Why I Ran Away from Thames James

You know you’re in for a treat when the standard first-date question “So what is it you do?” is answered with “Oh did I not tell you? I’m a magician”. Particularly when datee is not, in actual fact, a magician but merely recycling a cheeky little chat-up line: “I know you want to see my tricks but you can’t, not just now, we need to be in a bedroom for me to show you…”

As it turns out, Thames James is a banker. He also has three degrees; spent either 8 months, one year, or two years working as a nightclub promoter (the duration changed as the evening wore on) during which he earned £52,000 by avoiding tax and undercutting the competition; lived in Algeria until the age of 11 when he moved to Birmingham with his parents (now divorced); has a younger sister aged 19 who angers him for not “hiding her weaknesses” (we’ll come back to that); pays £400 a month in rent for a room in a four bedroom house in West Hamstead; forced his original housemates to move out because they didn’t like to “party”; has never drunk alcohol; believes that “no-one is irreplaceable or special”; has a fake name on facebook because he is worried if people know his true identity they might attempt to send him their CVs; dreams of working in derivatives and has never before been asked what his earliest memory is.

Thames James does not know where I am from, what degree I did (or even where), how I spent the bank holiday weekend, if I have siblings, my opinion on the fox issue or that I was carrying a notepad in my bag to gleefully quote him on the tube home later.

Needless to say, Thames James finds himself more interesting than he finds other people. Which is a shame, because he’s incredibly uninteresting.

Uninteresting but full of bizarre opinions.

Thames James’s little sister is six years younger than him and he describes recently taking on a guardianship role in his relationship with her as he doesn’t want his Dad to have to worry. Ahhh. How sweet! He must really love his little sister and want her to be happy. So when she rang him the other day at 4am, upset and seeking support, Thames James was concerned: “What’s the matter?!” he asked. “I split up with my boyfriend,” little sister sobbed. “Fuck off,” retorted TJ, before hanging up on her.

I questionned this little anecdote because to me this seems an incredibly irrational response. But TJ patiently explained that he had to react in this way to teach her a lesson. She had to learn that she had no right to share her problems with other people and risk making others sad. How dare she try to drag him down for something as trivial as her first heartbreak?! And he was further annoyed about it because she was showing her weaknesses, showing that she was upset by crying, something you should never do incase someone uses your weaknesses against you. A problem shared, it seems, is actually a problem doubled.

Luckily, TJ was more than willing to make an exception to this rule and share with me (and, by default, you) his other problems with his baby sister:

TJ: “I get frustrated with her, she’s not working hard enough. She’s in her first year at uni and she goes to parties and clubs, she drinks, she smokes. She needs to work harder.”
Me: “That sounds normal to me and atleast she’s got social skills. Is she happy?”
TJ: “Too happy. She’s too young to be happy, She needs to be working and then when she’s successful she can be happy, not now.”
Me: “I’m not sure I agree with you… I take it she’s quite intelligent?”
TJ: “Not really”
Me: “Well in that case, maybe you shouldn’t be pushing her down an academic route anyway?”
TJ: “Yes I should be. She has to get a degree and be successful.”
Me: “And how are you going to make that happen?”
TJ: “Oh I’ve given up on her now. I used to ring her up and shout at her but she’s seems to just rebel against me.”
Me: “I think I would rebel against you.”

At this point, and presumably in order to bring the subject back round to himself, Thames James launched in to a speech about what he’s after relationship-wise. For someone so against telling secrets, he really likes to put all his cards on the table. First date or not, he felt that this was the time to divulge that he is open to the possibility of a “non-exclusive relationship”. I don’t know if this was an offer or if he was merely musing.

You might think that a comment like that would only be made during a first date after several drinks. But you’d be wrong, Thames James doesn’t drink alcohol. Initially, he explained that he has never felt the need to have a sip of a beer because he has always wanted to be healthy and due to his ”very strong character” even as a teenager he was able to resist the pull of peer pressure. However, he then lent in to inform me that ”The other reason I don’t want to drink is so I can remember clearly the exact moment you fall head-over-heels in love with me”. He honestly said that. He wasn’t even joking.

