Finding Nemo

TWO LONDON GIRLS SWIMMING THEIR WAY THROUGH POF (PLENTYOFFISH). MAY CONTAIN FISH PUNS.

[findingnemopof]

Ouch! #fishflop

[findingnemopof]

Update.... Infinitely Cooler-Than-Me Guy (and The Unfortunate Curse of Date Number Two)

So he actually contacted me after all that. Imagine my surprise when I awoke on Thursday morning, turned on my phone and BAM there's his name right next to an actual, real live text.

He had been on a last minute work trip to Ibiza apparently. Of course he had. Why would I have ever thought any differently?!

Looks like baby-making might be back on.

FR x

[findingnemopof]

The unfortunate curse of Date Number Two

This is a follow-up to my post last week about Infinitely-Cooler-than-Me Guy and the spontaneous Sunday first date that ended my series of uninspiring dating endeavours thus far. In the five days following, we had exchanged fifty-one(!) carefully-crafted texts, and loosely arranged a second date. Let me set the scene:

It was late on a Friday night. We met at a neighbourhood Cuban café notorious for its speciality lethal cocktail containing seven different varieties of rum and fittingly named The Don Zombie. We ordered two (the maximum amount allowed per person for health and safety reasons). We had every intention of going to the afterparty for a local gig (FYI it’s not cool to go to the actual gig any more); but somehow, we were side-tracked and ended up back at his flat under the flaky pretence of procuring further alcohol. I don’t need to go into detail about what happened next: I did some things I’m not entirely proud of and thoroughly embraced the unspoken true purpose of POF.

Since the obligatory Saturday morning cuddles and a frantic scramble for my clothes the next morning, I have received a grand total of one text from the man in question (a reply to mine, almost a day after I’d sent it). It is now Tuesday. For some reason, there’s still a part of me that believes he’s just playing it cool—he might just text me, ask me how my day was, suggest we go out to dinner or cook a nice midweek meal—or even push his luck and ask for a repeat of Friday night. I wouldn’t say no. Every notification on my phone is another dream dashed: no billybanterbill92, I don’t want to tell you whether I prefer bourbons or custard creams… I don’t even want a topless Snapchat from one of my ‘saucier’ colleagues. I want that little one new text message symbol and I want it to be from that fucking dreamy sex machine.

Naturally I have told pretty much everyone I know about the unfortunate case of date number two. Female reactions have ranged from “why don’t you just text him again?” (Are you high? Double text a boy and look like a complete psycho crazy bitch after only a few days?!), to “why don’t you forget about him and arrange a new date with one of your 48 unread POF inbox messages?” (Because no one is as cool as Infinitely-Cooler-than-Me Guy!). My male compadres on the other hand suggest I send him an upfront message in a last ditch attempt to see if I can bring it back, seeing as I have nothing to lose (“pride and dignity are make-belief anyway,” as one guy put it).

Everyone has resoundingly told me that I’m over-analysing the situation and he’s probably just been really busy/isn’t thinking much of it/will probably text at some point. I can’t help but think that this is the equivalent of telling a child their massacred pet cat is just on holiday at kitty summer camp.

I’m not going to cave and text him again.* Good things come to those who wait, right? And if they don’t, I’ll be over it by then anyway since I had a good time, but no one wants to fuck around with a d*ckhead that can’t even pick up the phone. 

-       A bemused FR 

*yet.

[findingnemopof]

Not-For-Me Guy

I’m starting to think I’ve gone about this online dating thing all wrong. I’ve ploughed into first dates like they’re going out of fashion and so far have yet to make it as far as a second date. Aside from the rare occasion where I’d fallen head over heels and was in turn rejected in true twenty-first century style via text (or lack thereof), the main reason for these fruitless dates stems from basic incompatibility.

I’m going to take a fair chunk of responsibility on this one. Not because I’m a bunny boiler/scary cat lady/have a less than sparkling personality, but because I exchange a measly few messages with prospective fish and then quickly arrange a first date. I justified this to my, admittedly more successful, fellow Poffers by explaining that “I’m not looking for a pen pal; you might as well meet them in person and then figure out whether you like them.” However, after a string of dates where I’ve realised in minutes that this guy is ‘not for me’ and still had to endure the painstakingly boring and repetitive few hours of getting-to-know-you chat, it becomes glaringly obvious that all this could be avoided by establishing some common ground prior to said dates.  

