Evening Amigos!
It was only this time last week that I was talking of cooler break away, but oh how in need I am right now of something, anything cold! Bedford today was nearly 35 degrees and over the course of the weekend it was not far short of that temperature either. To say that I was struggling was an understatement and so to put it into context I experienced heat that was hotter than Barbados, Mumbai and Thailand.
The thing is that I don't really do heat very well in fact most people will tell you that I turn into a right bitch when the mercury soars. And oh boy was this weekend one of those moments! Miss Tweedle-Dee and Miss Tweedle-Dumb have already experienced this on our many annual holiday and I have had heat-induced melt-downs in several countries across Europe. Not entirely sure if that's a good thing however I do know that afterwards that my tantrums can be very funny to look back on and when it is all said and done we can all have a good giggle about how much of a princess I am (sometimes)!
Like that moment on holiday in Fuerteventura when I had a full blown temper tantrum because Miss Tweedle-Dee and Miss Tweedle-Dumb didn't want to come and look at a bag with me to give their opinion. Incidentally, Miss Tweedle-Dee ended up coming to look at said bag with me, however after the big hoo-ha I decided that in actual fact I no longer wanted it and instead sulked whilst we tried to hail a taxi in broken Spanish back to the hotel.
There was also that time when, after watching a gig in the roughest part of Downtown Las Vegas, far from the glitz and the glamour of the strip I thought it might be a good idea to get a cab home to the hotel. Unfortunately the Tweedles refused and also harshly declined the offer the nice barmaid had made to drop us back to the main strip after her shift, which was within the next few minutes. But alas, Miss Tweedle-Dee and Miss Tweedle-Dumb knows better so out we went into the darkness, google-mapping our way back to the strip by walking through dodgy neighbourhoods and eventually winding up at a bus station that wouldn't have looked out of place in a creepy horror film. Suffice to say that we got home, eventually, but not in the safest of manners I would have liked.
Or how about in Lanzarote when I went to buy some quick last minute purchases before heading home and when I got back to our hotel lobby that the Tweedles had said they were waiting for me in, Miss Tweedle-Dee and Miss Tweedle-Dumb had already pissed off to the bus stop to get the coach home without me and I then refused to speak with them the entire journey to the airport and throughout our lengthy journey home, only making polite answers to their pointless efforts to be friends again. I mean I swear they do it to just grind on my wick sometimes in order to have a holiday memory to look back and laugh on.
And whenever there is a beach involved you can always expect me to be the one whose getting Aggy about sand getting everywhere. I wouldn't be so bothered if it just dusted off at the end of the day but it gets everywhere - In your hair, in your bag, in your pants, in your foof and even worse than all those put together in between your toes, making them dry and eventually cracking your skin so bad the creases in your piggies split. Yeah, Ouch!!!
Needless to say that I can get a bit ratty when the heat is on and this weekend was no different. Throwing my hands in the air and huffing and puffing my way around the bedroom I was hot, sticky and swollen with nothing to wear and everything looking awful on me anyway because I was the size of a blue whale in the sweltering weather. But something strange was happening. Mr. Warehouse wasn't biting. Not that I wanted him to react in any particular way but I wanted and needed attention and that was all I was doing it for. Isn't it funny how I can psychologically assess myself and analyse the fact that I am just a pretentious little arse when it gets above twenty-five degrees. I am not proud of my toddler tantrums but in a way I am glad that Mr. Warehouse never pandered to my efforts and frazzlings of being too hot. He simply grinned and got on with it. Now that is the kind of man that is a keeper but will Tenerife be a test with highs of late thirties and early forties!
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Showing posts with label Vegas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Vegas. Show all posts
Monday, 19 June 2017
Monday, 2 February 2015
Work Hard, Play Hard!
Afternoon All,
I hope you are all well and toasty where you are currently as here in Britain we are in a teeth-chatteringly cold snap to which I hope ends soon. I wish that I could just make like a door-mouse sometimes and just hibernate until spring arrives. Safe to say that in the first week of February, winter now officially sucks!
What doesn't suck though is working at a call centre with no rewards for nearly half a year. Of course I am joking with this one. Working at the call centre day in, day out, week after week with nothing to show for my hard work is taking its toll. So far I have saved up a fair chunk and am now not only hitting triple figures but very nearly quadruple digits in my 'Vegas Fund' bank balance. I am sure that with now less that six-weeks to go before I board my British Airways flight bound for Sin City (Floppy fedora and oversized sunglasses accompanying me) and with even less weeks worth of working I am sure looking forward to getting back to a normal life of coming home after work and still seeing the sun.