By this time it was 10pm and I was, quite frankly, bored. After splitting the bill we started walking to the nearest tube station when he realised he’d forgotten his umbrella and needed to go back. He gave me the option of standing in the rain waiting for him or going on ahead to the tube. I chose the latter. To be fair, it wasn’t clear whether I was meant to be waiting for him at the tube or not and I really really wanted to avoid any awkward good-night-kiss situation so I upped my pace and jumped on the next south-bound train. A mature AND non-confrontational exit strategy.

High points:
- Him explaining to me why I left nursing. According to TJ, I left because you can’t trust mental health patients, if you give them too much attention they might turn on you without warning. I do not share this view, by the way. I think he must have been thinking of wild animals, not people.
- The party on the table next to us had a dildo. TJ either didn’t notice, understand or find this funny.
- The text he sent beforehand in answer to my question about how to recognise him: “Just look for the best looking guy around, chances are you’ll find me “

Thames James

Good news Followers & Friends! A sudden influx of dates has led to some gold-standard blogging material. But, as ever, my conscience is making it difficult for me to pick which snippets of information I can reasonably cultivate in to something worth reading and which should be left well alone. I could do with your advice.

As you may have guessed from the title, the subject of this particular blog is Thames James, a new acquaintance. Thames James is so named because he approached me a few weeks ago while I was having a quiet-reflection moment next to the Thames. And because his name is James. Dur.

During aforementioned quiet reflection time, TJ was running past (presumably an exercise thing, not chasing/being chased) and “felt compelled” to stop and talk to me. He asked me where the nearest cash machine was and while I was in the swing of giving directions, he interrupted and said:

“So, if I get £30 out will you come for a drink with me?”

I was dumbfounded (brilliant word). Not just because men aren’t generally that forward but because I couldn’t figure out if he was offering to pay me £30 to go on a date with him or if he was planning on taking me somewhere reasonably expensive and spending £30 on drinks. My pause led him to up his game:

“How about £50?… £100?”

“Err I’m sort of seeing someone…” (This was me talking now)

“It’s just,” continued TJ, ignoring my excuse. “I was running past and saw you and I just felt compelled to stop. I’m still picking my jaw up off the floor.”

Now then, the reason I know this was nothing more than a practised line was because it was drizzling, I’d not washed my hair, was still wearing last night’s make up (smudged to compliment the bags under my eyes) and was squinting up at him like I’d never seen one of him before. I was not worth stopping for.

But the lines kept coming, and before I knew it he’d used the word “Fate”. At some point during this onslaught it suddenly occurred to me that this was really funny and I was going to enjoy telling Mat about it later. That’s my excuse for giving him my number.

A couple of days passed and I heard nothing. I chalked it up as an amusing anecdote and forgot about him.

Then, on Sunday, I was watching a film with Gareth when my phone rang with a number I didn’t recognise:

“Hello!” (me)

“Hey, how are you?”

“Very well thanks, how are you?” (Pretty sure this is someone I know and any second it will click who without my having to ask)

“Yeah, good thanks. So I was wondering if I could ask your advice?”

“Erm go on…”

“It’s just that I’ve bought this shirt and I was wondering if I should wear it on our date later this week?”

“Our date?! What?? Sorry… Who is this?!” (At this point Gareth’s ears pricked up and he paused the film in order to give the conversation his full attention)

“Ha! You remember! I was out running the other day and stopped to talk to you?”

“Christ yeah, I remember. That was weeks ago!”

“Erm yeah a couple of weeks maybe. I’ve not been able to call until now though cos I’ve er… I’ve been on holiday. Well no actually I’ve been working… in Paris. I do shit like that. But hey if I could have taken you with me I would.”

“You don’t know me…”

“Yeah. So, how’ve you been?”

“Erm good. Listen, I’m just in the middle of watching a film right now…”

“Ok I’ll let you go! Text me about our date later, yeah?”

“Yep. Ok. Bye.”

“Bye!”

(Much mirth from Gareth and I)

Just so we’re clear - this guy sounds a complete tool, yeah? It would be fair to assume that he frequently asks women for their numbers in order to keep a steady flow of women through his bed, right?

Therefore, it wouldn’t be entirely unreasonable of me to use him for blogging-material, would it? I don’t know him or anyone who does know him, will not be adding him on facebook and, despite his references to “fate”, seriously doubt I will ever have any desire to marry him.