Take the latest Not-For-Me Guy. We met on a drizzly Sunday evening while I was nursing a pretty awful hangover on Clapham High Street. I arrived, looked him up and down and realised that, apart from the fact that he was shorter than he’d described (seriously – stop doing this guys!!), I just did not fancy him in the slightest. He was wearing a leather cuff, for God’s sake. I told myself that if I didn’t see any potential then I’d have a quick drink and leave sharpish. But he’d come all the way from Kingston and it quickly transpired that he had planned a drinks, dinner, more drinks affair. I’m far too politely British to crush someone’s expectations like that!

Two gin and tonics, a large glass of wine and a seafood risotto later, I felt like it was now acceptable to make my exit. The conversation had been pretty dull and I was conscious that my fake smile was becoming less and less convincing as the minutes ticked by. In truth, I felt myself looking down on the poor guy. I hate to be judgemental (although it’s what I do best), but the fact that he was 30 years old, working in a shitty sales job, living with three other people and still in a band which were ‘just on the cusp of getting discovered’, made me recoil further and further with each new revelation. As we walked down the high street towards the station (so close!), he suggested going for a cocktail in one of the nearby bars and, repressing the knee-jerk reaction to comply, I feigned an excuse about being tired and finally made my escape.

Afterwards, I moaned to the most successful of all my fellow Poffers (successful in that she found her Nemo via POF several months ago and has beenannoyinglyblissfully happy ever since), who has long supported the continual back and forth messaging, and even told me that she used to add every guy on Facebook before even considering a date. Firstly so there’s someone to trace back to if your mutilated corpse gets found in a bin behind Currys, and secondly so you can carry out some further research into what kind of a guy they are; better known as Facebook-stalking. She gave me some tough love: “Cut down the dates, talk to them for longer, see if you actually have anything in common.”

Originally I rejected this, what I considered, unnecessary advice, but I’m starting to realise it makes a lot of sense. Why not get the boring ‘what do you do’, ‘where are you from’, ‘why am I here’ questions out the way first over email, where you can politely bin them off (quite literally – I love that ‘delete’ button!) if the answers aren’t as pleasing as you’d like? I used to think that if you found out all of that stuff before the date that you’d have nothing to talk about when you were there, but I now see that would only be the case if you had nothing in common in the first place.

So after ignoring all advice for the past two months and only now opening myself up to it, I feel enlightened! My whole way of fishing has been revolutionised; the only thing now is to brush up on my terrible online chat..

..Perhaps there was another reason why I tried to keep that part as short as possible.

x LB

[findingnemopof]

Infinitely Cooler-Than-Me Guy

Without sounding too much like Shania Twain, there are few attributes that tend to ‘impress’ me when it comes to the opposite sex. You may have a high-flying city job, be lucky enough to have your own lad pad, know your shit when it comes to Vinto Tinto or sprinkle the cash with relative ease; but it can never fill in for a sparkly personality or (dare I say?), dashing looks.

So it came as quite a surprise when I found myself turning into a giddy little girl over my fourth POF date, Infinitely Cooler-Than-Me Guy. As soon as he messaged me I was all “OMG” (a friend labelled it a classic ‘Dear Diary’ moment). On paper, he was perfect: a DJ, full-time curator of club nights, festival stages and warehouse parties; not to mention well-travelled, tastefully inked and hot.

A few excitable replies later and he had asked if I could be persuaded to go for a drink. That day?! It was a Sunday; I was in bed with baked goods, a hangover and last night’s makeup, with every intention of cutting my losses for the day and catching up on some much-needed beauty sleep. So of course I was on my way to meet him in little over an hour.

It was my choice of venue, so after some frenzied decision making (apparently I’d forgotten that anywhere served alcohol in Brixton), I suggested my favourite arty tapas bar. Hopefully he would appreciate the cool-rustic vibe and heady cocktails.

In the flesh he was quite the giant (his profile did not lie when he said he was 6’6”). I was tiny next to him—even in heels—but sitting opposite him at the bar I decided he was cute.