In all honesty working at the call centre isn't all horrific crackly lines and being hung up on. In several instances it has been a very enjoyable time and one of which my day has been made between the hours of 5.30pm and 9pm. I am grateful of course to whomever decides that they would like to complete a call with me but even more so if they can have a laugh and maybe a cheeky flirt with me too.
On one occasion, only a few weeks into my job I called a business address by mistake and upon answering a gruff Scottish voice answered in testosterone tones. After sadly confirming it was a business line I was asked a question that took me by such surprise I ended up fabricating a complete lie and feeling chuffed about the response.
"Ohh, Waait. Before yee goh Miss can I ask yeez a question?" The manly Scot asked (Spelt as said in his thick northern accent). Humouring him I agreed to answer, praying it wasn't something lude or vulgar.
"Aare yuh maarried? Cas tha' vooice o' yours is prrroper seexy. I'd marry yuh ... " My masculine caller purred down the phone. Trying my best to answer in a polite and professional manner I thanked the gentleman and swiftly put down the phone before having to take a moment to compose myself and gather my scatty thoughts. I had never, nor have I ever been someone to fall for a Scotsman before, but I could somehow imagine him beefed up slightly only wearing jeans a size too small and a hard hat in some sort of hot, sweaty, oily construction site, surrounded by his equally hot and seductive friends.
Another call I took once was from a man who played with me throughout the call and answered my questions promptly and productively only for me to get to the end of the call and I then had to take his email address for contact purposes. Jotting it down the now familiar voice asked down the phone for me to read it - but only in my head. I read it back to him phonetically as I clocked what was happening - 'sean sports therapist' was part of his email address (obviously would not disclose all of it ... you might all email him) but when written down correctly and as I had taken it it looked like a very VERY different sentence (Take out the spaces in 'sports therapist' and you'll see what I mean). Shocked and at a loss for words my caller immediately realised what had just happened and apologised profusely throughout the rest of the conversation and explaining many, many times that he was not what it looked like. All in all he calmly, although sheepishly finishing off by letting me know that I had his email address and that I could contact him any time. Although it probably breached some sort of data protection I did email him and to my surprise he seemed like a very nice lovely man in his mid-late twenties, clearly buff from all the 'sports therapist' work he had been doing.
I think it is those sorts of calls that make the shifts go faster. I mean sure I will have days where I want to hang myself with the phone line because some grandma has a problem with me calling at 5.43pm because Countdown is on or that a Londoner "just simply does not have time" but there are also the funny people that make my adrenaline run sky high when they are yelling, quite literally, down the line before I have even introduced myself. One women thought that my questions (I work in Market Research call centre if you hadn't already guessed) were far too personal - I had asked her whether Boris Johnson was a good mayor of London - And so proceeded to interview me asking if I was a lesbian and if I fancied having sex with a girl. Another women wailed down the phone that her dog had died because the phone rang and he had a heart attack and she was just too distressed to talk to me right now.
Some of them are hilarious. Including the ones where the person on the other end of the phone is doing something completely unorthodox whilst you twitter on about lifestyle choices and the war in Syria. I have spoken to several people on the toilet who have either half way through or ended the call by allowing me to hear them flush, or worse, deposit their contents. One man was even in the bath and after openly telling me it was a good time to call he continued to splish and splash about and make me fully aware that he was in the tub. The funny thing is, as when someone is on hands-free whilst driving, you can hear the echoey sounds of the water closet. You may think it a secret and nobody knows, but we know alright when your taking a dump and answering some questions on your poor customer service of late.
And that is the joy of working in a call centre. Asking the questions and getting the answers that everyone wants to know. On the front-line of hard hitting studies and surveying I class myself as a fully equipped and well trained soldier, fighting the war on hanging up the phone and lies of being too busy. I am the Queen when it comes to Telephone work. That is all I have for you today, thank you and goodbye ... *Booooooooop* <--- Call ending tone.
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
I hope you are all well and toasty where you are currently as here in Britain we are in a teeth-chatteringly cold snap to which I hope ends soon. I wish that I could just make like a door-mouse sometimes and just hibernate until spring arrives. Safe to say that in the first week of February, winter now officially sucks!