So we’re agreed? I can go on a guilt-free date with a notepad in my handbag to covertly scribble down his deliciously cheesy lines? Excellent. And just to add to the possibly awkward situation that is about to arise, I don’t think he remembers my name and I have no intention of dropping it in to conversation. Let’s see how this pans out…

Re: Stuck in America. The Taco Bell Write-up

Guest blog from travel correspondent, Sandy Salmon

 

Right fun chick Frankie, here’s your Taco Bell write-up as promised… I really hope you appreciate it because, no joke, I actually feared for my life on more than one occasion in my short time there.First things first, the good news: I actually know what the hell it is now. It’s a fast food restaurant which is much like any other, if fact it’s owned by KFC, they have the same entrance and counter and the menu is just split in half.

On the food front. After minimal menu perusing time (and you know how I like to peruse a menu) because the guy over the counter kept shouting “Hey! How you doing?!” at me louder and louder even though I’d already told him I was absolutely fine thank you very much, I chose a ‘Crunchwrap Supreme’ combo meal. This came with aforementioned crunchwrap, a beef taco and a bottomless drink. There were about ten drinks to choose from and, as you will read later, this almost got me into a bit of a stickywicket of a situation.

The Crunchwrap was surprisingly good, a sort of burrito that you could hold up while you were eating, full of nice salad, beef and cheese singles. The taco (equivalent of fries) was crunchy and also filled with beef, iceberg lettuce and grated cheese single. The drink…well I tried pink lemonade to start with, which was very nice, and I was just deciding on my next option (Lipton iced tea, lemon flavour – highly unsatisfactory as the syrup was running out) when I had my first run in with some of the other clientele.

The first set of clinetele I noticed were the only couple in there when I first walked in. T’was a Mr and Mrs, around 75, both in puffer jackets, his was bright red and hers blue. Later on just as I was finishing my Crunchwrap supreme, Mr approached me. He had only a couple of teeth and was jaundiced, an effect made even more disconcerting by his yellow dyslexia glasses. He’d been staring at me over his wife’s head for ten minutes. He came over and leant over my table – “What’ya gat dere girlfriend?” I told him it was a Crunchwrap Supreme, T9 on the menu. He said, “Oh yeh, I been watchin’ yew crunch away on that salad, it looks pretty darn good.” I replied that it was and didn’t comment on the fact that to stare at a single woman on a table eating her dinner was actually quite rude. He didn’t look the type I’d want to get into conversation with. He said ‘I’m gonna get me one of those beauts right now, then grabbed his red puffer jacket wife by the wrist and left the restaurant without ordering a Crunchwrap Supreme.

The next oddest couple after Mr Red and Mrs Blue was a mother and son team, or at least I hope they were. She had a hideous bleach blonde perm with a pink jacket and black floor-length spotty dress. He was a tranny. And not the classy kind. Skater boy jeans well below his ass, iron maiden t-shirt like any other no-hoper son, but then on his head he had the most awful fitting black straight wig pushed too far forward, with fringe straightened either side of his face like curtains, and *really* bad makeup. And he had a hunchback.

None of this is exaggerated!

Then two guys in their early twenties came in. More normal. One was white american and one Mexican. Definitely meth addicts. Mexican didn’t stop staring at me the whole time I was there.

Then another couple came in. Complete rednecks. She had a Harley Davidson t-shirt on and he had the most rednecky moustache and goatee I’ve ever seen in my life. They were both drunk, and had driven in from another state for a laugh, because they kept laughing about how they were in Oregon and weren’t gonna get home until about 4am. This is where I had my second run-in. I was looking over at the drinks machine trying to decide which drink to try next, but in all honesty I was also memorising redneck’s moustache for this write-up. The lady caught me looking and got all up in my face asking me if I needed any help, could she help me get a drink. Her moustache man found it hilarious. I was like “No thanks, got me one right here.” I decided to play the innocent and even put on an American accent just in case she started on me for being English. Then I sat and looked out the window and listened to them go on about how they were going to pick up crack for 60 a gram and an 8th of weed for 20 bucks.

Then I left as fast as I could, but not without the guy behind the counter asking me if I wanted to go to a rad houseparty that night. I whimpered and stepped up my pace.

There you go. I hope you appreciated as much as I did! I’m glad I can say I went to one, and I hope never to go to one again.