The more he spoke the more it became apparent he was a bit too cool for me—he was friends with some of my most-adored DJs, a partner in his company and probably the most successful 24 year old I’ve met. Despite his oozing coolness, he never came across as arrogant. It felt like he was holding a little of himself back; just answering my questions with the kind of quiet confidence that made me want to know more.

He also asked me lots about myself, and made smiling eye contact suggesting he was interested in what I had to say. Therein lied the problem. ‘Articulation’ has never exactly been my middle name, but there were times when I struggled to even string a sentence together. I found myself backtracking after saying something awkward or telling stories that were a lot funnier in my head. There were a few imaginary face-palm moments—but then what are first dates for?!

Blundering my way through quite a few drinks and we were miraculously still chatting after nearly four hours. I was definitely attracted to him. I hoped that this was less because I was dazzled by his charmed lifestyle (that I secretly wanted), and more because we had loads in common and found each other buff-ting (especially after my recent spate of lacklustre encounters—see Guy with No Spark, Black and White Photo Boy and Gentle Spirited Boy).

I think he liked me too, but I couldn’t place his intentions. I went from thinking he was looking for a loveyoulongtime girlfriend to cuddle and spoil, to thinking he just wanted to get lucky that night (he offered to walk me home, but in hindsight I think this was actually just quite a sweet gesture). Hopefully, like me, he’s after something in-between the two.

We ended the night on a good old fashioned snog, and I have to say it left me smiling for the whole (incredibly tipsy) walk home. Quite the result for a spontaneous Sunday affair.

xx, a re-enthused FR

[findingnemopof]

Why so serious?

[findingnemopof]

Surprisingly Good First Date Boy

It’s been three weeks. I’m ready to talk about it.

Surprisingly Good First Date Boy was, to state the obvious, a surprisingly good date. Surprising because I wasn’t that attracted to him based on his POF pictures, and I had really only arranged the date due to lack of any other potential.

We met in Clapham Junction and headed to a nearby pub. He was a primary school teacher who, like me, didn’t really know how to talk to kids without feeling like he was patronising them. He, like me, nearly died in Ibiza after over-partying. He, like me, was a smoker in denial; someone who told themselves they smoked one or two when in social situations, but in reality was rarely without a pack. Basically, we were perfect for each other.

So why, after an amazing (yes, I went there: AMAZING) date, a solid end to the evening with the phrase “we should definitely do this again” thrown in (from him; not me) and some witty, if carefully constructed (on my part), texts over the following days after the date, did a second date not happen?! This is not a rhetorical question. I am genuinely interested in whether anyone has some insight into this bizarre phenomenon?

Let’s break this down. To quote my wise single friend, Fit Red, this man was not playing by the “rules of the universe”. Without tooting my own horn, I AM aesthetically more pleasing than him. We had a lot of the same interests and ‘hobbies’ (I use this term loosely as I don’t think you can class going to the pub as the hobby. Please note, I am not an alcoholic). I was genuinely interested in what he had to say and feel like I conveyed this pretty well. He laughed at my jokes. There was flirty arm touching and he offered me his jacket when we walked to the bus stop. He insisted on waiting for my bus to arrive despite the cold and the fact that he was very close to missing his last train. To me, all of this points to him being interested.

In the days following we arranged to go out for drinks on the Thursday. Mid-organising he failed to respond to me. On that Thursday I received a text apologising for forgetting to text me back and asking how my week had been. No mention of the date we were supposed to be on at that moment but that’s fine. I’m not a total psycho; we had only been on one date and I can forgive a bit of negligence at that stage in our relationship. A few more messages here and then and then POOF! He disappeared again. And never reappeared.

I scratched my head. I waited for further contact. And then I pined. And now I’m over it.. sort of. Actually not. Why the hell did he fob me off?! Fellow single girls, or even guys out there who are willing to shed some light, enlighten me. Please.

A none the wiser LB x

[findingnemopof]

UPDATE: Collaborative Playlist Boy. #fishfail

[findingnemopof]

Typical Australian

So we have a "guest blogger" today, a fellow Nemo-searcher who is also our best single girlfriend. She's a total babe who, as the POF veteran in our group, knows what she wants and can be pretty business-like when it comes to 'going fishing'. 

