Robyn’s Nest

Tonight one of my friends and I are both going on dates, although not with the same guy and not at the same place. That would be awkward.

But we do share the same opinion on dating. It’s a bit of excitement combined with a lot of effort, and usually the result is disappointment. It’s not that we’re being overly negative here, just talking from past experience.

But I least I know Date Guy is tall enough for me. I text him to ask his height - the alcohol consumed on the night we met has clouded my memories somewhat - and told him I was trying to decide whether I should wear heels or not on date night. Yes, he probably thinks I’m odd now, but at least I know he’s not short. I couldn’t lower myself - literally - to date a guy shorter than my 5ft 9ins.

Anyway, Date Guy is a couple of years younger than me and someone I met on a night out before Christmas. We became Facebook friends, swapped mobile numbers, and have arranged to meet several times before now but something always got in the way.

So, tonight’s the night. And who knows, maybe if we like each other we’ll have a second date in September time?

PS The picture above depicts some dates (the fruit variety) - I was trying to be clever - but they could mistaken for pieces of poo. I felt an explainatory note was called for here.

My mate - another member of the SIngle Brigade - emailed yesterday, directing me to a BBC news story which prompted her to experience a “eureka” moment. “I’m single because I’ve got the wrong face,” she said. How depressing.

This news story suggests you can tell if a person wants a one night stand/bit of fun or a more sustained relationship - just by looking at their face! Research shows, apparently, that men are more interested in the women who look like they want a bit of fun. No shit Sherlock!

So, for us girlies who haven’t had much luck in the “lovin” department lately, does it mean we have the wrong sort of face? Great.

Now, not only am I an overweight binge drinker (see previous blog entry) I am single, the big 3-0 is drawing ever nearer and I also have the wrong face. What’s a girl to do eh?

Another friend, who’s just joined an internet dating site did confess to me: “You know, I don’t usually go out with total lookers but when flicking through this site I’m disregarding the ugs and looking at the guys who look like players.” Maybe there is something in this “face fits” theory, and it works on both sides.

Dating is hard enough, whether you have the face for it or not.

My brother, who’s two-and-a-half years younger than me, once fed me the line: “The trouble with women your age is that you know they’re desperate to settle down.” Hmmm. Newsflash guys - just because we want to go for a drink with you doesn’t mean we’ve planned the wedding and started reading babay magazines. It just means we want to go for a drink with you.

Oh, gone are the days when a guy walked you home from the dance at the village hall, started courting you and married you a few months later. How simple it was back then. Now, with the likes of text messages, email, social networking, speed dating and online dating, the dreaded “D” word has become a bit of a minefield.

One of my single mates is having her third date in as many weeks tonight, bless her. They both play sport and he handed his number over after watching her fall over a courtside sports bag while she struggled to put her hoodie on. He thought it was cute. If that happened to me, people would be inspecting the Robyn-shaped hole left in the ground.

My ickle friend spent a couple of days with me this week - she’s a teacher and thought she’d have less distractions at my place and could crack on with her marking while I was at work. She’s a PE teacher, probably half the size of most of her students and without make-up she could easily pass for a 12-year-old. She’s 29 this year.

But one of the things I love about her is her quirky sense of humour, which only those who know her best seem to get. She’s pretty quick witted and often causes discomfort for the many people who just don’t get her jokes.

We were in Currys last night looking at TVs and chatted to the sales guy about the spec and size and all that jazz. And we started talking about 32 inch TVs versus 40 inch TVs. Then ickle friend says: “Well, I’m not sure what to believe when men start talking about inches - they say this is six inches,” and then placed her hands as if she were holding a metre long invisible plank.

The poor TV guy didn’t get it at all and I quickly moved the conversation along. Then, later, when were at the food counter at the cinema, ickle friend asked for a cup of tea. “How big’s the large?” she enquired.

The poor guy serving her looked a tad on the shy side and held up a huge piece of cardboard with the prices on. He’d obviously misheard her. “Really, as big as that?” she said, and the poor chappy turned bright red and I had to hold in my giggles, being the mature 28-year-old I am.

Bless her. It was a fun evening, although her stay wasn’t that productive. She did my washing up for me (thanks!), did a bit of shopping and stomped round the flat in my heels (three sizes too big for her!) and sent me a text picture message of a notepad with “stinky marking” emblazened on it in biro. Hmmm.

I think the real reason for her visit (she travelled an hour down the M1 to see me) was an appointment with my physio, the one who sorted my ankle out. She’s got dodgy shoulders and wanted Mr Physio, who is quite cute but a tad on the short side for me, to take a look. She even wore the most inappropriate bra she could find and attempted to justify it to me. Nice try sunshine.

Anyway, it was lovely to have her to stay. Even if I do have to lug half her luggage back up the M1 tonight. She’d brought about three suitcases with her and didn’t have time to load them into the car this morning - she was running late for a date ‘cos she’d been to Next to buy an outfit ‘cos the 25 she had with her weren’t suitable, and because it was raining she was worried she’d get ger hair wet with too many trips to the car. Bless. 

I’ve tried to avoid the subject of dating on this blog, for fear of going off on one, but this is a happy (ish) tale and doesn’t involve me wanting to knife a guy in the head. See what I mean, it’s happening already!

Anyway, I was on a stinky train to London yesterday and was flicking through the pages of the freebie city papers that random guys fling into your hands when you walk past.

After the news about Britney, snow storms and Kentish Town being a burglary hotspot, I glanced at the little column where people leave anonymous messages for folk who’ve caught their eye, you know, in a romantic way. You were on the tube to Victoria at 7.15am wearing a pink jumper and I was too nervous to ask for your number. Drink? Ah, how lovely. I wonder if people ever respond? But I think it’s a cute way of breaking the ice. Dating is a nerve-wracking game and approaching someone for their phone number can have diabolical consequences.

So, while sat on the stinky train, reading about love, I was reminded of my fellow bridesmaid who managed to hook herself a date last week using this ‘orrible mode of transport. Heading for Manchester and wearing a Make Poverty History T’shirt - and being the nice, polite young girl she is - Alice offered to help an elderly lady with her bags and then fetched her a coffee as the train chugged into motion.

She’d spotted a guy in the corner of her eye but thought no more about it until she dismounted the train and as she trundled along the platform he slipped her his card with a little message on the back - I thought it was really sweet that you helped the old lady and I really like your T’shirt. Call me. Only turns out he’s a flippin’ doctor! Result!

So, thinking I could be sat on a love train, rather than a London Midland from Euston to Milton Keynes, I took a look around me. Drowning out the sound of the screaming child two carriages away I spotted a greasy looking guy reading Page 3 of The Sun, a little Chinese dude (I don’t do short men!) and a guy with a ponytail who was sucking his thumb. 

You were a grown man on a train sucking your thumb and I was thinking ’help, get me outta here!’