I actively wanted for myself but it’s never been anything that has upset or confused me. I in no way believe that sexuality is a choice that can be switched on demand or that it should be seen as something detrimental. I remember falling in love with girls and boys from early on, and then falling into lust with both when I got older, and never has it been something that I’ve been ashamed of or tried to change. I know in that way I am very lucky. I have been raised to be confident in myself (which is something that I still struggle with in many things, but oddly never this), and I know that my friends and family are, or would be, accepting of me and my sexuality.

I’ve never really told anyone specifically or announced it loudly to a crowded room, but I’ve never hidden what I feel or been afraid to say anything and I’ve only even been accepted as is. The worst I’ve had to deal with is people asking me if it was a “phase”, as I settled down with a boy now. (Spoiler – it’s not. I’d love TMM just as much if he were a woman, and we’ve all seen how pretty he looks as a girl. My being in a straight relationship does nothing to negate my sexuality, and sometimes it’s nice to have TMM point out both girls and boys that I might find attractive).

But there are so many people out there who even in this day and age are still lambasted or punished for their sexuality, gender or romantic choices and that makes me realise just how protected I have been. It shouldn’t matter if you’re an asexual, pan-romantic transgendered boy or a heterosexual, hetero-romantic cis girl to anybody but yourself. Nobody can tell you who to love, fancy, sleep with or marry and it affects nobody except you and the person (or persons) you’re in a relationship with.

I do want to believe that, at least in my sphere, that kind of positive attitude is already there, but I think that if there was anyone who did reject me or feel disgusted with my choices, they would not be someone I would be too concerned about cutting out of my life. I know that I am worth more than the feelings of shame and guilt that others would try and make me feel for something that is so integral to who I am.

There are always people who don’t understand or are confused by some of the notions or terminology that is prevalent these days, but there is nothing wrong with that. To be honest, I’ve always been slightly feared of the LGBTQ label – if I don’t know what each letter/term means, am I just a pretender to the world? There are so many letters to cover so many different types of person that it can seem almost overwhelming, but I fancy the ever expanding acronym is rather the point. The more letters there are, the more inclusive it becomes. It’s not just an exclusive club that you have to know the secret knock and password to enter. It’s a family that welcomes and celebrates you for exactly who and what you are. It proudly puts your letter in its name and allows you to feel recognised and included (which can sometimes be the hardest struggle). I’m sure, as with all things, there will be purists who will complain that “others” won’t understand and will segregate themselves so they can suffer for their beliefs, just as there will be those who complain it’s stupid and shout “why do they need so many names anyway”. But the complaints of the few do not in any way negate the overarching companionship required by the many. As I have read recently “you do not understand oppression until you have been oppressed” and as such you cannot ever truly know the need for support and justice until you have had it taken from you (or never experience it in the first place). That doesn’t mean that your questions are invalid though. If you don’t understand how someone identifies themselves, or how some people can find both genders equally as appealing – ask. There is nothing wrong with not knowing, but there is with wilful ignorance. Take the time to get to know people, ask them about their choices, their beliefs, their philosophies. You don’t have to agree with them, but you do have to respect them and allow them the safety of being who they are.

I cannot wait until the day that society comes to terms with the notion of allowing people to be exactly who they want to be, and it becomes so much the norm that it is no longer seen as anything particularly noteworthy. It’s not that I don’t want people’s identities to be celebrated, but I want to be able to see a gay couple kiss on a TV advert and not have a small child point it out in shock. I want to be able to see poly-amorous relationships where each party is not afraid to show their affection in public. I want young trans-gendered kids to feel safe walking home. I just want a world where people are allowed to be happy. How can that be too much to ask?

To Date or Not To Date; how to avoid pitfalls in the pursuit of love, straight from the voice of inexperience

So this week I went out to the team and asked for inspiration on ideas for blog posts. As I’ve previously mentioned, I’ve been struggling a bit creatively and finding engaging topics to write about that are not only interesting for me but also enjoyable for you guys to read can prove to be a little tricky. Thankfully though the team came through and like the very helpful engines they are, they provided me with a corker of a post. “Shit dates and how to get out of them” was the tagline and I have to say, I’ve taken to it surprisingly well.

