Photograph Me Like One Of Your French Girls

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Every morning I walk past a pet shop selling dog tweed coats. A dog’s tuxedo in American urban speak is referring to something hip or cool, or incredibly pointless and over the top. Some dogs have better outfits than some people, including me, I don’t own a Barbour jackets while my neighbor’s spaniel must have at least couple. Those lucky pooches in their dashing tweeds relishing their dog days in Hampstead Heath… Let’s move on to people. In my research about everything in hope to come up with the next great middle-class guardian article, dog tweed jackets progressed into men tweed jackets. Being vaguely familiar with London’s elite crowd, I alway held a certain stigma against Chelsea boys and their country houses, as a writer (and a single woman), I must keep an open mind, so I gave boys a second chance. In my research, I discovered an entire catalogue of young, wealthy and successfull young men – in tweed.

I alway held a certain stigma against Chelsea boys and their country houses, as a writer (and a single woman), I must keep an open mind, so I gave boys a second chance.

The online magazine’s journal entry read ’12 Men’ (in tweed). Each of the entries tells a story of culture savvy young gentlemen wearing a garment made of elusive cloth as an alternative to the City dress code. According to the writer, City dress code is a sign of frankly declining standards within the narrow brief leading to consensual disarray, [while] the purveyors of art are allowed to express themselves within a greater, more exciting gamut’. The disarray of so called City decadent culture is no match to the mix of Japanese cotton and merino yarn used in the fine attire of those elusive creative types of high society. They are men in their late 20s, early 30s championing the field of art dealers, artists and entrepreneurs. I held on to my objectivity until I came across the profile post of a guy whom I went on a date with a couple of weeks ago, courtesy of an acquaintance who genuinely believed we were made for each other.

Suddenly I felt like a definition of disarray, as sophisticated as a table cloth from Primark.

Suddenly I felt like a definition of disarray, as sophisticated as a table cloth from Primark. There he was – the full technicolour Mr. Dashing Tweed and his full blown contempt. I skipped the article and went straight for the selfie 2.0 (a video) taken by himself exclusively about himself, exclusively for himself. Weirdly enough there was nothing weird about it. Years of professional training by the best photography mentor in Florence, Mr. Dashing Tweed was a textbook definition of affluence and cultural opulence only presumably appreciated by the best of us. Well traveled, well spoken, well dressed, well mannered – every working class women’s wet dream. Sentence after sentence of this mediocre written testament of personal success, evading few real life details, life story which would bore a tabloid reader to death. But I had my own story.

I learned that you can actually reveal your drunk side without having a single drink.

At the beginning of our first spontaneous ‘let’s-get-it-over-with’ date I learned that Mr. Dashing Tweed carried multiple shades of tweed. My investigative side was working hard to find any dirt on his picture perfect resume, but I hit the dead end. There was no way I could complete this blog post without sounding class envy. I didn’t envy, I was rather curious why this man was still single. To my relief, in the course of our 3 hour date in the pub, I learned that you can actually reveal your drunk side without having a single drink. He didn’t drink. In fact, he doesn’t drink, smoke or does drugs. He photographs precious stones and fine jewellery, restores vintage cars, and wait for this, is a self-proclaimed vagina whisperer. He had me at the vagina.

While I was getting to know him, one large glass of rose couldn’t get me drunk enough to piece this epic story together. Screw vintage cars and bling – the man makes women come as a hobby. I must have had hit some universal jackpot. This is how the conversation went:

*talking about some superficial relationships and commitment issues*

MDT: *out of nowhere* Have you had a guy making you come during sex?

Me *Mrs. Red Face* Yeah, like once or twice….WHY DO YOU ASK?

MTD *genuinely surprised* : Really?! How did it happen?

Me: *about to pass out but still intrigued by the subject*: Erm…. Oral…..I guess… ?!

Did I just say oral sex on the first date? Where is this going? Is he suggesting something? IS HE?!

MRD: I’ve been with girls who never came in their lives and they only ever came with me.

