Snow, bungled travel plans, and a random kiss

I've had one of those weeks that you want to write home about, but of course I can't. I am not sure the letter would get there (bloody snow!), and God forbid it did, my mother would teleport to where I was and destroy me. Neither works for me.

So I was supposed to be in my tropical paradise but a minor issue of 2 inches of snow, and Heathrow being the most backward airport in Europe, I am most certainly not. I've had 48 hours (and freaking counting) to think about my escapade of a few days ago. Which is probably enough time for me to justify writing about it.

Thursday night. A lot of snow. And the Christmas dinner. It wasn't quite the work Christmas do, but it ended in the same way. The day was horrific, long, with snow, and I was wearing what were meant to be cute librarian-esque heels, but of course were simply a slip-risk, and threatened the integrity of my ankle joints. I made it home in one piece, via M&S for some Prosseco, pre-drinks before the ball and all that. I was so bloody organised I booked the cab two hours before we were due to depart, in case the rush hour and snow meant a paucity of said vehicles. But of course, as fate would have it, the taxi was late, my housemate was late, and the bottle of Prosseco and I were a little too well acquainted. I also had on THE DRESS. I hate to sound cocky, but I really did look fit AS. It was a long black number from FCUK, with a Danny Minogue type boat collar, and backless, with a chiffon mini train arising from the knot at the small of my back. It was a FMD (F- me dress), without looking even remotely slutty. The pink heels achieved the 'questionable morals' look. In hindsight, it probably spelt the start of my life worries.

An hour late to dinner, I rushed in (er staggered) with a gaggle of females in tow, and our token male friend as an escort. The wine was flowing freely: first the white with the fish, then the red with the main, then the crappy dessert that was not consumed. Midway through dinner, a couple of consultants joined our table. A little apprehensive at having to make conversation with them, my friend and I chose to make best of  crappy situation, necked a bottle of red wine in a matter of minutes, added a bottle of rose a little later, and made polite conversation about our future career plans, and the fact that children were not an immediate consideration.

At some point during the conversation, the alcohol severely blunted my capacity to reason, and I dragged, not so much kicking and screaming, my friend to the dance floor where the night became a hazy blur of fun, tears and vodka lemonades. The boys arrived (usually just friends), and plied us with excess amounts of vodka, and then off it was to the club. In between all this, I managed to have a monumental fight with one of the gang, cried, told him how much he had taken our friendship for granted, and then skidded around town in my heels, before heading to the after party.

I had just enough time to disrobe (just the coat) and put my bag and stuff down, before I was summarily pinned to a railing by J. I know he was being affectionate, and the dress may have overpowered his good sense, but bloody hell. It was a proper movie moment. The unexpected kiss. I don't fancy this boy. I didn't consciously seek him out to flirt with him, or get kissed. But it happened. And thank heavens he backed himself to do that, cause it turns out, he is a pretty awesome kisser. One wouldn't expect that to be the case, but it was a fireworks lift-your-left-leg and all, affair. So much so, that despite acknowledging the error of our ways, I just could not not kiss him. The evening ended with us dancing, making out like 16 year olds, with the rest of the boys acting just that age and taking photos on camera phones (a whole other blog). I giggled my way home in a taxi, on my own, kissed, flushed, and having received the ultimate compliment. I felt just a little bit HOT!

Merry Christmas followers, more stories after the holidays, especially if I make it to my tropical paradise! Fingers crossed that travel plans transpire x

Gallery Boy: Who's cocky now?!

About 2 years ago, I decided it was time for a cultural awakening. I got into the habit of waking up early every Saturday and Sunday, and found galleries, concerts or plays to attend. I fell into a nice routine, spending most Sunday mornings at my local museum, and then heading out for brunch with the paper, and time to myself. On the third Sunday of my fledgling routine, a little hangover but rather happy with sunshine in May, I bundled out of bed a little after 2pm, threw sunglasses on (and not quite sure, but hopefully changed out of last night’s ensemble) and wondered into town. I patiently queued for an exhibition of Japanese etchings and prints, which I thought fitted nicely into the repertoire of things to see, and headed into the gallery. Room 1: loads of pictures of people in boats, with rice paper umbrellas, and cherry blossoms every which way.

