Block, block, delete

After a week’s brief flirtation with different dating apps with different profiles out of curiosity, I found myself in possession of a handful of phone numbers, a date under my belt, two in the offing; and still none the wiser about why men are scared to just hang out and why they keep sending photos of their nether regions.  And I also then had a lovely, little surprise bonus, a good ol’ fashion bar pick-up at the weekend.  Aaahh, remember those days?  Boy and girl are in bar, boy approaches girl, boy chats to girl without the aid of a smartphone, boy and girl discuss the possibility of sharing a little time.  Face to face, in real time, real life. What’s not to love about a cheeky twenty-six year old from the South of France, positively oozing confidence, smooth-talking his way into your affections over a gintonic? Or four.   BUT (and this is an important but), all the while employing impeccable manners, being charming, polite, sweet and funny.  With you and all your girlfriends.  For fear of repeating myself, it’s the key that makes all the difference.  At no point did he say, “Fancy a f*ck?”  How refreshing. I took him home.

I appear to be a magnet for all things Gallic at the moment.  Well, not all things.  MEN.  And I kind of like it.

Fast forward to Tuesday, and Mr Interesting, from site one who I met for lunch last Friday, turned into Mr ‘I’m a complete and utter freaky weirdo, you should run away as fast as is humanly possible in the other direction’, nut job.

Having planned to pop out for a bite to eat and a drink, I explained that I had the possibility of some extra work to cover for a colleaue, so could we swap to Friday again.  This didn’t sit well, and I was the reciprocant of a tirade of insults ranging from ice queen to f*cking hypocrite (???) and an ensuing barage of a character assassination.  Knowing me so well, as he did after just two short hours.  Block, block, delete.  Jesus dude, relax, we had lunch, which btw, I bloody paid for.  No-one, but no-one likes a cheap loon-bag.  They’re the absolute worst kind.

The extra work didn’t transpire, so I accepted the invitation of the ‘don’t seduce me’ chap to go to Camp Nou for my first FCB experience.  It was a lot of fun and I expect we’ll do something else soon.  It was so very refreshing and enjoyable to just hang out with absolutely no expectations at all, hanging over my head.  Also, Monsieur South of France is still chit chatting, which is, in equal measures, both surprising and delightful, and he may be popping back to Barcelona in the summer. 

What an unexpected treat.

Happily enconsed alone in my new place, in an area of the city that’s never dull, a night out with the girls on the menu tonight, a couple of hotties in the bank, my health and happiness and a restraining order in place; what’s not to be cheerful about?