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

I can flirt. I know I can. I’ve been told I can. Just this week I managed to convince the man in Marseille to elope to the south of France, have three children (Aimee, Millie and Charlie) and some chickens with me. It’s easy, bit of a girly giggle and some looking up through seriously massacred eyelashes and voila, quicker service in bars or in my case extra chips from the chippy. However there is a hitch… under no circumstance what so ever can I put on a decent performance (and it is a performance) with anyone I have any kind of genuine romantic affection for. With them I have only three options;

1. Total ignorance of any attempt they make to flirt with me. The whole mating ritual is a two way thing. You’re meant to pick up on subtle nuances of the other person’s language and behaviour and then reciprocate. Or in my case bite their head off. Cue example… inappropriate crush mentions to me that I’m sunburnt on my shoulders and would I like him to get his suncream for me. The perfect response would be a sultry hair toss and replying in a husky voice about not being able to reach my back, hint, hint. I instead chose to snap “Well it’s a bit late if I’m already burnt isn’t it?”. Brilliant.

2. The drunken lunge. This one is pretty self explanatory. And I am an expert (there is a good reason Craig chose a banner of a wine cellar for me). This has around a 30% success rate depending on the sheer volume of booze consumed and your propensity to act like a dickhead when drunk. Mine, sadly, is very high. Between the last few times I have been out with inappropriate crush I have managed to cry uncontrollably for no apparent reason, have a screaming match in the middle of the high street with him, stubbornly refuse to move from where I was until he held my hand and pretty much tried to rape him. Smooth.

3. Do my best Three Stooges impression. Every single time he has said or done something sweet for me I have managed to injure or make an arse of myself. He brought me a cup of tea while I was marking. I knocked it over. He told me I looked pretty. I promptly tripped on my own shoes. We watched Super Troopers, I went to put my pyjamas on, got my dress stuck over my head and he had to pull me out. He told me to catch a football. I decided to show off and try to kick it and kicked him in the hand with some scary looking heels. Ouch.

Oh and FYI the reason it’s an inappropriate crush is that technically I’m his boss. That and he is a total prick when it comes to the ladies and for once I am trying not to get delusions of grandeur and believe I can change him. Going well ain’t it…

WORDS BY KATIE HICKMOTT
PHOTOGRAPH BY NUNO

Last week did not go well as you know. But spurred on by journalistic commitment and a desire to not spend the rest of my waking days alone and gently weeping along to Dashboard Confessional songs, I am persevering with the blind date debacle. I’m scared before even meeting this man. We’ve exchanged some witty emails. The banter was good. He answered my question about what he would do in the event of a zombie holocaust with intelligence and a level of detail that suggested he’d really thought about it. I like that kind of thing. A lot.

So when he asked for my mobile number I gave it up like a fresher at a traffic light party. Obviously I did not realise that he is clearly mental or I wouldn’t have done it. If it takes me more than 20 minutes to reply I get some passive aggressive, stream of consciousness musing on what he possibly could have done to offend me this time.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him last night that long suffering gay flatmate had brought home two 18 year old students and we were making cocktails with witty names like ‘womb punch’. Even worse, around the 1am mark we began yelling out of the window at strangers. Somehow this lead to us inviting a strange French man into our home. It had bad news written all over it, surely disaster would now ensue? Nope. He was just very French. Dark dishevelled hair and stubble, dressed head to toe in black, he spent what felt like forever passionately telling me that Sting writes the most perfect pop songs he’s ever heard.

Flatmate and the kiddies were passed out in various states of disarray while we were still discussing drunken flower picking, my inability to drive and why he hates Manchester. The Frenchman stayed until 5.30am. I got a kiss and he sauntered off into the deserted streets. Leaving me with two questions; does it count as a blind date if you picked them up off the street? Will my actual date this week cut off my limbs and try mounting my torso?

WORDS BY KATIE HICKMOTT
PHOTOGRAPH BY NUNO

Staff room discussions in schools tend to fall into the broad categories of discussing the weekend, bitching about other members of staff, pondering what lunch will resemble today and moaning about pay/workload/children/parents etc. However, by some kind of cosmic alignment today’s topic actually had some resonance outside the bubble that is education. Today we discussed art.

The ever so subjective question of favourite artists came up. I, perhaps naively, put forward Sophie Calle. Big mistake. Not only did I have to explain who she was and google The Hotel for them, but when I had they all agreed it was basically wank and not ‘proper’ art.

Now I’m pretty thick. I can’t drive, I avoid political debate like the plague for fear of revealing my level of ignorance and without the aid of Word my spelling level is on a par with Ludacris. Seriously, I sometimes have to spell check words during instant messaging. But if there are three things I can sound fairly convincing on they are modern art, psychology and the life of Robert Smith. (Granted the last two aren’t relevant to this.)

The detail that most people overlook when viewing conceptual artists just as Calle is the strict constraints they actually put upon their work. If it was as easy as taking clandestine photographs of strangers and adding a bit of blurb underneath then every Holga-toting GCSE art student in the land would be having their Sunday lunch with Charles and Nigella. The fact is the ‘blub’ underneath is actually reminiscent of an Oulipo essay. (It’s a French literary movement you heathens.) Calle’s work is heady mixture of voyeurism and her own vulnerability. In a society currently obsessed with voyeurism under the guise of social networking even her oldest pieces are still painfully relevant.

Raise your hands if you’ve ever been dumped. Now go look up Douleur Exquise and take care of yourself. Amazing. Every nuance of pain put down on paper to remind you that you are not alone. Do these pieces have a ‘happy ending’? No. But they get shorter as Calle’s pain dissipates. Time heals, things get easier, and answers are found. Not for every question but enough for her and you to move on.

This is not to say that all conceptual art is instantly validated by its own existence. Like I said, anything to do with art is 100% subjective. I happen to think for example that Damien Hurst is a bit of a pretentious cock. But lovely Sophie engages with the things that are important to me; love, loss, definitions of beauty, stalking of strangers. And she does it in a way that connects and moves me. So recognise. Or don’t. It’s up to you.

WORDS BY KATIE HICKMOTT

Quick confession: I’m wearing Bridget Jones style control pants at the age of 23. I also found two grey hairs earlier. With that out in the open let’s begin. I figured if you’re given the choice, opt for a date where if they turn out to have the personality of Piers Morgan in the body of… well, Piers Morgan, it won’t matter too much. For example a quick drink then the Canterbury Odeon 9.45pm showing of Drag Me To Hell. Pitch black and enforced silence. Perfect.

Thankfully I had already gained vital information via text. Not what they do for a living or their surname. Who cares? I went for the really important stuff. Are they offended by paedophile jokes involving beloved children’s entertainers? (No.) Which celebrity would they like to impale on a Judas Cradle? (Kate Hudson.)

The plan was simple, if it went well I’d just remember that delayed gratification is possibly the utmost symbol of emotional maturity and self-control. I’d also remember that emotional maturity and self-control are for losers.

Conversely if it was the most socially awkward night of my adult life I’d be awfully philosophical and look on the bright side, now having a humorous anecdote to write a droll blog about. Possibly put on my snuggliest pyjamas and curl up with a Peep Show box set and my dignity still mostly intact.

I went with neither of those options. I went with secret option number three. Fake tears about a mysterious bastard ex, scamper to meet your friends, let them get you heinously drunk on what appeared to be £4 glasses of meth and then ring your long suffering gay flatmate at 1.30am with some ‘specialist’ requests.

This is why I need to go on blind dates in the first place.

WORDS BY KATIE HICKMOTT
PHOTOGRAPH BY NUNO