Anon: Hey

I was jolted out of my reverie by the deep voice and the feeling of a human standing a bit too far into my personal space.

Me: Ah...hello.

Anon: Sorry to trouble you, but do you fancy some company?

Oh for goodness sake! Why do people come to galleries?! To be alone, I thought to myself. Here I am, lost in my own little world, enjoying the voices in my head, and looking at pictures I didn’t understand. Why would someone want to rock this boat?! Hmmm? Why?!

Anon: Oh I’m sorry, I’m guessing you wanted to be alone? I get that. I’ll let you be. If you fancy a coffee and a chat about, erm, Kamakura’s collection (he was obviously peering over my shoulder at the artist’s name by this point), I’ll be across the street at 4.

Cocky little... I turned around and peered into the most handsome sheepish face I had ever seen (in the last two weeks, but whatever)!! Oh dear. This boy/man thing was seriously hot and I had just been exceptionally rude. Quick recovery needed.

Me: Sorry, just need a little time to myself. Coffee at 4 you said? Where?

He told me the name of the shop and wandered off. I powered my way through 6 galleries, tripping over old people, brushing young children aside, faux-staring at etchings, trying to spot my prey while admonishing myself for being a little cocky. Oh, how the tables had turned.

3.30pm. Yeeha! (That was in my head, just in case you were wondering). My brain began to shut down on me. How bad is it to be 30 minutes early for a coffee plan (use of the term date is too suggestive), that might not happen? We were about to find out. I headed out into the street, ignoring cars, majority of pedestrians, and the stupid English rain. I was a woman possessed. I entered the coffee shop, picked a table by the door so he wouldn’t miss me (I wasn’t sure how good his eye sight was, so just in case), and ordered a bottle of sparkling water (in case he was, I don’t know, weird) and two menus. I then moved tables because I didn’t want to seem too eager, which was a bit of an effort, water, glasses, forks and knives in hand. The waiters watched my three trips back and forth, rather bemused. I collapsed into the chair, Time magazine in hand, dignity at the front door, and ‘sophisticated’ adequately implied.

Please turn up! Please turn up! Please turn up!

Anon: Hey again, you’re early.

Crap. He did it again. Plus he was early, but I was just even earlier than he was, and he had also chosen this day to be observant. You’re early. Thanks, as if I didn’t feel like enough of an idiot. This was fast becoming a lesson in how not to bag a beautiful man.

Me: Yeah, the prints kind of wore me down. (Poor attempt at a joke? I wouldn’t like to say).

He settled into the seat opposite me with a ‘Hope you don’t mind. My name is GB (not his real name), by the way’.

Me: A.

I could feel the staring, judging eyes in the restaurant. Darn.

GB: Cool. Sorry about earlier, I’m new to the city and galleries confuse me.

I felt like an idiot before, and now, like a bitch. Lovely.

Me: That’s alright. 3 rules: don’t look too hard at the prints or read too much into the descriptions, most people frown upon speaking too loudly in galleries, and if it’s not immediately aesthetically appealing, 20 minutes staring at it will make little difference.

GB: Ah, thanks for that. I will keep those in mind. So what do you do?

We fell into a nice easy conversation, supplemented by tea and messy scones with cream and jam. I redeemed myself from the earlier faux-pas, and made a friend. A friend looking for a girlfriend. A rather handsome available man. How often did that happen?! I’ll tell you...never. We were, sadly, incompatible. I discovered that he was 35, looking to settle down, and was in the market for a house, a wife, 3 kids and a volvo. I on the other hand, was still at university, hangover at 2 pm most Sundays, and going to galleries to find myself. It was clearly going nowhere, but we enjoyed each other’s company, and have stayed friends, 2 years’ on. Every so often, he calls me up, we meet for breakfast and he tells me about his endeavours and his budding relationship, and I assure him that I am no longer hangover every Sunday afternoon, just 1 in 4. We’ve both made significant  progress. I have even met the soon-to-be wife, though I am not sure she entirely believes the story of how we met. All she asked me was ‘are you serious?!’

I did learn a valuable lesson from gallery boy though. I have never again turned down an unwelcome advance without giving the person a good once over. You never know, frogs princes...blah blah. Plus, I am really bad at nonchalant chic. Hey presto. There’s a skill I never had.