What doesn't suck though is working at a call centre with no rewards for nearly half a year. Of course I am joking with this one. Working at the call centre day in, day out, week after week with nothing to show for my hard work is taking its toll. So far I have saved up a fair chunk and am now not only hitting triple figures but very nearly quadruple digits in my 'Vegas Fund' bank balance. I am sure that with now less that six-weeks to go before I board my British Airways flight bound for Sin City (Floppy fedora and oversized sunglasses accompanying me) and with even less weeks worth of working I am sure looking forward to getting back to a normal life of coming home after work and still seeing the sun.
In all honesty working at the call centre isn't all horrific crackly lines and being hung up on. In several instances it has been a very enjoyable time and one of which my day has been made between the hours of 5.30pm and 9pm. I am grateful of course to whomever decides that they would like to complete a call with me but even more so if they can have a laugh and maybe a cheeky flirt with me too.
On one occasion, only a few weeks into my job I called a business address by mistake and upon answering a gruff Scottish voice answered in testosterone tones. After sadly confirming it was a business line I was asked a question that took me by such surprise I ended up fabricating a complete lie and feeling chuffed about the response.
"Ohh, Waait. Before yee goh Miss can I ask yeez a question?" The manly Scot asked (Spelt as said in his thick northern accent). Humouring him I agreed to answer, praying it wasn't something lude or vulgar.
"Aare yuh maarried? Cas tha' vooice o' yours is prrroper seexy. I'd marry yuh ... " My masculine caller purred down the phone. Trying my best to answer in a polite and professional manner I thanked the gentleman and swiftly put down the phone before having to take a moment to compose myself and gather my scatty thoughts. I had never, nor have I ever been someone to fall for a Scotsman before, but I could somehow imagine him beefed up slightly only wearing jeans a size too small and a hard hat in some sort of hot, sweaty, oily construction site, surrounded by his equally hot and seductive friends.
Another call I took once was from a man who played with me throughout the call and answered my questions promptly and productively only for me to get to the end of the call and I then had to take his email address for contact purposes. Jotting it down the now familiar voice asked down the phone for me to read it - but only in my head. I read it back to him phonetically as I clocked what was happening - 'sean sports therapist' was part of his email address (obviously would not disclose all of it ... you might all email him) but when written down correctly and as I had taken it it looked like a very VERY different sentence (Take out the spaces in 'sports therapist' and you'll see what I mean). Shocked and at a loss for words my caller immediately realised what had just happened and apologised profusely throughout the rest of the conversation and explaining many, many times that he was not what it looked like. All in all he calmly, although sheepishly finishing off by letting me know that I had his email address and that I could contact him any time. Although it probably breached some sort of data protection I did email him and to my surprise he seemed like a very nice lovely man in his mid-late twenties, clearly buff from all the 'sports therapist' work he had been doing.
I think it is those sorts of calls that make the shifts go faster. I mean sure I will have days where I want to hang myself with the phone line because some grandma has a problem with me calling at 5.43pm because Countdown is on or that a Londoner "just simply does not have time" but there are also the funny people that make my adrenaline run sky high when they are yelling, quite literally, down the line before I have even introduced myself. One women thought that my questions (I work in Market Research call centre if you hadn't already guessed) were far too personal - I had asked her whether Boris Johnson was a good mayor of London - And so proceeded to interview me asking if I was a lesbian and if I fancied having sex with a girl. Another women wailed down the phone that her dog had died because the phone rang and he had a heart attack and she was just too distressed to talk to me right now.
Some of them are hilarious. Including the ones where the person on the other end of the phone is doing something completely unorthodox whilst you twitter on about lifestyle choices and the war in Syria. I have spoken to several people on the toilet who have either half way through or ended the call by allowing me to hear them flush, or worse, deposit their contents. One man was even in the bath and after openly telling me it was a good time to call he continued to splish and splash about and make me fully aware that he was in the tub. The funny thing is, as when someone is on hands-free whilst driving, you can hear the echoey sounds of the water closet. You may think it a secret and nobody knows, but we know alright when your taking a dump and answering some questions on your poor customer service of late.
And that is the joy of working in a call centre. Asking the questions and getting the answers that everyone wants to know. On the front-line of hard hitting studies and surveying I class myself as a fully equipped and well trained soldier, fighting the war on hanging up the phone and lies of being too busy. I am the Queen when it comes to Telephone work. That is all I have for you today, thank you and goodbye ... *Booooooooop* <--- Call ending tone.