He wasn’t kidding, and I wasn’t hallucinating. Mr. Dashing Tweed actually has a list of referees to testify on his behalf. He makes women come, and all of it is due to his genuine interest in female anatomy and general biology, also his ability to listen and make women relaxed in his presence. I tried to shake his confidence by suggesting that these (proverbial) women could be lying, but again science strikes back – Mr. Dashing Tweed knows when women come. Now, I have to give credit to this guy, despite his over self confidence and expertise in his field, he already answered three of the sphinx’s riddles: he knows WHERE clitoris is, HOW it works, and WHEN woman comes. He is well ahead of most of my dates. Women would agree that men, generally, don’t approach the subject with the same level of forensic accuracy. It’s women who usually read tomes of books on how to please your man.

He already answered three of the sphinx’s riddles: he knows WHERE clitoris is, HOW it works, and WHEN woman comes.

Mr. Dashing Tweed agreed although he couldn’t take the subject of the intercourse to the existential discussion. It was still a dirty talk, but he made it sound as if he was offering the best cup of tea of my life. The more I think about it, the more he deserves to brag about it, like speaking a foreign language or play a musical instrument. As intrigued as I was at the time, I wasn’t entirely convinced I should jump the shark and straight into bed with a clit whisperer. Mr. Dashing Tweed had something else up his Barbour sleeve. Turns out he was also a nude photographer. Pause for reaction. All his fascination with Man Ray’esque play of light didn’t stop at fine bling, he also liked to play with female curves, in an arty way of course.

Damn right it is an art. The mystique of a female body baffled men for ages. Putting them in corsets, high heels, bras and pantyhose, only for a sole purpose – to undress them. Mr. Dashing Tweed skipping the middle man as in seduction and courting, offers, presumably, what every woman wants – to get naked in front of the camera. This must be a hard sell as lots of women get naked in front of a man without the promise of a nude Instagram picture. Taking clothes off for art is more daunting. Why is it so? No brainer, especially when some of the most famous women in the world are now cautionary revenge tales. As liberated as would like to think of myself, I had to draw the line. Finding the shot of your bare arse somewhere on the internet does not sound liberating to me.

The offer was there, and it stood out like a sore thumb pointing at my mundane existence that I have been experiencing lately. In fact, I was craving something or someone out of line to remind myself there is more to life than the daily commute to work,  good manners, and a pension plan. The more I thought about the proposal, the more unsure I was. No way any of this spelled relationship, but it may as well be something I could tell my grandchildren perhaps? Maybe not. I kept it to myself of course. The night carried on, and I was feeling the weight of his advances. The more he spoke about nude photography, the more I drank in vain hope he would write me off as a wasted gutter woman, but ironically, it only gave him more reason to drag me to his studio around the corner. 

The storm was forecasted that night, and I had to make my move before I heard another ground breaking revelation from Mr. Dashing Tweed. By the time I walked through the door, the storm was in full swing, somewhat ominous. I haven’t slept very well that night, mostly because I was having nightmares about this date. Mr. Dashing Tweed followed up with one more message asking if I want to come down and pose for him on Thursday. There wasn’t really a decision to be made but told him I had to think about it anyway. A couple of weeks went by until I heard from him again and we met on a random Tuesday. Although he wasn’t my cup of tea, I still felt I need to give him another shot to redeem himself.

I was already familiar with his inability of maintaining a casual conversation for too long, perhaps it was the nerves, perhaps he is just too eccentric, may be just an arsehole.

Over the course of 40 minutes of our conversation, Mr. Dashing Tweed didn’t hold his breath making a small talk. I was already familiar with his inability of maintaining a casual conversation for too long, perhaps it was the nerves, perhaps he is just too eccentric, may be just an arsehole. The suggestion of visiting his studio came up one more time, and I took up on it. Driven by sheer curiosity and imposed ignorance I followed him into his basement photography studio. I must admit there was a small sigh of relief on my part it didn’t resemble a torture chamber.

