Tuesday 23^rd August

I walked to work, contemplating all the small things that particularly nark me, coming to the conclusion that it is not the little things that count, but rather the little things that mount. It never ceases to amaze me how quickly your day can turn to shit. Take green men for example. I am not talking about the little green men people claim to see from time to time, usually people living in the back arse of nowhere, with nothing better to do than make ridiculously false claims of alien sightings because their nearest neighbour lives seventeen miles away, and anal probing seems the most likely scenario to attract attention.

I am in fact talking about green men of the traffic variety, those flashing, beeping indicators that determine whether or not you will make it to your destination in a prompt and timely manner. My gripe is not at all in their existence, in fact I am grateful for the safe passage they occasionally grant me, but rather the inherent design flaws they all seem to possess. Why is it that the time allotted to cross the road is never in direct proportion to the width of the road? A street as wide as a hundred yards might allow a meagre, life threatening five seconds to cross, while on other streets, where the opposite footpath is within spitting distance, we are afforded an excessive fifteen seconds, where a pensioner and her crippled corgi could cross at a leisurely pace. And with time to spare.

And while I'm on the subject of gripes, why do people insist on power walking behind you on a narrow footpath, sigh as they have to get off the footpath to go around you, and then immediately slow down once they are in front of you? And when did it become acceptable to cough or sneeze without covering your mouth? And why, after thousands of years of existence, do people still not understand the god given right to personal space? People, it is never alright to breathe, cough or sneeze on another human being! Even in a fight, that would be considered bad form. I no longer have the patience or the inclination for that matter, to deal with the incompetent and the downright goofy. When are we all going to realise that they serve no purpose here on earth? To quote Billy Connolly, if I may, 'I think it's time to trim the herd!'

When Newbies' was the first face I saw as I arrived at work, I knew this was going to be an all-out piss take of a day. Green men had conspired against me from the moment I left my apartment, I was virtually dry humped in a queue for coffee and now Newbie's pale freckled face was a mere foot from mine. I had a good mind to sneeze, hands free. He greeted me with his usual amount of dim witted enthusiasm and then skipped off to annoy someone else. It took every fibre of my being to not extend my leg as he frolicked past, sending him face first into the cooker doors, so that not only would I have the pleasure of his pain, but he'd also be subject to the unsightly reflection I was forced to endure only moments before. However, due to recent near hits on the unemployment front, I am required to take a more subtle approach when abusing my co-workers. Softly softly catchy Newbie, and all that.

Bert spent the entire day peddling Rob, despite the fact that I have adamantly refused to meet him. I am very much aware however, that when it comes to Bert, resistance is futile.I threw in the towel shortly before six, rushed home and prepared for a date I didn't want to go on.

I had two options:

1.      Make a concerted effort to look like shit, ensuring that there will be no possibility of a second date.

OR

2.      Make a concerted effort to look good, on the off chance that Rob isn't a feckless, socially inept, shite talking man, who could no more provide a conversation than he could an orgasm.

The sex embargo has thus far lasted six months and three days, and I was naively hoping that a prolonged bout of celibacy would encourage the return of my virginity, so that when the dry spell ended, so to speak, I could start afresh, thereby eliminating any pesky expectations (temptation to write sexpectations was almost more than I could bear). Even alluding to it scratches the itch somewhat. It's not easy to find someone to spend your precious time with, even on a casual basis. I don't know if there is a man out there with whom I am willing to be naked, someone I find tolerable enough to wake up to in the morning. If past experience is anything to go by then the answer would have to be most assuredly no. Even with low expectations, I anticipate disappointment.

After several failed attempts to find a suitable mate, I concluded that I could either go it alone or come up with a better method of distinguishing between an acceptable man and an utter twat. My own company, though delightful, could very well become tedious in time, and the self-pleasure section of Ann Summers holds no attraction for me. So with no other options available, I devised a fool proof plan to isolate the weak from the strong, and by doing so, I could hopefully avoid the hell out of them. The resulting plan consisted of seven tests a man must endure before he can even be considered tolerable company.

1.      First Impressions: Though I would not consider myself a shallow person, I do have certain criteria that must be met. You may not be prettier than me, dress better than me, or have longer hair than me. Let's be clear about this- I am the woman, NOT YOU!

2.      I'm not your slave: And I am not your mother. I do not love you unconditionally and I never will. However, should a terrible accident befall you, through no fault of your own, leaving you horribly disfigured and crippled for life, I am willing to bend this rule slightly. For example, I will hold the straw to your lips to quench your thirst, but I will not prepare the beverage beforehand. This is the job of a nurse, or possibly your mother.