I’m through with the old school so let’s commence the winning

Some people seem capable of indulging in this blogging business near enough every day. If I forced myself to write every day I’d just repeat words, read back what I’d written, delete and then repeat the words again. I have this huge store of words that I want to coat this page in but can’t quite see how anything that is buzzing around in my head right now could possibly be of interest to you, Reader.

But you can always stop reading and I’ve got a hankering to do some typing. So here are the two thoughts that are forefront in my mind.

I’m frustrated. I have an amazing job that I was incredibly lucky to get, I don’t have the qualifications, experience, skills, staying power, self-belief or motivation to do it but somehow here I am. Here I am and all the work I’ve been assigned to do is done, I’ve done some other things that I knew needed doing and I’ve admired a co-worker’s shoes. Now what? I’ve hassled my boss in to having a meeting with me to discuss the next project and showed a willingness to learn by suggesting I go on a course. I’ve insulted a friend on facebook. I’ve eaten four ginger biscuits. And this is fine, all these things are fine. I’m getting paid, I’m not stressed like the rest of gen-Y and if I feel like leaving a bit early or dragging lunch out an extra half an hour no-one would bat an eyelid.

So what is my problem? Is my problem that I don’t have a problem? Or is that they might one day realise that this job they’ve created for me doesn’t really exist and that they’re paying me to sit around eating ginger biscuits? And what will I do if they stop paying me to snack? That last question is entirely rhetoric because I already know what I’d do, I’d take my credit card for a little walk and wind up in Australia.

Which leads us to my second thought.

About a week ago, I sent a message to a friend who is currently living in Sydney. He replied suggesting that I go out there for a weekend.

Obviously a joke.

Obviously.

Except that it’s not really because Dan knows me inside-out and knows exactly how that little joky suggestion is going to take root in my brain and germinate in to a vague plan. I’m willing to bet that when he wrote that comment he knew better than I did on reading it the effect words like that are likely to have on my mental state.

Feeding on my desperate need to make the most of my life and crippling fear that others will find me boring, that innocent little comment will grow and flourish until it’s forced its little branches in to every part of my brain leaving no room for sensible thoughts. It will render me incapable of weighing up mortgage rates, addressing wildlife issues or unpacking from last weekend. I’ll be powerless to make even the least significant of decisions and will be trapped in this state until one day I wake up distracted by something else and the thought is gone. Vamoosh.

Until then, I’m in limbo.

I imagine that bit of imagery may have left you confused so for clarity here is my thought-process so far since comment-inception:

1) Read comment. Feel pleased that I’m wanted, ponder on how nice it is to stay in touch and even consider replying. Think no more.

2) During a mindless moment, stumble across the thought that it would be nice to just go to Sydney for a weekend. No-one would expect me to do that. Ridiculous, of course.

3) Fleeting thought leading to quick calculations of how many hours “a weekend” would actually give me once I got there. Again, recall how ridiculous it would be.

4) Settle on the conclusion that taking a 21 and a half hour flight to Sydney for a weekend is ridiculous.
Two weeks however… Well now that’s doable.

5) Supposed to be getting ready for work but instead find myself sat on the edge of my bed have a good old think. I’ve not yet reached my credit card limit. I could buy a ticket to Sydney. Remind myself that I have a job and am still in a trial period of sorts. If I went to Sydney next week, there would be ruptions.

6) Get butterflies at the thought of going to Sydney on a whim. Mention to housemate who throws no spanners in the works.

7) Book bikini wax.

8) Idly google search cheap flights.

9) Google search leads to self-preservation kicking in. There are many, many reasons why this is BAD thing to do.

10) Fail to fully recall the reasons that led me to the conclusion in 9).

Much as I’ve enjoyed aharing this, I feel as though I may have just revealed my weakness.

No you can’t have my number cos I lost my phone

“You guuurls coming to our… to the afterparty…yeh?” he slurred, while trying to simultaneously focus his rattling eyes on my cleavage and remain in a standing position. “Whaaaa?…. Yer just going home?? Booooring!”

Being branded as boring is one of my biggest fears. I honestly can’t think of a worse insult. But when the person slinging that word around is wearing an inside-out fleece and, for some inexplicable reason, has become fixated with his shoe laces, I can handle it. That’s not to say it doesn’t piss me off; infact a lot of Friday night pissed me off.

