Hello mighty groovers.
When last I had time for a musing, I was waiting to take out young Rachel. Pixie McWorrying as she shall be known from here on, is by all accounts, a lovely girl. I can get past the disappointing propensity to get drunk and ring me which is fine and dandy on a Friday night but on a Tuesday when I’ve been up since half five, I could do without that phone call at midnight. Still, she’s fabulously cute and a great craic to be around. We went out to the Old Dairy in Finsbury Park (really should have gone to the 12 Pins and got involved with the £2.80 pints of Guinness but never mind) and got neatly tipsy. Now, I’m all for breaking the touch barrier on a date as soon as polite decorum allows; I do however think that trying to hold my hand across the table is a little much for date 1. At that point, I’m starting to think maybe the evening’s going a little too well and I start thinking about a decent way out. Imagine my dismay to find out that she lives on my way home. Before I can get on a bus too. I was going to have to walk her home. More hand holding. Back to hers for a bit of a snog on her doorstep… dammit woman I’ve got work in the morning. When she invited me in, a couple of thoughts darted guiltily across my mind.
“This could go one of two ways chap: either there’s some nookie and a period of ignoring your phone, or she’s going to kill you and wear your skin as a cape. How lucky are you feeling?”
I gambled. Death or glory in it’s literal sense. Turns out I was mistaken after all. Not only was I not ritualistically butchered, but I completely failed to get past the panty barrier. Instead, I spent a disappointing evening of inexpert fumbling before scampering back home at five in the morning to get to work on time. Ok, so I didn’t die but that was pretty much 2nd place in my worst case scenarios. Later on in the morning after, I get a text from her asking whether I was still coming out with her that night. Dear god, I hadn’t imagined it then… she’d asked half way through the evening and I’d forgotten. Apparently her flatmate was only allowed to bring her new fella if Pixie was bringing someone too and I’d been roped in. One non-committal response later and I’d mentally resolved to spend the evening having a relaxing time in the mighty Pembury round the corner drinking Moravka and chatting about football. I fielded a few more probing texts during the course of the evening but as I’m winding up and about to head home, she decides she’s going to abandon her friends and come to mine. I’m drunk and in no fit state to turn down even the possibility of some horizontal boogie so over she comes. In retrospect, that was a bad idea. Twice in two days is a little much. Yet again, there’s no sex on the cards which is fine considering we’d met barely 24 hours previously but at the time, I felt like Tom Hanks in Castaway after Wilson falls off the raft and floats away. The evening was saved in epic style when I walked her back to the bus stop the next day. The fact that she was wearing a little black dress from the night before and a set of heels she couldn’t walk in just made my day. The ultimate walk of shame and I was just thrilled to be there to witness it.
Sadly for me, that very afternoon, I got struck down with some kind of murderous flu. Had the whole swine flu medication thing (which may have destroyed my kidneys… thanks Roche) and spent the next week watching bad television from my sofa (one of the benefits of working in a hospital is that if you contract anything iffy, they don’t want you in the building!). After finally being declared fit again, I jumped back in the game, put some of the Pixie’s footprints on my ceiling and then re-arranged my date with Alex the Belgian for earlier this week. Now that’s a girl on a similar comedy hymn sheet to myself. Wonderfully weird with a brilliant Euro-lilt to her accent and a near unpronounceable surname. Had a couple of drinks at the Steam Passage in Angel where she delighted in mocking one of the regulars for having truly terrible ‘buggers grip’ sideburns. We ended up fleeing to the Bull (vastly underrated pub) and not to put too fine a point on it, getting completely shambled. The more she drinks, the funnier she gets and though I’m ashamed to admit it, I love drunk girls. Win/win for me. Dropped her back at the station and with a kiss on the cheek, I made my way home. That brings us just about up to date. There’s a possibility of some more Pixie action this evening and hopefully another evening in the company of the Belgian next week with the added caveat of a potential date with Charlie the newsreader. It’s all picking up pace so as soon as anything interesting happens, you shall of course be the first to know.
Until then my lovelies, be lucky x
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