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 mates and I have decided that if we reach old age and still don’t have a boyfriend we’ll all move to Singleborough and live happily ever after - together! I’m fortunate enough to have a healthy gaggle of single female mates to share dating (horror) stories with but we each live in fear that we’ll be the last one to settle down.

It’s not that we all hate our single status (well, only when people look at us as if we have a disease) but more that we’ve had so many dating disasters that we’re not sure getting married and settling down will ever be part of our equation.

Inspired by this blog post on the single saga, I’ve tried to ask myself why I’m single, a question us singletons are often asked. Well, the answer is ‘cos we won’t just settle for anyone. I guess, between us, there are plenty of offers, but not many that you’d actually want to accept.

There seems to be a dearth of cute, intelligent, sporty men with good jobs, a bit of ambition and a sense of humour. And that’s all we’re asking for! And the ones we actually fall for tend to be commitment-phobes of the highest order - or “emotional fuckwits” to quote the immortal words of Bridget Jones.

So, what’s a girl to do in the meantime? My advice would be to enjoy yourself; fill your life with all the things that make you happy - handbags, hairdressers and shoes maybe? and don’t be afraid to pretend you’re one of the Sex and the City gals. Men? Easy come, easy go.

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.

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!’