Shall we start at the beginning?

It began with  Lucy’s perfectly innocent suggestion: “Let’s go out Friday. I need a proper girly night out. Shots and dancing!”

And continued with my equally innocent acknowledgement and acceptance: “Yes! That is absolutely what we should do!”

Good so far. Then it got to 11pm Friday and we were sat in the local, fairly sober, trying to figure out where to go. A quick google search led us to believe it would be a good idea to head for Shoreditch and a club called 333 Mother. Described as “Supporting local live music. Indie nights every Friday” this funky little club seemed exactly what we were after.

Let’s deviate, just briefly, so I can give you some background. Not long ago, I was a student and part of my role as a student was going to “student nights” because double vodbull was only £1.50 (Robinskis, Fallowfield, every Tuesday). As well as cheap drinks, Student-Nights are characterised by their clientele, some of whom are there solely to find people to rub themselves against. But back when I used to go to these places, those who were there to dry hump each other’s legs sniffed each other out and a cold hard stare was by-far enough to put them off and inform them you didn’t want their germs.

Back then, I considered myself an expert at showing disinterest without even having to speak. I don’t any longer.

Back to Friday. When we got to 333 Mother, it was immediately obvious that women were outnumbered by men on probably about a 6:1 ratio. I was suddenly made aware that we fell in to the “Unaccompanied Women” category and, as such, were immediately hounded. On describing the night to my housemates the next day, I struggled to find the right word to describe what happened, “hounded” sounds so predatory but I suppose that’s exactly how it felt. We were surrounded by men pawing at us, wanting our names, our numbers, and, most concerningly, to get us apart.

Two men in particularly became glued to us. Naively, we thought they seemed innocent enough, neither of them tried to slyly put their arms around our waists or tried to seduce us by mentioning their work with under-privileged children and when another bloke got a bit too frisky they stepped in and “rescued” us. We weren’t going to be exchanging numbers but they seemed OK. That is, until something happened. I’m not sure what it was but there must have been a conversation or a signal or something because suddenly they had identified who was getting who and their prime objective became to get us apart so the seduction could begin.

There was no chance whatsoever that I was going to take either of these men home. I just wanted to dance. That was it. And shouldn’t I be able to do that without someone constantly trying to grab my hand and pull me away? Obviously the answer is yes. Just as women should be able to dress however they want without being blamed for being sexually assaulted. But during my debrief with Lucy it occured to me that just by going to a place like that we were giving off the wrong signals.

So, my question to you is – Should we have left? We didn’t know before we got there that it was a meat market but we stayed anyway because it had taken us long enough to find somewhere. The way they saw it just by staying we were consenting to constant pick-up attempts and the occasional grope. By dancing to Christina Aguilera (it wasn’t quite as indie as we had envisaged) we were practically promising to take any man home. Were their assumptions all that unreasonable given that this club clearly had a reputation for being somewhere slutty women go?

Possibly, I’m getting old and bored of this game or maybe this is North/South cultural differences coming in to play, but I have never, even in my student days, experienced a night out with so much personal space violation.

Stuck in America

Dear Sandy,

Recently, I have been thinking about your upcoming trip to Oregon. As you know, I went to the good ol’ US of A myself once but my whirlwind tour of Hollywood before boarding my next flight doesn’t really count if we’re being honest. And I failed in my mission to get a picture that looked like I was eating the Hollywood sign. What a profile picture that would have been!

Your trip sounds better. Mainly because it’s longer but also because work is paying for it. You will be Travelling for Business, any pleasure you experience will be purely coincidental, just bonus fun. Which takes away a lot of the pressure to be constantly doing something, experiencing new things and “getting your money’s worth”.

This non-pressurised trip sounds the bee’s knees, in fact the other day when you and I were discovering eye liner, I “jokingly” suggested that I join you. That woman chimed in pretty fast with some reminders of my debts – she’d make a good bank manager probably. Or at least she’d be good at sending out payment reminders. She’s right though. I need to shake this grass-is-always-greener mentality and do some settling. You, however, don’t need to. You’ve done a bit of settling and now you’re free to do some adventuring. I wouldn’t say I’m quite green with envy but I’m certainly off-colour.