Now my track record for dating is pretty limited and since I’ve been with TMM for 7 years, any memory I’ve had of foraying out into the dating world has long since been lost to the mists of time. I barely left the house when I was younger (why go and talk to boys when you could stay in and read – am I right?) and The Man Muffin and I didn’t actually start going on any dates until we were already going out. Our relationship started after I told a friend I though TMM looked delightfully like Aaron Taylor Johnson (sighs dreamily) and she basically dragged me and forced a conversation. After that, all it took  was one ill timed yet enjoyable kiss on St Patrick’s night, a few brief occasions of awkward longing stares across crowded rooms and a serious drunken pep talk from a house mate who told me in no uncertain terms to “go over there and hold his hand” during a “Pounded” night (£1 a drink in the local student bar) and we were pretty much done. Within a few months it had blossomed into meeting the parents, moving in together and that was pretty much it for us. We’ve never looked back and any dates we go on usually end with us getting overexcited about going to a posh restaurant and having to go to bed early because we’re tuckered out. #players

Look at those love struck young fools. There was no way we weren’t going to end up together. Though it’s a shame we both look better in the pictures of us with other people…

However, whilst that is super great for me, it doesn’t really provide any data on how to cope with the whole “dating scene”. To be quite honest, if some reason TMM cruelly deserted me and I had to date now, I’d have already moved into my mum’s shed, adopted 16 cats and taken on the nomclature of Sister Christen Dover, embracing the monistic lifestyle with vigour. 

Still, never let it be said that I back down from a good challenge (note – this is complete lies and undoubtedly has never been said about me. I back away from challenges All The Time, but I strive to be better for my readers). To that end, I’ve been given permission by some of my more experienced friends to talk about some of their adventures, and these will be what we’re going to use as our referential case studies. Buckle up people, this is about to be a “this is what you could have won” look into the world of disastrous dates. 

The first example comes to us fresh from the weekend on behalf of Snooker Toes (the code name he chose out of the options I gave him). He’s nicely allowed me to make a few comments on his experiences (though I’ve promised to be nice this time round). Anyway, he seems to have a habit of attracting ladies whilst going about his daily chores (last time was at the bank) and this time he had gone for an eye test and started making friendly conversation with the lady showing him the frames (“hurrah” goes the cry from the Greek Chorus in the side-lines). He went in straight for the smooth guy approach – “You have my number, you might want to use it” (impressed silence from the Chorus) and by lunch time she’d messaged him back and they were chatting away. For a week they went back and forth, but here’s were old Snooker Toes started to spread the seeds of discontent. “TBH I was already questioning it because we didn’t seem to have much in common…I though I might as well arrange a date because it’s not always about liking the same thing and the first impression was good”. (Some of the Chorus are starting to fidget). Now, whilst it some red flags have already been raised, I think it’s important to respect not only his commitment to the dating cause, but also his positivity levels. A few virtual messages are no match for an actual face to face conversation and the human connection. Unfortunately though, this was not the case for this particular date. After some post-date evaluation, I personally think the setting might have been a slight issue. Typically a first date should be somewhere local that’s easy enough to get to (and easy enough to get away from), somewhere with signal in case your date is a killer and you need potentially rescuing, and an activity that allows for interaction but not continual and consistent scrutiny. Snooker Toes chose to ignore this dating staple though (much against our urging over a curry the night before) as he had a hankering to see the sea and suggested the beach. (Half of the Chorus have packed up and gone home). Now, living as we do smack back in the middle of somewhat grey and rainy country, this meant a two hour journey in a car with a practical stranger only to end up somewhere wet, windy and rather woeful. A rainy trip to the beach with pals can be a laugh. The same journey with a first date was not. Whilst he was quick to state that she was not a horrible person, she was apparently a fan of inane thoughtless chatter and after constant, endless talking about literally every thought that entered her head, Snooker Toes was forced to admit defeat and was so mentally exhausted he had to take a two hour nap when he got home – which was my favourite part of the whole endeavour. He was more than willing to admit that it was more than likely a bad case of nerves and that whilst it wasn’t as awful as it could have been (nobody threw up or said anything horribly racist) I think the main thing to take away from this is the importance of planning. Making friends is easy and meeting people at work is pretty much all sorted out for you, but deciding to focus all your attention on one person (someone who you are, consciously or subconsciously, pinning a lot of hope on, be it for a quick shag or a lifetime partner) requires forethought. Something that showcases you in your best light whilst simultaneously allowing you to get a good read on your date. It’s hard enough working out how to be yourself without having to worry about anything else.

