My total success rate with blind dates has so far been zero unless we count the lovely French man we dragged in off the street last week. I keep running into him in Tesco, usually when I’m in some kind of state of disarray. He tells me about his day in his breathy French voice. I reply with any old shite that pops into my head in my disgusting Kent/London accent. He goes off, no doubt to buy something very grown up and sophisticated, (I’m picturing red wine and an erotic novel) I head straight for the chocolate hobnobs.
To add to this misery, long suffering gay flatmate has been away all weekend in Cambridge. I have had to fend for myself, suffice to say Super Noodles have been getting a lot of business from me. He came home today and the following conversation took place:
Me: “How was your weekend?”
LSGF: “Yeah was great. Went punting. The guys are hot. Katie, will you have sex with one of my friends?”
Me: “Have you been pimping me out to your friends?”
LSGF: “Sort of. Only on Facebook. He thinks he might love you.”
I’m not sure where he found the time in between commuting, teaching and his own tangled love life to make a neon ‘Girls, Girls, Girls’ sign for the living room but clearly it has happened. I expect him to develop an Eastern European accent and start dolling out beatings within the week.
That said, the advantage of this over my previous attempts is that LSGF has given me a ‘definitely not mental’ guarantee. The disadvantage is that I’m not sure I fancy this guy and besides, he is currently in Marseille (There’s a definite French theme here, non?).
So until his return I’m stuck in an exceedingly unhealthy rota of awkward conversation with the French man in commercial outlets and flirting with the teaching assistant I’ve got a wildly inappropriate crush on. Aces.
WORDS BY KATIE HICKMOTT
PHOTOGRAPH BY NUNO