I’ll get over it. Travel-envy is just one of my downfalls, which happens to go hand-in-hand with my inability to save any money to do any more travelling of my own.

So, I have no other option but to live through you and push you to make the most of every opportunity. Think of me as a third parent, one who missed out on their dreams and sees you as a second chance to “make it”.

With that in mind, there’s some things I want you to do:

1) Discover Taco Bell. Write a report detailing:
a) What it is
b) Why I’ve heard so much about it without ever figuring out the answer to a).

No word limit. Minimum of three pictures.

2) Find one of those bars where people drink alone and eat chicken wings. I’m not talking old-blokes in Bootleggers – more like the bars in My Name is Earl or True Blood. Bars where the floor is always sticky and the lights are too close to the tables which tend to be in a booth arrangement. The sort of bar where the music is probably “country” and the juke box frequently plays Sweet Home Alabama. The women wear revealing clothes that are too small for them and do bad things with/to pool cues. Do these places exist in real life?

(NB If they do exist, I’m under the impression that these places are magnets for vampires. Be careful. If he’s tall, dark and mysterious he’s not after British citizenship, he’s after your blood)

3) Become so emerged in the culture that when you come back you “accidentally” say dollars instead of pounds. People will tell you it’s pretentious, it’s not. You have to do these things to remind people of how cultured and worldly you are lest they should forget. After saying it do some sort of hair-toss and comment on how silly you are forgetting which currency you’re dealing in, like you’re a walking bureau de change. I’m fairly sure men find such behaviour very attractive.

4) Ensure atleast five photos reach facebook which show you at a quirky angle. You know the ones I mean? Where you’re having so much fun that you happen to be mid-headstand when the photo was taken or lying in the street or hanging upside down from some monkey bars eating ice cream.

5) Go here – http://sealioncaves.com/home/ and ask the tour-guide/zoo-keeper/entertainer if they know any songs about sea lions. Get them to teach them to you and anyone else in the cave so you can all sing them together. If on the off-chance they deny knowing any, make one up and insist it is by Billy Joel, acting surprised that they’ve never heard it.

Things I don’t want you to do:

1) Get inked

2) Marry

3) Be involved in homicide (as victim or perpertrator)

For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for injecting some pressure in to your trip. Especially after telling you how great it is not to have any. Think of it more as motivationalising rather then pressurising.

Lots of love,
Frankie xx

Breaking the law, breaking the law

Whenever I come across this:

I always, where possible, keep right.

I predict this will be my downfall.

I must eat so many lemons

Woah Woah Woah

Just received a DISTRESSING email.

Apparently (APPARENTLY) it’s nearly valentine’s day and I should be DRESSING  for it. Listen, Ebay, let’s get this straight now: I shan’t be wearing any of your second-hand offerings on valentine’s day. No-ser-ree. Not on your nelly.

This year, this auspicious occasion lands on a Tuesday. Yesterday was Tuesday. Yesterday I spent my time trying to find new and exciting ways to write “pressure ulcer” to avoid repeating the words “pressure” and “ulcer”. I fully expect to be spending Tuesdays in a similar way until at least March.

I will not be changing my Tuesday plans just because… Hang on, what is the story behind valentine’s day?!

Blah blah blah corporate scam and all that but that’s not why I don’t celebrate it. My main reason for not believing in St Valentine is that 14th February is  THE LEAST ROMANTIC DAY OF THE YEAR. There is nothing romantic about being FORCED to do nice things. “Oooh the calendar told me to do it” Shut up. The whole concept is flawed.

The worst present I have EVER received was a huge fuck-off cuddly toy bear with a poem on it that some corporate clown had come up with, presumably while coming down off some very hard drugs. I can’t remember the words but it was more than a little needy. I did a very bad job of hiding my disgust at being presented with a gift that so perfectly embodied everything that is wrong with February 14th.

Now then, how does this particular rant relate to you? Let’s explore further…

Unless I’m mistaken, you fall in to one of the following categories:

1) In a “committed relationship”. Been there, done that, probably got a t-shirt with some sort of love-heart logo. You’re comfortable enough to have that conversation with the other half and either agree “yeah, let’s sack off all that bollocks” or agree that some effort would be nice and maybe even come to an agreement about the level of said effort.
Fine.
It’d be nice though, if someone you’d been with for a while took you out for dinner because they wanted to. Just because it’s a Tuesday and every Tuesday is special. That’s lovely, that.