The idea of first dates always remind me of the scene from Scrubs where adorable girl nurse Elliot talks about how to hide her volcano of crazy whilst going out with her new beau. I’m in two minds really and would appreciate your input. Is it better to go all in; crazy cannons blazing and stand proud knowing it could all end in crushing defeat and a night crying into a tub of Ben & Jerries’ and self-loathing? Or is it best to start out behind a mask of normality and drip feed your crazy in gradually until it’s too late for your partner to escape – let it all bubble through until they’re trapped in the lava of your lunacy?

I think it’s ideal to suggest the first, but our second example maybe argues against the point. This one comes from the first year of University and my transatlantic soul sister Jbear. She came over to the UK for a year and was transfixed by the skinny, pale, childlike boys we call our own here in dear old Blighty. There was one in particular we spotted in the first few months who peaked her attention; a sort of Noel Fielding type in a red leather jacket two sizes too small, a mullet Rod Stewart could be proud of and a lackadaisical approach to everything except his music. Anyway, she kept a weather eye on him for a few weeks and eventually I received a text saying she’d invited him back to hers and to stand by for a status report. Once again, I think this could be where things started to fall apart. First dates should NEVER be held in either of the respective dater’s homes. This can only lead to disaster. Remember people, some where local, somewhere with signal and somewhere with something to do.

Anyway, the next thing I heard was about 9am the next morning when I received a somewhat unexpectedly detailed text. Apparently after bumping into the Mop Top at the pub, Jbear had invited him back to hers for something to eat. She had left him safely in her room, gone to rustle something up and when she’d returned, laden with delicious and nutritional plates of food, she discovered that he had made himself comfortable and gone into full on “naked man” mode.  Thankfully I have never been unexpectedly faced with a strangers junk all up in my personal business, because I literally do not know how I would react in that situation. (Note – it is not appropriate first date etiquette). Jbear, bless her heart, was as polite as could be and told Sir Knickerless that she was not really into buying what he was selling and that it would be best if he got dressed. She was then forced to endure hours of excruciating awkwardness when he Didn’t Leave. That’s right folks, this kid’s metaphorical balls were so big that he was happy enough to have his somewhat unsubtle offer of sex rejected and then still feel comfortable enough to hang round. Now, kudos to him for thinking that it was still worth trying to build a relationship, but I think at that point any self respecting person would just ducked out. Not him. The best thing was, when I received the text, it wasn’t just an update, it was a plea for help. Mr “let me introduce myse-OH LOOK here’s my penis” was still there, helping himself to Jbear’s dwindling tea collection. After laughing myself practically sick, I rushed across campus and turned up to find a red faced and practically withered Jbear, a content and apparently oblivious date and a couple of other housemates who’d been dragged in for moral support. We all sat there, in Jbear’s tiny room, for a fantastically awkward few minutes before some one suggested a walk. Now, you’d think at this point, Noel Fielding’s less attractive and infinitely less socially conscious younger brother would have said his goodbyes and made his way home.

If only.

An hour later found us traipsing round the local woods, alternating between trying to fall far enough behind Captain Cock-a-boo  to die a little and power walking ahead and trying to lose him in the trees. Eventually, Jbear made the executive decision to just cut him loose and made up some tale about having something planned for the afternoon that he was not required for. He sloped off, a little hurt I think that we had shaken him off, and we retired to the flat to laugh, weep and then nap off the stress of the whole dating experience.

It’s important, I think, in this tricky labyrinth of love, to take some key points from these examples. 1) Make sure to have an escape plan. Having an evacuation route is not defeatist, it is just practical. Be it a friend with a mobile phone and handy excuse, a prior engagement or just a ballsy attitude and the ability to cut your loses and run, you want to have the safety net in place. 2) Proper Planning Prevents Poor Performance. A spontaneous trip to the beach or an impromptu invitation of tea might seem like a good idea at the time, but it will not necessarily stay that way. There is a reason lots or people go bowling or to the cinema on a first date. Ignore the wisdom of those who have gone before at your peril. 3) Remember that even if it does all go pear-shaped and you end up feeling lacklustre, lovelorn and lonely, if you just give it a little time you will have a great story for someone’s blog. And lastly, I think we can all agree that the moral of these misadventure are that if you have to take a nap afterwards just to recover, it definitely didn’t go according to plan…