It was filled with photography paraphernalia, it smelled of incense and looked like he spent a lot of time in there doing whatever he was doing. However, the topic of nude photography didn’t come up until then. I realised that the clearer I made myself about the offer the less likely he will spend another 10minutes trying to persuade me. I announced that nude photography just wasn’t for me, providing my reasons without trying to get him to understand them. There was a distinct annoyance in his voice as he was suggesting I should be more adventurous and live a little. My eyes rolled to the back of my skull, but I didn’t feel the need to disagree. Although I should have said that owning a camera doesn’t make you Man Ray and owning a professional studio doesn’t make you a professional. Neither the refusing to bare my arse in front of him make me a prude.

Owning a camera doesn’t make you Man Ray and owning a professional studio doesn’t make you a professional.

There was also something else. There was a huge gap between us, not only in terms of background and social status but also in the perception of actual reality.  Mr. Dashing Tweed inhibited a parallel universe which he carefully crafted for himself. In his universe, the women were gorgeous and naked, where he was rich and famous, where his status would grant him a right to act like an imbecile without ever being accused of it. He didn’t try to seduce me, even the attempt to kiss me was devoid of any affection. How can somebody with so many resources be so unimaginative? It didn’t bother me at all. All I tried to understand was how my friend who set us up thought we were ‘made for each other.’

I got two lessons out of this. One – no amount of luxurious Japanese cotton blend tweeds can give you class, no amount of education give you common sense and certainly no amount of pleased vaginas will bring you love. The other was never allow your friends to fix you up.

 

Photograph Me Like One Of Your French Girls

Secret Life of an Anti-Hero

SAMSUNG CAMERA PICTURESLike a good novel, the character must be multilayered with a narrative perfectly answering the needs of the new audience. Last weekend I went on a date with somebody I actually really liked. He took me to see superhero movie followed by a long walk. I haven’t heard from him since.  I am suspecting my character wasn’t superhero enough. Some women are like coming of age sci-fi thriller,  I am more like post-apocalyptic teenage novel.

The society set strict rules on personal expression and prefer idealised scenes from classical mythology to anything resembling real life. People are increasingly hard to please these days. The lack of patience and abundance of choice, men and women are on the mission to find the existential eden where every one is good looking, young and successful. Life is getting tad bit too intense, we want simpler storyline, lower budget and better actors.

Number of times while I was executing my own happily ever-after story, I asked why my character had to be in a therapy? Why is she an  academic underachiever and why does she swear so much? Slowly I became my own antagonist. But then, on the second thought, world is a tough crowd to please.  No matter how hard you try to be Carry Bradshaw, there will always be someone who prefers Samantha.

Many of people we meet, arrived in our lives by accident therefore there is every chance they would leave at any moment; it is crucial they should never be made to work hard, the more familiar the storyline and the character type, the better. My heroine realised just being isn’t dramatic enough: she needed to offer something special. I struggled to grasp the concept of special.

Should my character embark on a spiritual journey beyond the self? She should embrace her neurosis, inferiority complexes and any other non-pathologised disorders to connect to other characters. She should engage in self-destructive activities, join the sub-culture or at least become the part of any resistance movement. And all of this cleverly packaged under veneer of successful and beautiful new age empowered woman! Would that keep my date captivated for at least three dates, before I unload the really heavy stuff, like how I know lyrics to all Backstreet Boys songs? Probably, yeah….

 

Secret Life of an Anti-Hero

It’s The Loneliest Time Of The Year

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Christmas time is probably the most extreme time of the year in terms of almost non-existent self-control accessorized with even less existent self reflection. I must have read a sad statistic somewhere once, probably in one of those pseudo scientific guardian articles on Facebook that the most relationships break in December, effectively me being the best example, while my friend told me a story how she got together with her ex just so she had somebody to cuddle up with on cold December nights. The idea appeared to be tempting, however I had to be realistic and question myself, even if there was a chance in hell of me bringing somebody out of the wood work, was I willing to go through 9 circles I got away from? I didn’t think so.

