Twenty-something girl WLTM Mr Wrong. GSOH.

A blogpost about online dating.* Here it is. The internet is awash with Carrie Bradshaw wannabes detailing the excruciating details of their dysfunctional love lives. So I thought I'd join in. 

While I love my single life (not having to answer to anyone, no-one else's issues to deal with, the total freedom to see whoever you want, whenever you want), I'd been discussing online dating with friends recently and came to the conclusion that it's no longer the preserve of hideous virgins and dodgy perverts. Our generation works online, socialises online so why not a bit of digitally-induced romance? I know of people who met online and are blissfully happy, even married. 

We've all heard the horror stories. My particular favourite is an ordinary-seeming guy, who halfway through the first drink asked my friend if she'd "like a good fisting?" Seriously. She politely declined. Aside from possible situations like this, I figured the experience could at least make for some funny stories, and perhaps lead to meeting some new friends, or the man of my dreams, Benedict Cumberbatch... what do you mean, he's not online dating? But how else am I going to find him? 

So, filled with curiosity and trepidation, I registered with a site and found myself stumped at the first hurdle of putting my profile together. It's hard to a) differentiate yourself from everyone else on there without sounding too 'quirky', b) big yourself up without coming off as a twat, and c) be funny without being flippant. A quick browse of other profiles reassured me that other people aren't very good at building their own brand either. I made a decision not to engage with anyone who self-describes using the words 'crazy', 'unusual', 'laid-back' or 'normal.' (Read: annoying, on some sort of sex pest register, boring and weird.)

It's clear that there are some oddballs on there. I've been emailed people's bizarre life stories, and had interest from a guy who has used some very weird song lyrics as his 'about me' section. However, am also having some interesting chats with people who on paper (or should I say screen) look interesting and normal. A date yesterday was perfectly alright but I instantly knew on meeting him that despite the eloquent and clever emails, there was no spark whatsoever and he just wasn't going to be funny enough for me. So I dazzled him with my wit, obviously, then after a quick lunch and drink, made my excuses and left. I'm certain he's not at home nursing a broken heart today. 

A few of us have joined the same site and it's going to be interesting seeing what happens and who we meet. A giggle if nothing else, and hopefully some good material to write about on here before I inevitably meet that male model millionaire with a PhD. (Or, Benedict. Obviously.)

* I should just clarify that I detest the word 'date'. It's just so fucking American. But there's no real alternative in English, is there? 'Online seeing-someone' or 'online flinging' just sound a bit weird and/or like you're cruising the net. 

Some commuter etiquette recommendations

I spend a lot of my time on public transport in London. Mainly buses. Now I know that I could save myself hassle and money, save the planet, get fitter blah blah by cycling, but I'm a menace to myself and others. It would take one momentary distraction of "Oh look, a bee!" and I'd cycle straight under the wheels of the 26 bus.

I avoid the Tube where possible as being on an oven-temperature B.O.-reeking underground train isn't my favourite thing in the world. I also don't really enjoy being full-frontally pressed against strangers at 8am. Or anytime really.

So, buses. A magnet for stupid people, it seems. So, to make everyone's lives easier, here's a few little tips to make everyone's journeys a bit more comfortable.

Brush your teeth before getting on the morning commuter bus. You're going to be in close proximity to other people, it's only polite. Imagine every morning journey is like a date, yeah?

Stop carrying massive fuck-off rucksacks/suitcases/boxes/suspicious parcels on the rush-hour buses. Get a chuffing cab if you have loads of luggage.

People with massive buggies who get on for ONE stop and force a whole bus load of people to move or get off. You can just fuck right off. WALK you lazy people.

Don't have loud, inappropriate conversations on your mobile phone whilst your mouth is roughly four centimetres from my head, because despite my earphones I can still hear you and I may well assault you.

If you're sitting next to me, don't sit ON me.

Don't use the fact we're standing in cattle-truck conditions to 'accidentally' touch me. One more hand brush anywhere remotely sexy and I will scream sexual harrassment. And swiftly knee you in the balls.

