Andi: Gone fishing

“Many go fishing all their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after.” – Henry David Thoreau. “

If I’m going to leave my happy, comfy couch of singledom then colourful lures and decidedly tasty bait are most definitely required. I’m not necessarily after the exotic tropical variety, the type that fights to the death, nor would a gormless follow-the-masses salmon suffice!!

So I have joined the online dating community (from my position on the aforementioned couch) to try and see what the oceans and rivers might offer up.

I shared my intention with a colleague and she enthusiastically wanted me to meet a friend of hers to get me warmed up after a rather long hiatus from the world of ‘sizing up in a nanosecond’!!!

We arranged a double date to ensure a relaxed introduction. He was two hours late to the table, a trendy dressed silver fox – like me – and when he did arrive, he was totally engrossed in his mobile device.Way shorter than expected with an ego suitable to his profession as an actor. He went on to discuss his various roles and then his sexual prowess in excessive detail. I really didn’t need to know the size of his….ahem..worm, although I knew only too well that he was fitting the short man stereotype and his predictability made me yawn openly. He hardly glanced my way or asked anything about me and what’s more he had the audacity to interrupt my one and only anecdotal story…stopping a Leo woman mid-sentence – did he have a death wish? I had to restrain from shushing him with a finger to his lip.

I really didn’t need to know the size of his….ahem..worm, although I knew only too well that he was fitting the short man stereotype and his predictability made me yawn openly.

We all left together and parted ways at the closest tube station. A bumbled kiss on each cheek goodbye and I nearly tripped down the escalators to get away from him. My friends were so mortified  for having put me through such an ordeal that they drowned their collective sorrows until 4am. As a lesbian couple, they were hardly the audience wanting to hear about penis!

So with a crick in my neck from turning to look at him all night and a slightly fuzzy head, I went to bed and vowed to start casting my net as soon as possible to try for something other than a bottom-feeder. Maybe I’ll catch a handsome angel fish.

Jen: Nice is a biscuit

I once dated a Texan philosopher.  No, not one of those exhausting types who thinks quoting Descartes and looking melancholy will lead him directly to heaven via an impressionable female soul. No, a real one, with a PhD, bad taste in hats and a cute dog. And every time I hear the word ‘nice’, I think of him.

He was of the opinion that ‘nice’ is an entirely undervalued word, deserving of far more love and attention than is afforded it in these extravagant times of ‘fabulous’, ‘amaze-balls’ and ‘OMG’.

The problem is, in order for ‘nice’ to work, to really work, a certain amount of eloquent verbal and tonal casing is required. To this day the most beautiful usage of the word I can remember took place back in 2006 when, having delivered an inordinately masterful speech on her wedding day, a dear friend of mine took a pause and ended her piece by telling her guests: “You are all very nice indeed”.

Nice, but no chocolate brownie.

But let’s face it, without the proper treatment and context, ‘nice’ is just, well, nice. Like a warm cup of tea, a malted biscuit or a calendar featuring cats. Like Edward.

Not Ed, Edward. Last Thursday’s date. An accountant and, by all accounts, a nice guy. We had a nice chat over a nice drink and even stretched it out to a second drink and a nice-ish dinner (the ‘ish’ is for the food, not for Edward). He told me how much he loves skiing, what tickets he managed to get for the Olympics, and why every year he goes to one particular music festival. He seemed satisfied with the house wine, laughed at my jokes and would, I am sure, be kind to animals.

Without the proper treatment and context, ‘nice’ is just, well, nice. Like a warm cup of tea, a malted biscuit or a calendar featuring cats.

And yet I am finding it very hard to think of anything in particular that he may have said, or done, or something I may have felt, which would have made the date in any way memorable. In fact, I am ashamed to say that if I am absolutely honest, when reporting back to a friend on how the evening had gone my reportage had little to do with the experience but rather more with my disappointed fixation on his unimpressive stature and small hands. Yes, it appears I am heightist. How totally superficial and really rather rich coming from a woman of 5ft3!

I would like to think that this embarrassing prejudicial display does not make me a shallow cow, for want of a better term, and that I will mend my shameful ways for the right person, but for me, that’s going to take more than nice. It’s going to require totes amaze-balls OMG fan-blerrie-tastic!

So, thanks Edward, it was nice but..next.

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