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Monday, 21 July 2014
Circus Acts!
Hello Everybody,
So after last week's date on Sunday I began dating in the modern world. Would 2014 be the year I finally met Mr. Right? Who knows yet, maybe I have already met them or maybe it could be a Mister from my past. All I know is that dating right now has gone from optimistic fun meeting new people and being 'story-up-staged' as I now like to call it, to the drastically different end of the spectrum in which makes me ponder exactly what I even want from my love life right now. And the fact that a certain Monsieur Cheese is never far from the forefront of my mind is never easy.
Tuesday night I decided to spend some time with the Tweedles and we were met also with the company of Miss Stuu as well. Thankful for a good old trip to the cinema I was glad that whilst conversation was (obviously) about me and my subsequent dates, there was not too much probing. Tindering whilst on the move, I have found, has made me somewhat an addict. Swiping left and swiping right, whether it be on the bus to work, in the pub with friends or even waiting for a Tinder Date to arrive I confess I am a little hooked. I keep thinking to myself that I need a hobby, and meeting up with my Dad at the weekend only confirmed this. I have even thought about getting a bar job or scarier - Joining a gym! Either way I am going to need to occupy myself in the coming Winter months and the best use of my time I think is working towards that holiday fund. Where am I jetting off to I hear you holla? Well its not Costa Del Sol or even Faliraki. Nope. Come March 2015 I shall be hitting up the slots and shops of Vegas baby! Accompanied by Miss Tweedle Dumb, Miss Tweedle-Dee and Miss Tweedle-Dee's family we shall be jetting off in the spring to have a once in a lifetime opportunity to see a little bit of America! And whilst I am excited about all them burgers, sausage-legs-by-the-pool-bikini photos and bottomless all-night Starbucks, I cant help think about all them American men just ready for a bit of British Blonde! Urgh, roll on 2015! Of course this needs to pay for itself and has only really been made possible with the fact that my job at the company has now gone perm so I no longer have to worry about finances.
But of course, you guys don't want to hear all about my boring job or even about my super-amazing-awesome trip to Vegas. You wanna hear about the dating scene and how it is all going since my Date with Mr. Moustache, the Thai-Prostitute-Marrying extraordinaire. Well as if things couldn't get worse I went on a date that would leave me wish I could run away to the circus ... NOT!
Standing outside the dodgy pub looking like one of the 'Lost and Founds' inside I started to wonder if my date would even turn up. Had I, Abbey-Louise, been stood up again? Panicking slightly I text friends to put my mind at ease. Worrying that my top was too low I shuffled from foot to foot getting agitated by the waiting game. Everyone that knows me will say that I am always late and never, ever early. I hate it. I hate the early arrival to something, not knowing if guests or other people will arrive and just generally standing around like a Lemon even though you know that they are only parking the car. It just makes me anxious and Wednesday night was no different. Spying everyone walking in or out of the Public House I couldn't clock the guy I had been messaging all week. But then, all of a sudden there he was in front of me and grinning like a Cheshire Cat, me the unbeknownst Alice. Glancing up from my phone and tucking it into my satchel I noticed one thing and one thing only - The hair! Long and curly it was tightly curled coming out from the sides and top of his head. This, coupled with the receding hairline itself and freckled cheeks resembled what can only be described as something from Stephen King's IT. OK, slight over kill there (no pun intended given the novel) but he honestly did look like a clown you would book for a seven-year-old's birthday party. Swallowing every bit of my self in one swift gulp I took the plunge and entered the pub with Mr. Krusty. Although consequentially, after my date with Mr. Krusty there has been many a banter thrown about amongst friends and family how the lack of water-squirting flowers, the colourful honking car and large footwear were all amiss from the date itself.
Noticing a commotion I made a swift move to cover Mr. Krusty's gaze towards the drunk man being held down by four punters on the sticky bar floor. Too late. My date has noticed and whilst I try to keep the conversation going with the man behind the bar and my Date he is clearly watching the brawl now happening metres away from us. Hoping to uphold Bedford as more than just a booze-bin for the old and unemployed I mentioned the beer garden. Bad Move! After being seated I was told wondrous stories of far off lands that Mr. Krusty had performed in, sorry, visited. 'Gaap yaaar' didn't even come close to some of the things he was telling me. Stories from his time in Indian, America, China, Africa, Australia, Italy and all manner of other place teamed with adventures such bungee-jumping off rickety old rope bridges naked, skiing in the Alps and even cuddling lion cubs. I think that it was safe to say that by the time my Cider was warm, myself and Mr. Krusty would not be riding off into the sunset together. Disappointed slightly that my tales would never compare to his, I resigned myself to the fact that personality and conversational raconteur were far too established and well-travelled for me.