As her blog post suggests below, she's definitely having the most the only success out of all of us so far. Because of this (and her love of booty-shaking, glitter and Beyoncé), we will affectionately call her @Deep Sea Diva.

Typical Australian looked cute-ish in his photos and (if you hadn't guessed) was from Australia; I was sold! After a bumpy start (he gave me his number, I forgot to text... he reminded me of his existence two weeks later), we agreed to meet for a quick drink after work.

The initial awkward first date hello was eased by the presence of a tramp subjecting me to a less-than-romantic serenade (which definitely included a description of his penis), and I was pleasantly surprised by how a) tall and b) cute TA was. It was clear straight away that he was very Australian—laid back, into his extreme sports—not exactly the suave city worker I'd imagined myself, with but I thought hey, I'm here now, let's give this guy a chance. At least he's not singing about his penis.

Two-and-a-half hours later (twice as long as my preferred first date timings) and my chance proved worth it. TA was cute, flirty & despite initially not having much in common, we got on well and tbh I quite fancy the accent... he suggested date two later that night.

Said second date fell on that one sunny Bank Holiday Monday we had, and he was more than willing to travel my way so I suggested getting some drinks and heading to the local park. I was already a bit...relaxed from the jug of Pimms I'd enjoyed with a friend earlier so I decided to stay in my 'relaxed' outfit which included some extremely short gym shorts. "He's Australian! He'll love the relaxed look!" were my Pimmed-up thoughts. Turns out he did appreciate the shorts (see below) but I was horribly aware that my giant ass was on show to either him or the entire rest of the park at any one time. Note to self— test date outfits more thoroughly before departure.

Anyway; conversation flowed and he was more flirty than date 1, touching my arm unnecessarily and edging closer and closer until we were having a normal conversation about two inches from each others' faces. I hate this moment, when everyone knows you are going to kiss imminently but for that to happen someone has to stop talking and someone has to go for it.  Luckily we were in sync: I allowed for the pause in conversation and he went for it.

He said later that in that moment he'd felt like a nervous teenager again. He kissed a bit like one too; but I had some pretty great snogs as a teenager, so don't necessarily read into that as a bad thing. He seemed to overcome his nerves on round two of kissing when he practically forced me into a horizontal position and gave my very bare legs a grope. In the middle of a public park. At 5pm. (So we have reverted back to our teens? Just checking!) I won't lie, I did feel a bit awkward, but there are worse ways to spend a Bank Holiday than rolling around in the grass with a cute Australian boy.

I’m pretty sure TA isn't The One; he's a bit too 'young' for me (and I don't mean in years), but I'll certainly be up for seeing him again. That'll make me the first blogging fish to get to a third date, and—Oh Shit—we all know what that means...

x Deep Sea Diva (the first of many guest entries to come!)

[findingnemopof]

Gentle Spirited Boy

I had my reservations about Gentle Spirited Boy. His initial suggestion of spending an afternoon wandering around Borough Market together made me think of holding hands and other mush I’m not entirely comfortable with when it comes to meeting a stranger off the Internet. Plus it was a Bank Holiday; I either wanted to be drinking with people I actually know, or wallowing in bed regretting said drinks.

I wiggled out of date proposal round one (I’m getting quite good at this!) and accepted his Plan B of grabbing a bite to eat on the South Bank. This sounded quick, casual; and less the sort of thing I’d do with someone I affectionately called “Snuggle Pie”. However, his text the night before suggested otherwise: “I’ve booked us in at a nice little Italian place on the river.” Apparently there’s no escaping the romance with this one. But a girl’s gotta eat right?

Waking up on the day of the date, I turned on my phone to receive another text first thing from GSB: he wished I’d slept well, was really looking forward to seeing me and told me it was a beautiful sunny day. The word “Abort” sprung to mind, but I felt too mean to bail last minute, and curiosity was getting the better of me…

I teetered over to him in my skyscraper wedges and floaty sun-dress. Immediately I was thrown. He was so much more… delicate-looking than I’d expected: facially ‘pretty,’ and wearing skinny jeans that accentuated his slight frame. His eyes were the sort of piercing blue only achievable in Photoshop.

