So, halfway through X Factor last night (Austin wuz robbed) I decided to go to a fancy dress party with my friend The Greek. She knew some people who knew some people and promised it would be multo fun AND would have a slavering pack of hot, eligible guys in attendance. I suspected the prospect of man-flesh was a ruse, but I allowed myself to be taken in – you gotta be in it to win it, right? There was no theme to the party, it was a fancy-dress-free-for-all. Which was just as well, because at that short notice, I had few Halloweeny treats up my sleeve. What I DID have however was a Bavarian Beer Girl outfit that I’d worn to an Alpine party last year. Which is almost criminally slutty and I’d only ever worn in the privacy of private homes. But, as Mean Girls taught us: Halloween is the one night a year when girls can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it. I was a day overdue, but still. 10 eligible men in a room? This was going to be survival of the fittest. Andthe more cleavage I show, the fitter I tend to be considered. So, I stuck it on, with underskirt and white thigh-high stockings and hair in pigtails and braved the streets, having asked my housemates to appear as character witnesses for me if I ended up getting gang-raped. The Greek (dressed as Tina Turner, complete with fright wig) pulled up at my house in a taxi and off we scooted to Parsons Green. To The Worst Party In The World. Oh lordy. It was in a proper pearl-earrings-and-rugby-shirts (sported by both sexes) pub, with our destination in the basement. I kpet my coat tightly wrapped as we walked past all the nouveau-Sloanes and we made our way downstairs. To a room filled with people in Halloween costumes. The shame. TG was ok because she did look pretty scary as Tina, but I looked about as Halloweeny as Father Christmas. At best, I could try to claim to be celebrating Oktoberfest, but even that was a stretch. I decidedly to strategically keep my coat on until we’d consumed more tequila. Within 5 minutes of arriving, we’d established a) this party was rubbish b) the 10 eligibles were not coming after all (I suspect The Greek has made them up to try to give her single friends hope). We decided to stick it out until 11, then to make our way back to Clapham to the best and cheesiest club that the town has to offer (probably not the one you think I mean btw). So, off we went again, with 3 others (the Riddler (a girl) ,the Joker (a boy) and Captain Jack Sparrow (a girl) stealing any Halloween decorations from the pub that hadn’t been nailed down:
1 Giant Inflatable Pumpkin
1 Witch’s Hat (i adopted this)
2 Broomsticks (and one of these)
1 big furry spider, with flashing red eyes
We arrived at our destination with all our props in tow and made our way to the dancefloor where we danced around them, like pagan handbags. Now let me tell you, the combination of a pile of Halloween paraphernalia, scantily dressed women and cheap alcohol is a pretty potent one – I have never had so much male attention in my life. Although I’ve also never gone out looking like such a hobag before either. Men: simple creatures…About an hour into the revelry, I noticed a Super Hot Guy. Lordy. However, I was soon distracted when I started playing air guitar on my broomstick to Livin’ On A Prayer (no-one is cooler than me). 5 minutes later, he appeared before my very eyes, wearing my hat.
“Do you like my hat?” he asked
“Actually, that would be my hat” I replied (ok, so technically, it was only mine because I stole it, but here we were, cosmically bonding over a hat. I mean, this was hat DESTINY.)
He immediately apologised and offered to give it back.
“No, you can keep it for a while. But remember, it’s my hat nd I will want it back at some point. That’s what you need to take away from this conversation” (only children, dontcha just love ’em?)
“Can I buy you a drink?”