If you're a highly attractive man please don't stand right next to me, face-to-face as I will die of not knowing where to look or what to do.

Stop showing off if you think you're funny and you're having a comedy conversation with your friends. Listen, you braying idiot, you're not funny, you're a twat. Shut up.

School kids - just go away.

Right, that should make everyone's lives easier. I for one am a model bus passenger and would never barge you out of the way to scramble on the bus, never have very very loud music blasting out of my headphones and never scowl at other passengers when I am hungover and a bit fucking irritable. *beams*

"It's the weekend!!!!!!!! LOL x"

I've been quiet again on the blog front. Turns out having a busy job and getting drunk with your friends take up more time than you'd think.

I'm compelled to write to address some irksome social media issues. Now, for most people, these things probably don't matter. If you're one of those people and you're reading this, you're probably going to think 'get a life, who even cares?' in about 100 words time. This might piss you off.

So, I like social media, right? I'm pretty passionate about it. (That sounds better than 'geek'.) I think it's an amazing tool that allows us all to be connected, if we want to be. I know what my friends abroad are doing day to day, I can see their photos, I can read interesting blogs about my industry and I see the power of the ordinary person's voice on Twitter. I think that's quite cool. I work in communications so for me, it works both on a personal and professional level.

Lately though, I've been getting a wee bit irritated by some of the things I see on Facebook and Twitter. Maybe it's because I'm what you might call a 'frequent user', or because I am interested in the sector, I have more of an interest/understanding in style and etiquette than someone who just uses these things to organise football practice or stalk their crush.

Maybe it's because I'm a social media snob. I'm not saying that my Facebook or Twitter feeds aren't annoying to some people. They certainly are. I bang on about music, tea, the fucking London bus service, how much I love Guy Garvey, and I also have a lot of essentially nonsensical, bollocks conversations with my funny friends.

Saying that though, these are some things that I just don't understand - and I know it's not just me they bug because I've had conversations with mates recently about the very same things.

1) Using a MILLION exclamation marks on tweets or Facebook statuses. Why? No really, WHY? It's always attached to the most mundane of statements too. "I've finished work!!!!!" Or my personal favourite, "It's the weekend!!!!!" I am glad you wrote that on your Facebook wall, otherwise I would not have KNOWN. Also if you'd written it with only one, or maybe no exclamation marks, I might not have FULLY UNDERSTOOD. Perhaps this a wider English language thing I have, but either way, it translates really fucking badly on social media. I know the Grumpy Scot and The Director are with me on this one. It's like if you have to say 'I'm mad, me!', I can guarantee the most you can hope for is that you're 'mad' in a needing-medication way, not a 'carefree, spontaneous, risky' way.

2) Facebook photos. Right, this is a contentious issue. Most people chose a nice shot their mates have taken of them. Or a nice, not-too-twatty self portrait. Or something totally not of them at all. There a couple of other types of shot that grate a wee bit. Firstly, matching coupley profile pictures. I know, I know, I come across as a bitter spinster. It's not that people in relationships annoy me, I just don't understand why people feel the need to up the smug 'look at me with a LOVER!' stakes. It smacks of showing off if you match this with your partner's photo. What you're trying to say is 'look how sexually desirable and generally awesome I am, I'm an Other Half!' What you're actually saying is 'we didn't have sex on this holiday and I'm really unhappy but I think I'll stick with it because we have a lovely house and I won't give up custody of the dog.'

Secondly, perhaps it's just because myself and a lot of mates are at that age where people are staring to settle down - but KID profile pictures. Now I know, it MUST be amazing having children. I've heard all about it, from friends and sisters. When I see my niece and nephews there is something so profound about the trust they have in you, and how lovely it is having hot little bodies snuggled up on you on the sofa while dozing. It does transcend everything else. However - just because you've had a child, you're still my mate, you still have your own personality, you don't just become MUM.

In fact some people I know who aren't close friends may as well have 'I can't use birth control properly, LOLZ!' on their Facebook statuses.