“Where are we going then?!” I asked GSB, trying to be nonchalant.

“Ah just this little Italian place on the river I found called Zizzi.”

Zizzi’s, really? (Silent) LOL. Part of me was very relieved that this wasn’t the fancy wine-and-dine scenario I’d feared, but the other part was mind-boggled that this Pizza and Peroni-pumping chain was his idea of a cosy lesser-known bistro.

We did have a very nice view overlooking the Thames. But his man-points did not increase when he ordered a “lighter” pizza from the girls’ menu, which was about the same size as a slice of bread and under 600 calories. Meanwhile, I panic-ordered risotto.

He was creative and passionate about architecture and animation, which was promising. Not to mention those eyes. But as we chatted (or took it in turns to ask each other all the standard awkward first date questions) it transpired we didn’t have a lot in common. He had never been to a festival (on his ‘to-do’ list), thought smoking shisha was hardcore and hadn’t even heard of The Great Gatsby—not the twentieth century American literary classic, nor the hugely hyped upcoming film adaptation. Say whaaat?

Aside from his gentle naivety, something about the date felt very awkward. I think it was because I was trying so hard to chew the rubbery calamari so it didn’t get lodged in my throat, but I had a complete mind blank when he asked me what my English Literature degree involved, or if I had any interests. I found myself telling him about how great Instagram was. Seemingly, I did not.

We wrapped dinner up with some delicious gelato; he went for two scoops of Vanilla and one of Pistachio since he’d never tried it. He guilted me into spending yet more time with him, so we got another drink nearby, where he started dropping hints for me to invite him along to my night out that night... geez as if three-and-a-half uncomfortable hours wasn't enough!

By this point I was feeling the need to ditch GSB: he was not The One. Far too wholesome and effeminate for my liking—definitely the type who “made love”—and would no doubt smother me with his overly sentimental tendencies if we were ever to get past a second date. Bless...

xxxx (lots of smothering kisses) FR 

[findingnemopof]

Painfully Awkward First Date Boy

I’d been out of the game for a couple of weeks due to a surprisingly good date that I was hoping would result in a second date/relationship/babies. That hadn’t seemed to happen so I grudgingly swung myself back on the horse and agreed to meet someone that I knew I had no interest in. 

A word of advice: don’t go on these dates! There’s a reason you have that certain sense of uneasiness when you think about meeting up. They won’t be The One. It will be awkward. You have been warned.

We met straight after work in Soho. He was shorter than he said he was which was particularly frustrating, as I’d already broken my 5”11 minimum height rule and made an allowance for someone who was supposedly the same height as me, but actually an inch and a half shorter. Why lie about your height, guys?! Embrace your average-to-below average height and find a girl who doesn’t have a problem with it. Don’t hit up tall girls who do.

Height issues aside, he wasn’t bad looking and had a nice smile.

It’s difficult to put my finger on exactly why we didn’t get on. Maybe it was because I thought he was disinterested in what I had to say and maybe it was because he was. The awkward pauses (if you can brand a 30-40 second period of silence whereby we both look purposefully around the bar, anywhere but at each other, as a ‘pause’) were plentiful and the conversation was stunted and uneven. After 45 minutes we’d exhausted all standard topics of conversation.

After two hours I couldn’t take it anymore. I looked at my watch (“is 8.15pm too early to end a date?”), made my best ‘sorry this has to end’ face and told him I should make a move. “Yep, ok!” he replied as he practically sprung out of his chair, “I’ll walk to the tube with you.”

So we endured another five minutes together and luckily spotted a dog in a tutu en route, which provided something to talk about for most of those five minutes.

As we parted, neither of us dared hint towards any kind of further contact so there was an uncomfortable few seconds where we tried to grasp at typical end-of-date expressions which didn’t suggest we might see or speak to each other again. After we’d reeled off a couple and politely kissed goodbye on the cheek, I panicked and offered an overly sincere, slightly patronising “thank you” as I walked away.

It wasn’t so much a ‘thanks for the wonderful evening’ type thank you, more so a ‘thanks this is over and I never have to see you again’ type thank you.

x LB

[findingnemopof]

Black-and-White Photo Boy

Beware the black-and-white photo. This was a lesson I learnt (the hard way) on my latest POF date.