The thought of being alone on Christmas, yet again, seemed more unsettling this year than any other year. Perhaps it’s due to the inevitability of my 30th birthday in January, I naturally analyse things with rigorous forensic attention to detail – I don’t cut myself any slack and I even find it especially hard to entertain the possibility of any sort of harmless one night stands, because, like everything else, it no longer serves as a thrill, but a tedious obligation to your twenties, usually fuelled by alcohol and gaps in the judgement. I would much rather prefer waking up in the comfort of my own bed and weekend newspaper, than waking up to a stranger, regret and unresponded text message. This is the hell of my own making.

Medieval torture hangovers and puffy face are just a small reminders that I can no longer party like it’s 1999 and neither can I keep up with ever changing women beauty standards, credit card bills, pay gap, brexit, men chasing skirts, men wanting casual sex, men not being able to call women any more, tinder, bumble, grindr. Fair to say, I grew tired and cynical, and festive spirit hasn’t made an appearance just yet. The Christmas party glass is never quite half empty. I no longer believe in Santa Claus, but I believe in Christmas spirits – vodka, gin and brandy. Each of them have shown me the side of myself I wish to forget. This Dickensian fantasy is no more fictional than a drunken snog with your work colleague  – it happened, but nobody speaks about it.

The confession of the day is my world is suffering from vitamin and romance deficiency. My shrink said to me couple of months ago I need to stop being naive: the dating pool is getting shallower and I am not getting any younger, if I don’t make the single men train, soon I will be making home wrecker, divorcee and midlife crisis train. But she was wrong. It’s not the pool that’s getting shallower, it’s us, who are scraping the bottom of the mulled wine bottle.We shed a tear at Christmas ad, now we go and get drunk on festive eggnog cocktail, skimming over the fact that there is no-one waiting for us at home.

Happy Holidays.

It’s The Loneliest Time Of The Year

The Parisian Sensuality

e8357271cd0cc6adfbea61ce1caea9ffAfter yet another long break, I am back with a new post about Paris. So yes, I am obsessed with this city! Paris is the city of my dreams and I take it in with all it’s poverty and flamboyance, arrogance and sensuality, and let’s just throw in a dash sleaziness for the good measure.

Couple of weekends ago my friends and I, yet again, jumped on the train and traveled to the city of love. We had 4 fabulous days ahead of us, full of great events and lots and lots of wine. Although I have been making little Paris trips every few months, I never really experienced Parisian night life.  Except may be that one time when I tried to go home with a Belgian equivalent of Spartacus, which happened to be a total fiasco on my part as he decided not to get involved in a dysfunctional ménage à trois with me and my friend, calling it the act respect to my male friend as opposed to blinding rejection. Anyway, new year – new me. This time I finally got to go out in a chat friendly environment where I felt my french was strong enough to introduce myself at the very least.

7433e3597a6294b9d124a2fa99a18fb8Saturday night was the opening of the club night season at the l’ Opera Garner restaurant La Boumette. Hello glam of my life! The event itself was organised through a french version of the meet up. To this day I still don’t know whether we walked into a mingling event or was it a pure coincidence we were mobbed by four parisian guys within minutes. The event was held sur le ciel du Paris in a fashionable L’Opera area.

Parisian events are slightly different to London. You still have your mixture of rich arabs and their blond bombshells girlfriends, but you also get creme de la creme of the parisian style front runners who look like they have just stepped down from the Montblanc ad campaign – perfectly groomed, sleek looking and of course, the look wouldn’t be complete without vintage tortoise shell frames. They all look equally nonchalant and self aware at the same time, which was incredibly pretentious and sexy. Perhaps parisian social scene hasn’t moved far from 19th century Dandyism which has always put image ahead of morals, the scene inspired Baudelaire himself.

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Of course, I didn’t get to meet any of these classy guys that night. As it usually happens, there was another type of men who prefer to overcompensate their absence of creativity with pushy enthusiasm and sleazy confidence which cannot be combated with anything except for a change of location. Efficient yet very impractical. These guys don’t wait around bombarding you with subtle hints, they go straight in for the kill, latching onto any possible flare of interest or mere politeness to spark the proverbial flame of passion. It was like a romancing the stone on my part. Despite my best efforts of assuming the role of cock block in vain hope I may have a chance to have a great night with the girls, I lost the battle to the latter group.