As I genuinely struggled to concentrate on the fabulous adventures of my date with a circus act, I noted that a rather hairy bearded man had seated himself at a table opposite us. Clearly listening into our conversation for once I tried to blend into the background. Unfortunately being on a first date we stuck out like a sore thumb. This was not however a problem until his friend turned up. Now I would like to think I am far from naive (I'm not) but suddenly outside of the table containing two pints and a dithering will to live was a far greater story unfolding. A handful of purple twenty pound notes were exchanged for a hidden hand shake. I knew what it was but the drug dealers were not satisfied with giving away kicks, they wanted to get some of their own and so pulled up a chair or two to listen into a Date with Mr. Krusty and I. Laughing and snickering at the company I was in the coked-up criminals started to mock my Date and as a result we both took note. Ears becoming pricked we heard a slur referring Mr. Krusty's look to a TV character. Now I know that throughout this experience so far I have spoke of my drink-date with Mr. Krusty, the clown look-a-like, as something from a cartoon for kids, but that is my prerogative. I had to endure that date so I should be able to speak of it as I will without the input from smacked-up weasels looking for there next fix in the back end of a local pub. Regardless of this though I continued conversation, trying to ignore the glares from our onlookers and upon explaining that a ''Friend'' of mine (actually Mr. Cheese but somehow I realised I spoke too much of him and should now refer to him as a friend instead of The Ex) was studying Classics our audience of one spoke up whilst his friends were at the bar.
"Classics!" The bearded man bellowed in an friendly, enquiring manner. I replied with a simple yes and attempted to continue. My Date had other ideas!
"Are you a teacher?" Mr. Krusty asked politely. Snapping back the sunken eyed man quipped "Do I look like a teacher of Classics to you, Mate?". Trying to calm the gentleman rudely interrupting my hilarious date by clarifying his studies, rolling off terms I had investigated with my dear Mr. Cheese on lazy Sunday's only weeks ago. Sophocles and Euripides were amongst those discussed with works such as Antigone and Oedipus. For a split second I felt as though I had a little part of my Cheese back, but then I was thrown back into the moment only to realise my Date was going from bad to worse by the minute. Finishing off my pint I decided it was home time and getting up from my metal framed chair I felt wavy from the alcohol. "Am I drunk? No, I cant be ... " I thought. Walking through the hot pub and out into the cooler evening air I prepared myself for a walk home and maybe even another Tinder sesh. My date had other ideas though.
"Do you want a lift home?" Mr. Krusty kindly asked. Mentioning how close it is to town I declined.
"Well at least let me walk you home?" Mr. Krusty insisted. After mentioning that it was a good half hour walk to mine and that it was getting dark he still kept at it. Finally giving in I accepted his offer to walk me home. As we chatted of politics and current affairs on the way home conversation turned towards the weekend and our plans. Mr. Krusty headed up the argument for a second date with a trip to Woburn Safari Park and Zoo. Slightly sick to my stomach, I couldn't bear the thought of going to a place so special and close to my heart without Mr. Cheese. I mean that was one of the burning images and memories of a time much better and easier than the end. I declined the offer stating that the new systems coming into work would have me tied up most of Saturday and Sunday anyhow. Turning into my street I motioned for him to let me finish my journey to my door alone. The hint was not taken and thus here I was standing outside my flat making an awkward goodbye to a curly-haired ginge.
"Can I have a kiss?" Blurted out my date as I was mid-sentence about something clearly not as important. Trying to pretend I did not hear I continued with the importance of my sentence. He said it again. I couldn't escape it this time. I had finished what I had to say and couldn't think of anything to change the subject too. I hesitated for a few minutes trying to think of a way out. Panic set in. "Who even asks for a kiss nower days? Mr. Cheese didn't ask for a kiss, he just went for it. Why are men so British!" I thought as I tried to think of a nicer way to say no. I couldn't and before the poor mite asked again I just said yes and prayed to a god that doesn't exist that it would all be over soon and I would be hopelessly laughing and crying about it to the Tweedles. Following up what was honestly a pleasant smooch with the casual and somewhat now awkward farewells I turned and walked inside my front door. Collapsing on my couch I surrendered myself to yet another unsuccessful date. After a optimistic outlook from Miss Tweedle-Dee over the phone I made some dinner and then proceeded to my covers to sleep off the Scrumpy before work tomorrow. Rule number four about dating and life in general: Never drink on a school night.