I spotted this chap on Thursday night, whilst having an uber-cool night in watching a BBC documentary about bears and browsing all of the hottties (and notties) on PlentyofFish. 

He had a handful of photos: mostly arty, black and white, or side-shots with him and a small child-thankfully not his own. He was in the 6-8 range, but his bio probably bumped him up a little, as he had witty chat and fell in the creative camp (my favourite of all the camps). 

Recently there haven’t been any profiles that caught my eye, and my real-world boy interactions have been even less fruitful. Suffice to say I’m having a bit of a dry patch.

So naturally my messages to B&WB were ever so slightly on the flirtier side of appropriate stranger decorum. A few ;)’s later and we had scheduled to meet after work the next day. Woops. 

The first big warning sign was when he suggested meeting at Leicester Square, to “take advantage of the all-night happy hour.” I’m sorry, last time I checked I wasn’t a) a tourist b) a wannabe TOWIE extra, so I’ll pass on the worryingly blue jugs of cheeky vimto thanks! I politely suggested Soho might be a better shout (“veto!” is polite, right?!).

It was all downhill from the moment we met really. I don’t want to sound completely shallow, but his profile pictures were not an accurate representation of him at all: he was all-round shorter and much less attractive, and all hints of scruffy cuteness were replaced with tramp-like scruff. He chewed gum really obnoxiously, and all I could smell was spearmint. Definitely more of an ‘awkward’ 5/10. 

It became apparent that the dimly-lit secret speakeasy bar I’d chosen—serving cocktails in teapots—was not going to be a suitable setting for this date. I swiftly changed tactics and decided to take advantage of pavement drinking on this balmy evening.

To his credit he was quite sweet, but too innocent for my liking. He should have held back on the information sharing: I didn’t need to know he used to be twenty-two stone, or that he was moving flat because his current housemate didn’t like him. I think it was pretty much summed up when it transpired that his POF profile claim of being a “coffee connoisseur” was actually just a strong love of Starbucks (please…).

I felt duped. 

As I approached the end of my first large glass of house white, my mind fast-forwarding to the horror that would be having to endure another drink with B&W B.

I’m not proud of what happened next—there was a very woolly excuse involving work (less credible given it was a Friday evening)—and the date was over after approximately 1hr14mins. Poor guy. 

We’ve all learned something here: future fishies will be thoroughly Facbeook stalked prior to a meeting, and said meeting will have a definitive cut off point, so as to avoid any awkward “gotta go!” moments. I’ll probably hold back on the winky faces and flirting too… 

- a wiser FR

[findingnemopof]

Guy with no Spark

My first POF date. I was pretty nervous, with butterflies in my tummy as I get closer to the pub; “why am I putting myself through this?” I asked myself… it would be infinitely more convenient to stay home in my onesie, chain-eating Frazzles and watching Ross and Rachel break up for the fourth time (that week) on Comedy Central.

Too late: there he was, pint in hand and looking pleased to see me.

First impressions of this chap were promising. He had smiling eyes, symmetrical features, a sturdy physique and a composed, if slightly-too-serious demeanour. I’d go as far as to say he was good looking, if it wasn’t for the over-zealous facial hair which was, unfortunately, very much ginger. But it’s fine; I could look past the beard and see the potential fitness underneath.

He scooped instant brownie points based on his venue choice, a shabby-chic pub with fairy lights, fireplace and cosy sofas. Large glass of Sauv Blanc in hand and the conversation flowed naturally: we had travelled to the same places, were into a similar music scene and seemed to be on an equal wavelength. The hours passed relatively painlessly much to my surprise. 

Walking to the tube, we were still chatting happily. I was feeling semi-pleased that my first POF date hadn’t been a flop. The date had reached a natural conclusion and I would have been content parting ways after a goodnight peck on the cheek.

Except that from nowhere, he casually throws this into the mix:

No Spark Guy: So tonight was really fun, there wasn’t any spark but I had a good time with you.

Errr, cheers for just dropping that one in! What do you meeeeaan there was “no Spark”?!

Me: (playing it cool as always) What do you mean there was “no Spark”?!