3) Adding a kiss to the end of every generic status update/ tweet. 'I'm eating toast x' Am I missing something? Yes I write kisses on messages to specific people, but I don't get it on general statuses. It reeks of a kind of arrogance, like all your followers would be so grateful for your love. You're not Jesus, yeah? It just looks a bit weird, like you're bestowing something on people. You're not. It just looks a bit affected.

4) I'm not proclaiming to be the most exciting, entertaining person ever. My favourite recent TV programme was with Martin Clunes rambling on about horses, for goodness' sake. However. I do try a little bit to be slightly amusing. Someone I had as a friend on Facebook just used to basically list their household chores. Part of the point of social media I guess is making the mundane prominent if people want to. But you don't want to make your friends want to send you a hobby leaflet, or ask your family if 'you're ok, as you don't seem to get out much.' I know The Blonde is with me on this.

Some of you might think this comes off as snobbery or communication superiority. It's not, it's just observations that become apparent when I spend a fair bit of time using social media for work and for pleasure. Right, I'm off to get a real life. Either that, or tweet about what I'm having for my tea.

"Washing your car?"

Ah, Sunday. Papers, relaxation, pottering. I love Sundays.

Today was a little different to usual. I normally wake up bleary-eyed, wondering what the hell happened the night before (if it's been a good night, that is) and asking the nearest person to make me a cup of tea, immediately, PLEASE.

Today I awoke on a sofa bed after a wonderful university housemate reunion, with a ginger kitty called Horris purring in my ear. We were leaving early to get back to London so I could attend yoga and go for a swim.

The Cyclist and I boarded the train in Sutton, full of bacon sandwiches and tea from our hostess's fine breakfast. We'd not had much luck on the way down from London, as we'd inadvertantly boarded a train carriage that contained the Spawn of Satan. A gaggle of middle-class teenagers had whined, shouted, brayed and squealed through the whole journey. One of them was called Paris. I wanted to smack Paris, a LOT. Severely obnoxious with a total lack of self-awareness is a winning combination for others wishing violence upon you.

As we boarded, I said,

"If Paris turns up on this train, I'll punch her in the babymaker."

Luckily there was no Paris. But there WAS an insufferable, pseudo-intellectual bearded idiot sat with who I presume was his girlfriend. Or if not, he definitely wanted to fuck her and was using smart-arse film references to get in her pants. Now I love a bit of culture, don't get me wrong. I will happily sit and talk about music and art and films. But hopefully I don't do it loudly on a train with a smug, self-serving tone. If I do, let me know yeah?

The Cyclist and I glanced at each other as he harped on loudly about some film and some other pretentious crap. A stream of spurious culture references spilled out of his mouth. I was dying to a) laugh loudly, b) take the piss out of him, and c) self-harm so I could concentrate on something else. I texted The Cyclist as I just had to vent.

"Oh my god Jonny Lee Miller was, like SO understated yah? When I was at The Globe, yah? Shut up you massive drama student TWUNT!"

The Cyclist read it on her phone and smirked, I gritted my teeth. The braying idiot, now using his Magnum lollystick to gesticulate to his poor potential Rohypnol victim, shouted, "So Sara organised dinner at The Globe!"

We cracked up loudly.

We had to endure the following conversation before the sweet relief of arriving at London Bridge.

"So me and my sister yah, started saying 'Your Mum' to each other! And THEN my Mum started saying it too! Fnar fnar fnar."

"Devotion breeds complacency then that breeds IRONY, YAH?" At this point him and his friend erupted into peals of laughter. The Cyclist and I met eyes and did that quizical "what the fuck?" face. I sat on my hands so I didn't go over and beat him to death with his own copy of Empire magazine.

Journey over, I managed to be in time for the yoga class and both No'rn Ir'on and I managed to get through the class without getting 'too relaxed' which I'd heard horror stories about. Afterwards we went for a swim. The normally quiet pool was manned by two dodgy guys sitting in the shallow end, who watched us walk from the changing rooms to the water while pulling faces like a sex pest. I didn't understand this, since looking at me in a swimming costume is something you Just Don't Do, like looking directly at the Sun, or putting foil in the microwave.