Despite all that drama, what is refreshing about parisian men, however, is you can have a pretty decent conversation, which can be both a fun banter and an existential debate. I got relatively lucky with one of guys at the party. Ryan was a half french half Arabic blue eyed blond hair mec who had quality flirting skills, who also introduced himself as a stripper for Chippendale. It wasn’t hard to believe because he certainly had the body for it. After 10 minutes of conversation and vivid x rated fantasies (taking place exclusively in my head!), he finally announced he works in marketing which left me both aroused and furious, but I didn’t mind to be played like this at all. As the night was getting busier, I found myself talking to new men who were all equally interested in me. If it wasn’t the dating event after all,  I would definitely say, in Paris, we were more popular than a kebab place on Saturday night. I was on fire! Trailblazing across the room, feeling fabulous. All a gal need to shine is a guys attention.

This may as f6a8641fcb42540d6881c9669306699cwell be a parisian thing. And just as other parisian things I like, I like the straight forwardness and confidence which parisian guys have. British guys may have a great sense of humor (which is a truly great advantage), but when it comes to making a move, it’s usually so subtle, almost like a metaphorical dog whistle perceived only by a certain type of women, if any at all.

Parisian sensuality felt like a breath of fresh air. In a modern world, plagued by extreme feminism, seduction has become closeted part of romantic interaction to the point where men decided to skip it all together. Of course, french guys don’t linger too long on platonic chit chat either and they don’t call if french banter after all. It wasn’t really my intention to meet anyone that night because I only had 2 days left in Paris and I wanted to spend them wandering the streets, drinking wine and daydreaming about how one day I book my one way ticket to Paris.

 

 

The Parisian Sensuality

Keeping it real in Manchester

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My jaw literally dropped open this morning as I realised it has been 21 days since my last blog post. 21 days is like a very short month (or a very long one when you had spent all your wages in the first week) and I can hardly come up with an excuse. Although I have an excuse, but it’s embarrassing to admit that I haven’t had a date or even remotely an invitation to go out since my last dangerous liaison with Houdini. However yesterday I was stopped by a scruffy punk guy in Manchester who thought I look very eastern european and that’s why he decided to chase me down the street and talk to me. Sometimes I look back at my stories and wonder why did I follow dating rabbit hole and didn’t stick with politically charged content for my blog?

Anyway, Manchester. I wouldn’t necessarily say “eastern european style” exists by definition, meaning we don’t walk the streets wearing traditional folk attire, but I’d say eastern european style differs from from say, London fashion (to be put lightly). Still, somehow, wearing gym bunny trainers made me stand out form the crowd. As I walked the crowded shopping alley of Manchester, I couldn’t help but notice how well groomed and glammed up everyone is. Not surprising, I was in the northern capital after all. May be it’s because they don’t spend as much time in public transport trying to get from point A to point B, but rather, use their time to make them cheekbones highlighted. I, on the other hand, woke up at 5.30 am, spent 2.5h on the train, hardly wore any make up and shamelessly paraded my gym outfit (once you get into sweat pants, it’s hard to get out) and I’m not the person who can pull the sexy gym look.

I can’t do that.

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I recently remembered an article I read somewhere, as it turns out it was Daily Mail  (don’t judge me) but the headline summarised my suspicion

“The make-up of Britain: Northern women like to slap it on while Southern girls prefer the ‘natural look’ (with the exception of Essex)”

 

Being a guy in Manchester must be tough. Despite being flattered by the sudden interest in my appearance on the street, I still wonder, was it because I didn’t look threatening for a guy to approach me and there wouldn’t be any particular sense  of regret in the event of rejection? And, on the other hand, if I were wearing 5inch heels, 3 layers of make up, shimmering in the sunlight like Edward Cullen and having donned my Sunday best, would he still walk up to speak to me? And it’s not the first time, contrary to my  adopted belief, I get chatted up more often on the street when I look washed out. If I actually ever listened to my intuition, I’d say i discovered a secret to meeting guys – avoid meeting them.