2) New relationship. In the olden days when the kind people at Hallmark were sitting around wondering how to bring a bit of joy in to people’s lives, they thought of you and made you a day. You are expected to make an effort and you probably will or there’ll be sulking. Irrational sulking but there will be sulking.

3) “Seeing someone”. A friend text me over the weekend and casually mentioned she’d started seeing someone at work. I was pleased for her… at first. Then I remembered how close V-day is and realised she’s got herself in to a right pickle.
When you’ve not had The Conversation, how can you have any sort of follow-up conversation to straighten out your valentine’s day plans? It’d be like saying “So… d’ya like me or what?” or suggesting a weekend away because you’ve seen an ammaaaaazing offer on GroupOn.
I have no idea what you’re meant to do. I do know if I was asking the usual characters for advice I’d be getting told off for not being forward and direct or for making an issue where none exists.

4) You’re single! You might have one or two potential interests on the back-burner but, by and large, you are single. This is a BRILLIANT SITUATION as long as you stay neutral. There’s a temptation to complain about everyone being in a couple and double-check the post incase you’re actually starring in a romantic-comedy, but, mark my words, THIS BEHAVIOUR IS A MISTAKE.

So is, in my humble opinion, going the other way and making a big deal out of being single. Going out with your single mates, drinking sambuca and shouting about how much you hate valentine’s day. When you’re out celebrating something you claim to “hate”, you look insincere (and a little desperate).

But chillax! While categories 1 -3 are all going through varying degrees of stress, you’re allowed to stay in, eat olives straight from the jar and don’t even have to think about hair removal. No-one is out having the time of their lives, they’re all pretending to be romantic but secretly wondering what’s happening in Eastenders (I assume).

This year, I plan to mark valentine’s day. Not in any traditional sense, don’t kick off that I’ve repented at the last second and am going back on the past few hundred words. No, I’m going new-school and will be tweeting my valentine’s day from start to finish so anyone who thinks they should be doing more can see that other people are doing less. It’s going to be WILD.

Have a follow: @FranEntwistle1

Premier Inn Guest Satisfaction Survey

What in particular did we do well to make your stay enjoyable?

We all particularly enjoyed that the room service menu included the number of calories in each meal. We had no intention of ordering anything, especially after you revealed the calorie-content of cheesecake (a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips), but  playing “How many calories?” (I came up with that name, it’s not copy-writed or anything so you can have it if you want) passed the time beautifully.

Also, when we “borrowed” some teabags from the restaurant all the staff looked the other way. Even when David put all that bacon in his pocket, they still continued to smile politely. That is first class service.

And what could we do better?

Two things.

The first, and I’m not complaining at all, but we booked a twin room and had a double and a single bed which resulted in a particularly competitive game of rock-paper-scissors (best of three) which I subsequently lost. I mean that’s more down to the laws of chance than anything you did wrong, but equal sized beds would have prevented the need for any chance-based competitions. Or perhaps you should consider building a running track so people can have races to determine who gets the double? I’m fairly sure I would have beaten my Mum in a race. I’m at a disadvantage you see with the old R/P/S’s because she knows I always go with scissors. We’ve never raced (that I recall) but she’s probably rubbish.

Secondly, chocolates on pillows.

How I’m going to make 2012 interesting

“And that was the first time I’d been offered a threesome”

Ah the wonders of online dating! Most people have been there whether they admit it or not. Online dating became chic a few years back and while the last few of us are still catching up with the times, those in the know are out having fun and coming home with hilarious anecdotes.

I’ve written dating profiles for no fewer than three friends now so I’m pretty sure I’m an expert. One such friend is now living with  the charmer she met through mysinglefriend.com, which is one of my proudest achievements (even more so than my degree or when I learnt to do a crab from standing). Now, for your amusement, it’s my turn.

This could be unethical. I’m not sure. I am single but my sole reason for going down this road is to write about it and I’m planning on only going on dates likely to have hilarious consequences. Maybe I could increase the likelihood of such consequences by over-using certain words or claiming a bizarre hobby. I’m open to suggestions.

Now then, any thoughts on what to put in a dating profile to attract some good old-fashioned weirdos?