As the end of the working week approached I rounded off my week with some casual drinks with a male colleague from work on Friday night. Leaving the office I was told by the Office-Bods to play nice and not to bite too hard - whatever that meant. I knew since that first initial meeting on our works night out that Mr. Warehouse was clearly infatuated with me. God knows why. But somehow he had plucked up all his courage to ask me on a date. Throwing caution to the wind and knowing that no matter what happens at least it is an experience that can later be reflected on in writing to the world in my weekly blogg, I said yes. Truth be told it had been set up as a cosmopolitan date, playing pool and drinking pints in a quiet local pub near where we both worked, although my initial throughout the date I felt more and more that it was just another after work drink with friends. There was some mild flirting and I definitely did not hold back on my story telling, bedroom adventures included! We spoke at length about stuff that was irrelevant in retrospect but also about work and our interests. All in all it was probably the best date I have been on so far this year (excluding the dates including Mr. Cheese, they don't count). I suppose as I waited in the beer garden for Mr. Warehouse to arrive I was calmer and more relaxed than before, maybe in the knowledge that after Date Number One turning out to be possibly still married to a Asian Prostitute and Date Number Two being an extra from Zippo's Circus, Date Number Three couldn't get much worse. I enjoyed myself and there was even a bashful period of constant laughter, something I can not remember ever doing with Mr. Cheese.
Whether a second date is on the cards for Mr. Warehouse and I, I don't know. Second date is a big thing, I suppose it means that you find them at least in some way boyfriend material. But I am just not sure if I want that right now. I think I am far more bruised than I thought about Mr. Cheese's departure and sites of Bedford bridges in the summer sun at the Bedford River Festival at the weekend, teamed with photo's of Darlington Station don't help. I suppose in a way I have to accept, whether I like it or not, that despite our tracks crossing, the train has now left.
'Til Next Time, Love A.Lou xx
So after last week's date on Sunday I began dating in the modern world. Would 2014 be the year I finally met Mr. Right? Who knows yet, maybe I have already met them or maybe it could be a Mister from my past. All I know is that dating right now has gone from optimistic fun meeting new people and being 'story-up-staged' as I now like to call it, to the drastically different end of the spectrum in which makes me ponder exactly what I even want from my love life right now. And the fact that a certain Monsieur Cheese is never far from the forefront of my mind is never easy.
Tuesday night I decided to spend some time with the Tweedles and we were met also with the company of Miss Stuu as well. Thankful for a good old trip to the cinema I was glad that whilst conversation was (obviously) about me and my subsequent dates, there was not too much probing. Tindering whilst on the move, I have found, has made me somewhat an addict. Swiping left and swiping right, whether it be on the bus to work, in the pub with friends or even waiting for a Tinder Date to arrive I confess I am a little hooked. I keep thinking to myself that I need a hobby, and meeting up with my Dad at the weekend only confirmed this. I have even thought about getting a bar job or scarier - Joining a gym! Either way I am going to need to occupy myself in the coming Winter months and the best use of my time I think is working towards that holiday fund. Where am I jetting off to I hear you holla? Well its not Costa Del Sol or even Faliraki. Nope. Come March 2015 I shall be hitting up the slots and shops of Vegas baby! Accompanied by Miss Tweedle Dumb, Miss Tweedle-Dee and Miss Tweedle-Dee's family we shall be jetting off in the spring to have a once in a lifetime opportunity to see a little bit of America! And whilst I am excited about all them burgers, sausage-legs-by-the-pool-bikini photos and bottomless all-night Starbucks, I cant help think about all them American men just ready for a bit of British Blonde! Urgh, roll on 2015! Of course this needs to pay for itself and has only really been made possible with the fact that my job at the company has now gone perm so I no longer have to worry about finances.
But of course, you guys don't want to hear all about my boring job or even about my super-amazing-awesome trip to Vegas. You wanna hear about the dating scene and how it is all going since my Date with Mr. Moustache, the Thai-Prostitute-Marrying extraordinaire. Well as if things couldn't get worse I went on a date that would leave me wish I could run away to the circus ... NOT!