I’d say i discovered a secret to meeting guys – avoid meeting them.

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In How to be a Parisian book, written by four sulky Parisian femme fatales, according to film producer, journalist, a model, and an actress – true Parisian girl always needs to be ready (meaning clean waxed, wear makeup and have spare pair of heels in her bag) because you never know where the night may take you. That’s all very empowering… You know, like a superwoman,  one moment you are insignificant human being wearing glasses, and the next, you are you seductive ass kicking Glamazon. I’m already feeling 5inches taller just by picturing it. Fortunately for me, I usually know my night will take me home, to my own bed where I can be as ugly as I want without running the risk of being labeled as “hairy marry”. I wouldn’t completely disregard the Parisian advice, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, or however the saying goes.

The moral of the story, the more you sweat it, the less likely you are going to succeed. Eastern european style or no style, heels or no heels, doesn’t matter, as long as you are enjoying yourself. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder anyway, you can’t win! have a great Sunday!

 

Keeping it real in Manchester

The Earthly Comedy

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I thought I would break away from writing about dating and once again write about the absence of it. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Recently I came across an Instagram account which was solely dedicated to celebration of being a single woman in her late 20s. It’s a satyrical mash of very tongue in cheek and sometimes crude and brutally honest memes, precisely depicting the grotesque reality of single girl’s life including such delightful routines as full body shave, staying in with your BFFs, celebrating phallic symbology, and of course – a great abundance of wine. Kind of what Bridget Jones was to women in 90s, howling to All By My Self in her pyjamas with a bottle of Shiraz on Saturday night.

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I got to thinking that may be people are taking relationships (or shall I say the absence of it) tad bit to seriously. Humour is much cheaper alternative to therapy and there is no better therapy than reversal therapy, which is why I could relate to this Instagram account. While Bridget Jones was educating women of the 90s that being a 30 year old ditzy woman who wears“mini skirts when they don’t have the legs for it” (Kristin Scott Thomas) is OK, it took the pressure off the pursuit of perfection, we are only humans and effectively it made us laugh, even though, it was a laugh through the tears. If you do it long enough, it can become a very valuable life mantra. The only way to stop oneself from wallowing and dying of a chronically broken heart is to laugh at it. Wouldn’t you agree? Not that I spend my days obsessing about being single, but I recognise the blunt fact that sometimes it makes more sense to be in a couple, both emotionally and financially, when you are in your 30s. It also means you can get laid on a regular basis at the very least.

It isn’t the big troubles in life that require character. Anybody can rise to a crisis and face a crushing tragedy with courage, but to meet the petty hazards of the day with a laugh – I really think that requires spirit.
It’s the kind of character that I am going to develop. I am going to pretend that all life is just a game which I must play as skillfully and fairly as I can. If I lose, I am going to shrug my shoulders and laugh – also if I win.”
― Jean Webster, Daddy Long Legs

What is even more important, the number of people who can relate this this mantra. With solid 3 million followers on Instagram, laughing at yourself pays good cash. Bachelorettes are the new generation of women who fully embrace their sexuality and freedom to make bad decisions without the fear of being accused of unlady like behaviour,  however sometimes, I think, it projects an unhealthy message. Being a bachelorette in film and media is all about embracing male traits such as excessive drinking, promiscuity, objectification of the opposite sex, public urination, and generally antisocial behaviour. In short, turning a desperate situation into hopeless. May be it’s funny but I struggle to grasp a connection between comedy and idiocy. Real bachelorette doesn’t need to deal with hollywood style hangovers, health issues and of course, lets not forget unplanned pregnancy.  I may be going back to my victorian school of good manners, but lets just say, keeping within limits is still a better judgement call. Laugh may not be panacea for a broken heart or loneliness, however, it can certainly take the pressure of being imperfect creatures we are.