We began our lengths of the pool, avoiding Splashy McPervert who was hanging around in our general vicinity and inexplicably splashing halfway into the middle of the pool then swimming back again. I was concentrating on breathing and my stroke, when I passed No'rn Ir'on.

"Guess what just happened to me?"

I shrug. "The weird guy touched you up a bit in the deep end?"

"No. I did a lap of the pool before I realised my right boob was out."

I checked she wasn't at risk of being arrested for indecent exposure in a public family place and we swam to the shallow end. She looked wistful.

"I wish I was a mermaid sometimes."

I disagreed. "Nah, there's loads of things that would be impossible to do." I dived under the water and carried on my lengths. I passed No'rn Ir'on in the deep end.

"Like bungee jumping?" she suggested hopefully. I inhaled a litre of swimming pool water and tried not to drown whilst regaining my composure in 12'6" of water.

She was obviously considering it, as the next time we passed she ventured, "Washing your car?"

We luxuriated in the water at the deep end after the pool was vacated by the Special contingent, floating and chatting.

No'rn Ir'on: "I need to wee."

Me: "Oh."

No'rn Ir'on: "Do you think they have that chemical that changes colour if you wee in the pool?"

Me: "Only one way to find out...?"

No'rn Ir'on: "No, after swimming about with one boob out for a while, that's probably enough embarrassment for me for one day."

Festivals

Summer means one thing. Well, lots of things, among which are chilled wine outside, horrendous tube travel and being exposed to more London body odour than usual. But the MAIN thing for me is festivals.

I let my Glasto ticket go this year for various reasons (Don't. Ask.), but I booked some other festivals instead. Because I'm now a bone fide Londoner, I have easy access to the city festivals. Days for middle-class types who think they're 'hip' and attend open air music events, but at the end of the day would like to sleep in a bed and use a proper, clean toilet. Fair enough. They do unfortunately also attract scallies. People who aren't that arsed about the music but figure it's an excuse to get off your tits on cider and narcotics outside, go topless (mainly the blokes) and generally behave like a bit of a yobby nob.

I went to Wireless with The Foodie, The German and some of The Foodie's friends. Despite the not-proper-festival-goers and the chavs, it was a fun day out and we saw UNKLE, 2 Many DJs and LCD Soundsystem among others.

This weekend just gone, I attended my only 'proper' festival this year. Ie, full-on camping. Portaloos. Being lost in a field. Being accosted by a friendly but MUNTED individual at four AM in the camp site who's on about the pink rabits and the universe, man. Lounge on the Farm is a lovely local festival I've been attending for years and is getting some major recognition and acts playing. Over the years there I've seen Mr Scruff, the xx, Quantic, Syd Arthur, Mystery Jets, Roots Manuva, Scroobius Pip and lots of others that I cannot recall. This year I didn't see as much music as normal as I was working for The Greek in a restaurant in The Meadows field but I did see Slow Club and the bloody magnificent Toots & The Maytals who I thought did a wicked set. Live reggae played by legends in a cowshed after you've had about eight pints - what's not to like?

So, things I learned at LOTF this year:

I never, ever have an easy time packing - but then once I am there can rarely be arsed to get changed anyway.

I ALWAYS get ridiculous farmer-style sunburn literally within the first hour of arriving. Even if it's grey and rainy.

During the late-night gatherings at smaller stages, or round a campfire, there's always a mash up individual who *thinks* they're some sort of bongo wizard and drums incessantly. They're normally not very good, but sufficiently have their senses altered to believe that the noisy offbeat tapping is some sort of primal rhythm.

There's always some dazed people wandering around in grubby animal costumes the day after the festival has finished.

Drinking cider with breakfast is PERFECTLY acceptable at festivals.

I am getting old, and every year exclaim HOW MANY TEENAGERS ARE IN ATTENDANCE!?

Despite my trepidation every time, I cope remarkably well with kipping in a tent and actually actively enjoy brushing my teeth in a field under the stars.

The toilets aren't actually as bad as you think they'll be. But maybe I was just lucky.