That’s what he said. I’m essentially being an obnoxious high-maintenance nightmare and he’s just being all hot and wants to buy me a drink. Me! I accept with the most gracious sentence I’ve managed so far and off he goes to the bar. I thank the universe for inventing slutty outfits. this is BRILLIANT! In fact, I may start dressing like a slut ALL THE TIME.My reverie of Super Hot and I getting married in matching thigh-high PVC boots is disturbed by another guy coming over to admire my sophisticated attire. Now, he’s not Super Hot, but he is Pretty Hot and Super Hot has been gone some time now. And maybe he’s not coming back? I decide I might as use the slutty advantage I’ve been given for the night and hedge my Super Hot bets. Pretty Hot and I talk for a while, but I’m just not feeling it. I start to be a bit more reticent and evasive in my replies to PH and will him to go away. PH is a determined soul, andsticks around, limpet-like. I look over at the Greek, willing her to come over and help, but she dances on, oblivious and actually seems to be moving farther away. Aaaargh. Mustgetridofprettyhotmustgetridofprettyhot. Ohfuckit,superhotisback. Quite the predicament I’m in. I obviously can’t say to Pretty Hot “Right, I was only talking to you in case your hotter rival didn’t come back, but here he is, so thanks for your time”. but equally, I can’t really say to Super Hot “Right, I was only talking to him in case you didn’t come back and I’ve been trying to get rid of him for 5 minutes”. The awkward moment stretches out. Super Hot goes down on one knee and presents my hat back to me on a outstretched palm, then stands up and gives me my drink with a smile, then walks away to rejoin his friends. Aaaaaaaaaaaaargh. Damn you Pretty Hot! Hoist by my own petard there I think… It still takes me a further 10 mins to get rid of PH, eventually ordering him away under the most spurious of pretexts. He still doesn’t quite get it, but, mercifully, finally disappears.
Fast forward an hour or so and still no contact between SH and I. I complain to The Greek that she didn’t come to my aid and she vows to help me win SH’s heart and loins. We go to the bar to figure out a plan. And while we wait to be served, SH turns up, about 2 foot to my left. Ok, so all I need to do here is sidle over and offer to buy him a drink. I mean, he bought me one, right? I’m just being polite really. Ok, deep breath… As I breathe in, 2 other guys cram themselves into the 2 foot space and decide that the time has come to talk to the slutty girls at the bar. Unbelievable. These boys are standing in the way of Hat Destiny. Do they have no manners??? The Greek is oblivious to my anguish and starts talking to them about whether or not they’re brothers. Who cares? Really? During this exchange, SH is obviously deliberately trying to catch my eye and we engage in a bizarre neck-bobbing dance to achieve this. Hopeless. Eventually, I lean forward andaround the man-obstacles and ask SH if he wants a drink. Drinks arrive, The Greek and I drink yet more tequila, I pass SH’sdrink to him, around the 2 man obstacles, then decide that this is ridiculous, I can’t get to him here, so TG and I might as well head back to the dancefloor- he knows he can find me there. And so it goes on for another couple of hours. Sustained eye-contact, but no further. But honestly, I’m having too good a time dancing with TG dressed up as TT when Simply The Best comes on to really mind. Eventually, just before 3, TG says it’s time to go. I agree, but said I’d kind of hoped to speak to SH before we left. She looks at me in surprised fashion: “Has there been any contact between the 2 of you?”. I look at her askance “I bought him a drink in front of your very eyes you big girl”. TG looks stunned. I berate her for being the worst wingwoman in history and point out that if one of our other friends had been there, SH and I would be at least engaged by now.
Her explanation? “It’s this wig. The fringe is so thick that I’ve got no peripheral vision. I’ve had no idea what’s been going on all night.”
I mean honestly. Amateurs, I’m surrouded by AMATEURS.
Disgusted, I wander over to the cloakroom to get our coats. And there he is. And to spare you a lot of drunken conversational transcript, suffice it to say:
He asked if he could take me out for a drink this week (twist my arm…)
He got my number and said he’d text me the following day (i.e. now today)
He texted me (“Crazy beautiful girl!”) – beautiful is a much nicer word than slutty, no? – so I would have his number
He kissed me. I let him. Again, I was motivated purely by politeness. Obviously.
Now life is never quite perfect, so whilst you should rejoice with me, bear in mind the following pains in the arse:
He doesn’t live in London (I don’t know more detail than that)
He’s in London for a month. Which coincides pretty neatly with a month during which I am barely in London.
As of 20:26 today, he hasn’t texted me. And I have 4 days before I’m away for over 2 weeks – although not quite consecutively.
All in all, the timing is about the worst possible. Which makes me think the Universe has had a handin this, contrary bastard that it sometimes is. But then, if the Universe has taken the trouble to intervene, then surely that means I will at least hear from him? I’ve mentally composed a text I could send him, but The Books would NOT like me contacting him first. But time’s a wastin’. But but but but but… Gah.
I sense more hours of angst ahead before this night is over. But, honestly, even though the angst is draining and clawing, it’s refreshing to be angsting over someone else for a change ;o)
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