The Earthly Comedy

Gone In 60 Seconds

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Back in January, I found myself sitting in the cafe in a vain hope to cure my hangover with a litre of coffee and medium sized bowl of French fries. I was traveling solo to Paris for my birthday again. It was rainy Sunday morning and nothing was wrong about it. This year I spent my birthday in a rented AirBnb apartment hugging a bottle of champagne and listening to chansons. Getting old is a traumatic experience and that’s precisely why I celebrated my last birthday as a 20 something by hiding from the world in the attic in Pigalle. I could, on the other hand, stay in London and get drunk in the bar but I’ve been doing it through out my early 20s. It got old, just as me.

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It wasn’t entirely my choice to spend my birthday solo in the foreign country. Sometimes the force of circumstance can make you reconsider your plans, especially when they clash with other peoples plans.One thing I learned to appreciate with age however is optimism. Instead of mourning the last year of my twenties, I chose to venture out on my own and see what surprises the universe will throw at me. Any thing could happen. Who knows, Paris is a city of love.

I was supposed to catch a train back to London the same night. I love Paris and leaving it feels like leaving a warm bed on cold Monday mornings, however I am always intrigued by a possibility of a random romantic rendez-vous with a destiny in a form of a handsome single guy. That serendipitous moment when you realise that your entire life could transform forever, simply because, you were at the right place at the right time for a change. Like on that one night when I met a finance guy on the train from Camden to Waterloo. We were both drunk and he offered me a french fry from the box he found on the seat next to me, it was hardly romantic, yet I appreciated the momentum and remained appreciative until he stood me up on the third date. My life didn’t transform, yet I had one less frog to kiss.

f52d897a60419fa2568432e0b5756368On my way back to London, against all odds, I learned that I was sat next to rather handsome guy in his early 30s. He was half french half English and residing between Paris and London. I had to pinch myself. The whole encounter was exciting. We developed fondness of each other within seconds. It was a match made in heaven. Ten minutes into the journey we found out we both like same books, unfulfilled love stories, existentialism and festivals. Twenty minutes into the journey, we were drinking champagne and toasting to my birthday.

The rest of the journey was filled with deep meaningful conversations. Instead of feeling like the first date it felt like we’ve known each other for years. All this time however, I had a nagging thought which sounded pretty standard – this all seems to good to be true. I tried really hard to shake it off. To be fair, it’s not that all women are crazy and paranoid, usually it’s symptomatic of their past dating experiences, not their personality. And while everyone around me is slowly transitioning into the coupled up life, I couldn’t help but hope that may be it’s my time, may be, for once I will be able to come to a party and stop being looked at like I ‘m after literally everyone’s boyfriends, because, apparently, so many single women are…..

So there it was. After 2 months of casual dating something happened. The romantic french guy I met on Eurostar disappeared into the ether. Of course, in my mind, there could be only two reasons – either he died or lost his phone. Neither of these theories proved to be true. He’s well and sound, still glued to his phone and I still got no validation explaining 2 weeks of silence. Naturally, it’s not the first time a guy pulls Houdini on me, I already know that any attempt to get any closure would be in vain. I  may never be able to explain such mercurial change of his heart, neither I know how to be noble or wise about it so I went ahead and wrote this whole experience off as cosmic fuck up. Moving on dot com.

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Note: A month later a doomed text message came though and against the general opinion it carried no sign of remorse, regret or explanation of the unprecedented absence, instead it carried a nonchalant tone and a candid invitation for “Netflix and chill” or to be even more precise “Mubi and chill” because he is a classy guy, just like his actions. Of course, being as classy as I am myself,  I used this god sent opportunity to invite him to piss off (in a much classier choice of words of course) and get my much needed closure, which in an ideal scenario would have followed by a hand gesture. Since emoticon version of the hand gesture wasn’t robust enough to my liking, I decided not to spoil my revenge fantasy and left it to his imagination. Also, against the popular opinion, I also decided not to follow up and left it for better of for worse. The shift in power itself was a validation worth thousand word anyway. I can now put this tragic story to bed and look forward to my next trip to Paris in May! 

Gone In 60 Seconds