So, two festivals out of three this month are done. I'm making the most of Lovebox being down the road from my house and attending that this weekend. Let's hope it's mainly nice people and doesn't attract the stabby, shooty teenage Hackney types. If they're reading this, just chill out yeah?

"Deer park? Is that because it's expensive to get into?"

No'rn Ir'on and I decided that after the cocktail and wine excess of Bank Holiday Sunday, today we ought to go and power walk around Victoria Park. I was nervous about the squirrels but we braved it, those and the stabby gangs.

Hackneyites and their dogs filled the park, meaning that we got inevitably overexcited at the canine frolicking.

"Awww look at that one!"

"Ah, he's got a cool face, I'd call him Duncan."

We spied a couple with a few young Italian Greyhounds,

"OH look at those! Oh no wait. Oh no, they're REALLY going for it." Not really what you want to see on a civilised Monday afternoon.

No'rn Ir'on: "No wait, I want to see how they separate them, like."

I dragged her away from the doggy show and we marched around the lake. Of course, there were kids everywhere. Not No'rn Ir'on's favourite things. A family consisted of three squawky young girls whining and bickering.

"I'm not even sorry that I want to punch them."

We decided to venture into the part of the park that we've never been in before. The signposts promised exotic adventures - a model boating lake, the mystically-titled One O Clock Club and the deer park. DEER. In east London.

No'rn Ir'on remarks, "Is that because it's really expensive?" and sniggers to herself.

We actually do catch a glimpse of two sleeping deer and it makes my day.

As we meander around the model boating lake, laughing at dogs splashing around in the water, No'rn Ir'on picks her way along the edge. I resist the urge to shove her into the water, very tempting. I inform her of this and she poses, sticking her bum out. I realise that we look mental and we're in very close proximity to the children's play area so should probably move along.

Naturally, we encounter the scary east London squirrels, and find one holding court under a tree with a gaggle of pigeons. I think that it's going to launch itself at a pigeon and eat it. No'rn Ir'on is more concerned with that fact that they might get a little amorous like the greyhounds earlier.

"They're going to MATE and then it will get out of hand and before you know it, the park will be overrun with SQUIDGEONS."

As we wander off giggling, I spy a man who I've seen several times this weekend. Tall, east London skinny, massive quiff and some particularly striking and brave sartorial choices. I mention that he's quite beautiful to No'rn Ir'on.

"No way, he's so totally gay."

"Not necessarily! Even straight guys in Hackney dress like that."

"You only fancy guys that look gay."

"Maybe I do. Hence why so unsuccessful in these matters."

"I know that if I am about to congratulate a man on his TUNIC, he's probably a queen."

One to mull over there, I think.

"You Look Like Andy Warhol."

Another weekend.... another visit from the Blonde. What could possibly go wrong when I was taking an afternoon off work to meet her and go for a late (liquid) lunch?

It started off in Moro - for anyone who hasn't tried this restaurant, this genuinely is the best food I've ever had. Exquisite tapas and a great atmosphere and a wine list to die for. We promptly worked our way through a divine bottle of Txacoli and had a rather enjoyable little crawl round the drinking establishments of Exmouth Market. Medcalfs, the old butchers, is a nice place to chill out (we met The Greek there for one or two), as well as a brilliant spot for listening to Islington rah-rahs harp on loudly.

"Yah, I laaarve the names Poppy and Scarlet and Oscar, fwa?"

A twenty-something woman addressed her mum,

"Why didn't you give me a proper Spanish name Mummy?... Chloe is SO common now."

The Blonde and I just looked at each other and tried not to laugh out loud.

We presented the bar man in Cafe Kick the brief of: dry, vodka-based cocktail please thankyouverymuch. He came back with a Berry Martini fit for a Queen and we promptly had 3. What, we had to check for consistency?

By this point, The Blonde was fully in Camera Club mode, taking arty shots of light fittings and such. She'd just discovered turning the flash off for better night time photos. We asked a poor man sat at the next table to take a shot of the two of us, and she wasn't shy with direction.

"Put your elbows on the table so it's not blurry... PUT YOUR ELBOWS ON THE TABLE!"