NSG: Errr well, we got along great but I don’t think The Spark was there

Me: Well I’m not saying there WAS a Spark. I just think that’s very quick of you to determine that there wasn’t one…

I was puzzled. We had got along great hadn’t we? I’d looked really interested as he’d whittled on about his job; I’d asked insightful questions about his mediocre business plans. I’d probably had a bit too much wine but he’d genuinely laughed at my jokes and I’d refrained from making an idiot out of myself—and I’d even given his fucking ginger beard the benefit of the doubt!

NSG: well isn’t it better to be honest?

Maybe honesty is the best policy mate, but whatever happened to politely texting someone to let them know they’re not your cuppa tea?! (Or preferred speciality blend of Earl Grey in his case).

NSG: I still want to be friends—we should definitely hang out

Me: Thanks but to be honest I’m not exactly in this thing for friends. I think I’m just going to go…

At this point, he turns to face me and puts both his hands on my shoulders. With all the earnestness he can muster, he looks me in the eye and tells me “I’m sorry! But you do have a really good taste in music!”

Oh.Em.Gee. Patronising much?!

I tell him he’s a patronising douchebag, say my goodbyes and head for the Northern Line. I can’t help but feel deflated that even this dull-to-average bearded bloke thinks the best thing I have to offer is an intricate knowledge of underground house.

No, I didn’t fancy him either; and no, there wasn’t a “spark”. But I would question the notion of such a spark: what the fuck is it anyway, and can one really expect to find it on a two-hour date with someone you just met off the Internet? Besides, I was better than him!!  

Maybe my expectations for POF are too low—I should be holding out for nothing less than a metaphorical bolt of electricity hitting me in the crotch when meeting a prospective partner. Either way, my expectations definitely just got a whole load lower!

FR x

[findingnemopof]

Collaborative Playlist Boy

Collaborative Playlist Boy was my first POF date that I really enjoyed. He looked exactly like his pictures; tall, dark and handsome with a great smile. We met for tapas and cocktails which, in my opinion, is perfect first date territory. Not as formal as your classic sit down meal and those potent, colourful drinks always help to break the ice!

The conversation was flowing nicely as we got onto the topic of music; it turned out we had very similar tastes. “The ultimate test is if we can create a collaborative playlist on Spotify that we both love”, he told me. Challenge accepted. Apparently there are few people in the world that he will set up and maintain such a playlist with. The basic concept is that you each add some of your favourite tracks of the moment and continue to add so that eventually you have a killer set of tunes, none of which you feel the need to skip. It seems that this is a big deal for CPB and shouldn’t be taken lightly.

We left around 10pm, slightly tipsy but still at a respectable level. I had high hopes and resisted messaging an hour later to tell him how good a time I’d had. The next morning I received a link to the much talked about collaborative playlist with a note to say he’d added some tracks that he hoped I’d like and that he was looking forward to seeing what I had to offer. Playing it ‘cool’, I waited around 45 minutes before scouring my itunes library for the coolest, hippest, most underground songs I know. I was pretty pleased with my selection. Later on that evening I noticed he’d added some more. I reciprocated. A day or two passed. During this time we’d been adding tracks on a sporadic basis. But I hadn’t heard from him. I debated texted him.. but wasn’t sure if that was the ‘done thing’.. “perhaps I should wait”, I thought. Ok, I’ll wait.

A few hours later CPB’s name popped up on my phone. YES! Why did I ever doubt that he would text me? We had fun, we got on well and had loads in common! I gleefully slid the arrow across the screen to unlock.. “Those are some banging beats you’ve added! Keep them coming x”. Huh? Erm.. I’m glad you like the tunes but I really wasn’t signing up to POF to become someone’s personal dj. I was disappointed but kept faith. He’s obviously just playing it cool and I’m being far too keen. Chill.

A week passed. I’d heard nothing. I texted him with a vague nod to the playlist, but more heavily focused on normal chit chat in an effort to pull it back. I never received a reply. But meanwhile my playlist continues to be updated with more ‘banging beats’.

x LB

[findingnemopof]

Persistence is the name of the game.. #keenbream

[findingnemopof]

#GentOfTheDay #FishFlop

[findingnemopof]

Why am I single?