Standing outside the dodgy pub looking like one of the 'Lost and Founds' inside I started to wonder if my date would even turn up. Had I, Abbey-Louise, been stood up again? Panicking slightly I text friends to put my mind at ease. Worrying that my top was too low I shuffled from foot to foot getting agitated by the waiting game. Everyone that knows me will say that I am always late and never, ever early. I hate it. I hate the early arrival to something, not knowing if guests or other people will arrive and just generally standing around like a Lemon even though you know that they are only parking the car. It just makes me anxious and Wednesday night was no different. Spying everyone walking in or out of the Public House I couldn't clock the guy I had been messaging all week. But then, all of a sudden there he was in front of me and grinning like a Cheshire Cat, me the unbeknownst Alice. Glancing up from my phone and tucking it into my satchel I noticed one thing and one thing only - The hair! Long and curly it was tightly curled coming out from the sides and top of his head. This, coupled with the receding hairline itself and freckled cheeks resembled what can only be described as something from Stephen King's IT. OK, slight over kill there (no pun intended given the novel) but he honestly did look like a clown you would book for a seven-year-old's birthday party. Swallowing every bit of my self in one swift gulp I took the plunge and entered the pub with Mr. Krusty. Although consequentially, after my date with Mr. Krusty there has been many a banter thrown about amongst friends and family how the lack of water-squirting flowers, the colourful honking car and large footwear were all amiss from the date itself.
Noticing a commotion I made a swift move to cover Mr. Krusty's gaze towards the drunk man being held down by four punters on the sticky bar floor. Too late. My date has noticed and whilst I try to keep the conversation going with the man behind the bar and my Date he is clearly watching the brawl now happening metres away from us. Hoping to uphold Bedford as more than just a booze-bin for the old and unemployed I mentioned the beer garden. Bad Move! After being seated I was told wondrous stories of far off lands that Mr. Krusty had performed in, sorry, visited. 'Gaap yaaar' didn't even come close to some of the things he was telling me. Stories from his time in Indian, America, China, Africa, Australia, Italy and all manner of other place teamed with adventures such bungee-jumping off rickety old rope bridges naked, skiing in the Alps and even cuddling lion cubs. I think that it was safe to say that by the time my Cider was warm, myself and Mr. Krusty would not be riding off into the sunset together. Disappointed slightly that my tales would never compare to his, I resigned myself to the fact that personality and conversational raconteur were far too established and well-travelled for me.
As I genuinely struggled to concentrate on the fabulous adventures of my date with a circus act, I noted that a rather hairy bearded man had seated himself at a table opposite us. Clearly listening into our conversation for once I tried to blend into the background. Unfortunately being on a first date we stuck out like a sore thumb. This was not however a problem until his friend turned up. Now I would like to think I am far from naive (I'm not) but suddenly outside of the table containing two pints and a dithering will to live was a far greater story unfolding. A handful of purple twenty pound notes were exchanged for a hidden hand shake. I knew what it was but the drug dealers were not satisfied with giving away kicks, they wanted to get some of their own and so pulled up a chair or two to listen into a Date with Mr. Krusty and I. Laughing and snickering at the company I was in the coked-up criminals started to mock my Date and as a result we both took note. Ears becoming pricked we heard a slur referring Mr. Krusty's look to a TV character. Now I know that throughout this experience so far I have spoke of my drink-date with Mr. Krusty, the clown look-a-like, as something from a cartoon for kids, but that is my prerogative. I had to endure that date so I should be able to speak of it as I will without the input from smacked-up weasels looking for there next fix in the back end of a local pub. Regardless of this though I continued conversation, trying to ignore the glares from our onlookers and upon explaining that a ''Friend'' of mine (actually Mr. Cheese but somehow I realised I spoke too much of him and should now refer to him as a friend instead of The Ex) was studying Classics our audience of one spoke up whilst his friends were at the bar.
"Classics!" The bearded man bellowed in an friendly, enquiring manner. I replied with a simple yes and attempted to continue. My Date had other ideas!