Fully getting into the stride of a slightly boozy afternoon, we happened upon my wonderful local where we shared a cheeseboard at the bar. Somehow, The Blonde came back from the loo to find me fully engaged in conversation about the design industry with a rather attractive young man. I forgot about this until the end of the night, when The Blonde nicked a business card off me and thrust it upon him.

"Call her! She's a designer!"

Me, dying inside: "No, Blonde, I'm not a designer. I work in design."

"Anyway, she thinks you're nice, call her. Byeeeee!"

I scarpered shame-faced from the pub and we went home to dance and for The Blonde to eat a serious amount of cocktail sausages. I played her some tracks I'd been listening to. She couldn't get her head around the Scroobius Pip track Thou Shalt Always Kill.

"Who's this? Scrupulous Pigs?"

"Yes. Time for bed."

It's never fun on a Saturday morning when some twat decides that pre-9am is a brilliant time to do some extraordinarily loud drilling outside your window. We come round with brews and talk about the evening before. Since we're both trying not to eat too many carbs as well (shh, wine and martinis so don't count), we get onto the subject of food. The Blonde looks wistful and I know she's about to come out with one of her cracking interchangeable quotes.

"I LOVE [insert random thing]" This time, it was, yep you've guessed it - potatoes of course.

We make our way to Borough Market for some mooching and sampling and probably quite a bit of Camera Club, and for some reason end up talking about marriage and taking your husband's name.

The Blonde says earnestly, "I'm quite attached to my name." As one would be.

Borough Market is overwhelming in its delights and we kick off the weekend in the totally normal fashion at 12 noon - Prosecco! The Blonde gets unbelievably excited by a sign in the Spanish shop Brindisa advertising 'Ham School'. No, really. One of the interchangeable quotes from above occurred while tucking into a plate of antipasti.

"I love ham."

The next thing that has The Blonde squealing with excitement is a stall selling Drunk Cheese.

"That's got my name ALL over it!" I have photos of her proudly posing underneath the sign and sampling some.

Next stop, Spitalfields for more wandering and shopping. I cross over into full Shoreditch Wankdom and purchase some of those fake glasses that look like the sort of thing Deirdre from Coronation Street would turn down on account of them being a bit ugly. You know the kind. The Blonde persuaded me. They just make me look more like the geeky one from Scooby Doo. I kept them in my bag.

We wander round Brick Lane, meet Oxford for drinks and then make our way to Broadway. On the way we pass someone's post outside their house. I was going to say that I'd love to know what goes on inside The Blonde's head, but I do already know and it's just baffling.

"Oooooh, LOOK, the phone book's thin now isn't it?"

I don't know how to come back to that.

We sat in Off Broadway and admired the east end lot dressed in their war time get up, and the large number of seriously cool dogs that people had in there. We complimented a lady on her fine-looking cocktail and she let us try it. How kind.

The rest of the evening involved takeaway and inane discussions brought on by The Blonde forcing me to watch Britain's Got Talent. (Questionable.)

"I reckon Amanda Holden could be in our gang, you know."

Sunday brings crazy cheese-related dreams, and I make The Blonde try on my comedy fashion glasses. It's a revelation.

"You look like Andy Warhol!"

"I'm not sure I want to look like that."

On the way back to Spitalfields, The Blonde is lamenting her fading fake tan.

"It dries your skin out, so you moisturise - then you lose your bloody tan. Double edged sword mate, seriously. It's a tough life."

Spitalfields brings the longest cash point queue in the world, the tannoy asking about a million times for 'Staff 200' who was clearly having a fag and a brew round the back, and The Blonde directing me to get her picture but only if I can "get the anchor-print jumper in!"

Lunch at Giraffe was followed by a walk home through some less than charming estates where a massive guy carrying a suitcase on his head kept shouting, "Hey lady!" to The Blonde. When she ignored him, he qualified it with, "I'm from Spain, I a nice guy."

One, he didn't look or sound Spanish. Two, the Spanish thing doesn't negate the fact you're carrying a suitcase on your head in an east end estate.