3.      Table manners: This rule is basically a list of inexcusable habits from which there is no comeback. Eating with your fingers, licking your fingers, licking the plate and/or cutlery, eating with your mouth open, talking with your mouth full, incorrect use of your knife and fork, loud breathing through the nose while eating, using the napkin to blow your nose (I don't care how spicy your meal was), slurping your tea/coffee/wine/beer, or eating from my plate without my expressed consent. Any of the above will result in immediate dismissal.

4.      Hungry c**ts: If you don't care for that particular term, I can think of a few other ways to make my point. I am not interested, if any of the following apply to your character:

(a) He's so mean if he found a packet of corn plasters, he'd buy tight shoes.

(b) If he was a ghost he wouldn't give you a fright.

(c) He'd live in your ear and rent out the other one.

(d) He's as tight as a fly's arse on a frosty day.

5.      Idle chit chat: This is not a hard and fast rule. I'm not made of stone. I can understand that nerves play a major role in the rot that falls out of your mouth in the initial stages. It is conversations about the weather that I can and will not abide. Yes it's still raining and it will almost definitely rain tomorrow, and I do not need you or the weather channel to tell me that. Either stay indoors or shut the fuck up!

6.      IQ: I am not looking for a Stephen Fry (too old) or a Stephen Hawking (too much legwork), just a man that can hold his own in a conversation, with an above average grasp of the English language. Incorrect use of grammar is not cool. Be advised; a double negative does not make a positive.

7.      Sense of humour: This is of the utmost importance. The unfunny and unspeakably dull need not apply. There are no grey areas on this one.

Rob arrived at eight on the button. Urgh! Eager!! Had he arrived late however, I would have been equally pissed off, and naturally thought him to be an inconsiderate prick. I did not see this going well for him. He is attractive, as Bert had claimed, and capable of dressing himself, which may seem like a given, but I assure you it is not. I'll never fully comprehend the reasoning behind wearing your jeans so far below your underwear that the task of putting trousers on in the first place becomes counterproductive. If you do not intend to cover your ass then what possible reason is there for wearing pants? His hair had some gel in it, but not so much so that I could mould it into a miniature of the Statue of Liberty or Eiffel Tower.

I think that covers all the bases on my first impressions check-list:

1.      Attractive, or reasonably so. At the very least cute. √

2.      The ability to dress oneself. √

3.      The knowledge that you are in fact a man, and that your hair should reflect that. √

Having passed the first in a series of rigorous tests, I invited him in, and made him feel welcome by offering him a choice of tea or coffee, such is the custom. He declined, thereby passing test number two which is...I am not your mother- get your own damn tea. This offer was perfunctory, and should not be seen as a promise of things to come. He made inane chit chat, while I looked for my keys and tried to come up with a polite way to tell him that idle chit chat does not wash with me. Turns out there is no way, so we set off for the restaurant, with him still talking and me slowly losing the will to live.

Number three is the real test of a man's worth. The ability to eat in a way that doesn't make me want to push their face into their plate. This is where most men trip up and I had no doubt, Rob here, would be no different. Silence descended as we perused the menus, a silence he clearly couldn't handle but which I found delightful. His foot was tapping rhythmically against the leg of the table as he racked his brain for something to say. The waitress approached and he made the classic first date rookie mistake of ordering pasta. But then surprised me, by taking a calculated approach to his meal, turning his plate in a clockwise motion, methodically cutting through the ribbons of pasta so as to not slurp every slippery strand, and douse the pristine tablecloth in errant splatters of sauce. Each mouthful reached its target, and I could feel the threat of hope beginning to creep in.

He took a break from small talk for the duration of the meal, and we discussed various topics of interest, such as work, music, books and of course, our matchmaker Bert. Rob had been a neighbour of Bert's for more than three years and so quite familiar with his, let's say, unusual personality traits. Their first exchange was a heated one, as Rob was keen on loud music, while Bert was not. Two days later, Rob got home to find the volume dial on his sound system missing, and a note attached to one of the speakers...

If you ever want to see your knob again, I suggest you look down.

Bert.

To this day, Rob has no idea how Bert got into his apartment. He did however have a deadbolt installed the following day. The bill arrived two hours later, which he generously offered to pay, and even though I declined, I appreciated the gesture. After a minimum of fuss, he agreed to go halvsies. He walked me home and stood on the steps of my building with an expectant look on his hopeful little face. I gave him a modest kiss on the cheek and said goodnight. It's gonna take more than a meal my friend!

I climbed into bed alone and read my book, picking up where I left off. As opposed to going to the last page and reading backwards, or flicking through the pages till I found one I liked the look of. What a ridiculous expression: picking up where you left off. At what other point in any given task would you continue?

I fell asleep not long after, picking up where I left off this morning.