"Are you a teacher?" Mr. Krusty asked politely. Snapping back the sunken eyed man quipped "Do I look like a teacher of Classics to you, Mate?". Trying to calm the gentleman rudely interrupting my hilarious date by clarifying his studies, rolling off terms I had investigated with my dear Mr. Cheese on lazy Sunday's only weeks ago. Sophocles and Euripides were amongst those discussed with works such as Antigone and Oedipus. For a split second I felt as though I had a little part of my Cheese back, but then I was thrown back into the moment only to realise my Date was going from bad to worse by the minute. Finishing off my pint I decided it was home time and getting up from my metal framed chair I felt wavy from the alcohol. "Am I drunk? No, I cant be ... " I thought. Walking through the hot pub and out into the cooler evening air I prepared myself for a walk home and maybe even another Tinder sesh. My date had other ideas though.
"Do you want a lift home?" Mr. Krusty kindly asked. Mentioning how close it is to town I declined.
"Well at least let me walk you home?" Mr. Krusty insisted. After mentioning that it was a good half hour walk to mine and that it was getting dark he still kept at it. Finally giving in I accepted his offer to walk me home. As we chatted of politics and current affairs on the way home conversation turned towards the weekend and our plans. Mr. Krusty headed up the argument for a second date with a trip to Woburn Safari Park and Zoo. Slightly sick to my stomach, I couldn't bear the thought of going to a place so special and close to my heart without Mr. Cheese. I mean that was one of the burning images and memories of a time much better and easier than the end. I declined the offer stating that the new systems coming into work would have me tied up most of Saturday and Sunday anyhow. Turning into my street I motioned for him to let me finish my journey to my door alone. The hint was not taken and thus here I was standing outside my flat making an awkward goodbye to a curly-haired ginge.
"Can I have a kiss?" Blurted out my date as I was mid-sentence about something clearly not as important. Trying to pretend I did not hear I continued with the importance of my sentence. He said it again. I couldn't escape it this time. I had finished what I had to say and couldn't think of anything to change the subject too. I hesitated for a few minutes trying to think of a way out. Panic set in. "Who even asks for a kiss nower days? Mr. Cheese didn't ask for a kiss, he just went for it. Why are men so British!" I thought as I tried to think of a nicer way to say no. I couldn't and before the poor mite asked again I just said yes and prayed to a god that doesn't exist that it would all be over soon and I would be hopelessly laughing and crying about it to the Tweedles. Following up what was honestly a pleasant smooch with the casual and somewhat now awkward farewells I turned and walked inside my front door. Collapsing on my couch I surrendered myself to yet another unsuccessful date. After a optimistic outlook from Miss Tweedle-Dee over the phone I made some dinner and then proceeded to my covers to sleep off the Scrumpy before work tomorrow. Rule number four about dating and life in general: Never drink on a school night.
As the end of the working week approached I rounded off my week with some casual drinks with a male colleague from work on Friday night. Leaving the office I was told by the Office-Bods to play nice and not to bite too hard - whatever that meant. I knew since that first initial meeting on our works night out that Mr. Warehouse was clearly infatuated with me. God knows why. But somehow he had plucked up all his courage to ask me on a date. Throwing caution to the wind and knowing that no matter what happens at least it is an experience that can later be reflected on in writing to the world in my weekly blogg, I said yes. Truth be told it had been set up as a cosmopolitan date, playing pool and drinking pints in a quiet local pub near where we both worked, although my initial throughout the date I felt more and more that it was just another after work drink with friends. There was some mild flirting and I definitely did not hold back on my story telling, bedroom adventures included! We spoke at length about stuff that was irrelevant in retrospect but also about work and our interests. All in all it was probably the best date I have been on so far this year (excluding the dates including Mr. Cheese, they don't count). I suppose as I waited in the beer garden for Mr. Warehouse to arrive I was calmer and more relaxed than before, maybe in the knowledge that after Date Number One turning out to be possibly still married to a Asian Prostitute and Date Number Two being an extra from Zippo's Circus, Date Number Three couldn't get much worse. I enjoyed myself and there was even a bashful period of constant laughter, something I can not remember ever doing with Mr. Cheese.
Whether a second date is on the cards for Mr. Warehouse and I, I don't know. Second date is a big thing, I suppose it means that you find them at least in some way boyfriend material. But I am just not sure if I want that right now. I think I am far more bruised than I thought about Mr. Cheese's departure and sites of Bedford bridges in the summer sun at the Bedford River Festival at the weekend, teamed with photo's of Darlington Station don't help. I suppose in a way I have to accept, whether I like it or not, that despite our tracks crossing, the train has now left.
'Til Next Time, Love A.Lou xx
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