Ok. So maybe, just maybe I've been a little stubborn. Maybe I am a bit pig-headed. Maybe I am somewhat unforgiving.
As some of you have pointed out, maybe I need to look at recent events from James' point of view.
But you know, I hate the fact that James was so bloody mean about my friends. Life has taught me that men come and go but your friends are always there for you, to help pick you up, dust you off and set you back on your feet - whenever you lose your balance. I love my friends, and they love me, and I do not like anyone, even a sexy washboard-stomached naughty-eyed sex-god, saying that they are a bunch of losers.
Yes, I realise that maybe James hasn't had the best of times in my company over the past couple of weekends. Yes, I realise that being punched by the idiot boyfriend of one of my best friends is likely to have put a downer on his evening, but... still...
So I sat down for a bit and stared at the infamous shag-pile, and came up with a list of pros and cons.
The Case For James:
- he's indecently sexy
- he's scarily intelligent
- he makes me laugh, a lot
- there's an incredible physical connection between us
- I'm (usually) comfortable in his presence; being with him feels very natural
- there's something about him that I find fascinating
- he's a great kisser... and the rest...
- did I mention that he's indecently sexy?
The Case Against James:
- I'm starting to think that maybe he's a bit of a snob and overly concerned with appearances
- he is capable of sulking, big time, which is not terribly attractive in a man
- in many ways, we couldn't be more different, and I'm not sure if that's a good thing
- his friends suck (but then again, it seems that he thinks my friends suck too)
- I have a feeling that there may be more negatives yet to emerge
Don't want to call him, but also not sure if I'm ready for it to be over yet...
Why does it always have to get complicated? I really should just stick to one-night-stands; all the physical fun and none of the emotional bullshit. Much more manageable.
Friday, November 11, 2005
The Big Chill
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Hrmphhh
Text from James this afternoon: HEY HOW R U?
So far I'm ignoring it. If he wants to communicate with me then he can pick up the phone and call me, properly.
I'm an old-fashioned girl at heart.
So far I'm ignoring it. If he wants to communicate with me then he can pick up the phone and call me, properly.
I'm an old-fashioned girl at heart.
Monday, November 07, 2005
The Aftermath
So, we're in the minicab on the way back to my house. James is grumbling away, clutching at his jaw. I suppose he has to be forgiven for the complaining; Dave is fairly puny but he still managed to pack one hell of a punch. So I'm being hugely apologetic and agreeing with him that, yes, Dave is a bit of an idiot, and yes, he was out of order, and yes, I am so sorry it happened, poor baby, I'll make it up to you as soon as I get you alone.
Then James goes, Sara, what are you doing hanging around with those people? I'm like, what do you mean by that? And he goes, well, you know, they're kind of, well, a bunch of losers. I say, hang on a minute, James, that's incredibly rude. And anyway, it's not like your friends are so fucking great, is it?
We sort of glare at each other and I'm sure more unpleasant words would have been exchanged if the cab hadn't chosen that moment to pull up outside my front door. I flounce out of the cab, chuck some money at the driver and start the usual long search for my house keys.
I live in quite a nice area; green and leafy, and like most of London, it's being overrun by property developers with pound signs in their eyes. However, our house is the black sheep of the street. Like a once glamorous movie star past her prime, our house stands firm in its resistance to the 21st Century home-improvement madness. The weed-festooned front garden alone signals a heartfelt fuck-you defiance to the Farrow & Ball colour palette and Zen gravel arrangement of next door. And it's not much better inside. Helen and I could hardly be described as house proud.
I open the door and usher James in. It's like I'm seeing the place for the first time. The green shag pile carpet looks even shabbier than usual, set off nicely by the drift of junk mail Helen and I always talk about clearing away but never get any further than kicking into the corner. The bare lightbulb (the lampshade went missing after one of our wilder parties, we meant to replace it, but...) highlights the peeling anaglypta on the walls. The sitting room sofa is one of those nasty Dralon affairs. There is a patch of damp on the wall next to the bay window. The curtains sag.
Yeah. It's a dump.
I can tell that James is less than impressed, although I'm not sure that the pained expression on his face is down to my lack of des res or his rapidly swelling jaw. I sit him down and decide that the only option is to anaethetise him with vodka. Even if it doesn't numb the pain, at the very least it might cheer him up.
Bad idea. James gets even moodier.
Eventually I reach the point where I've had enough - I am in no way a glutton for punishment - and offer to call him a minicab. He accepts without any hesitation, and the silence while we wait for it to show up is acute. James practically leaps up when we hear the toot of a car horn outside - showing an insulting level of haste in my opinion - plants a passionless kiss on my lips and throws an, I'll call you, over his shoulder as he races out of the door.
In my experience, that can mean only one thing: Game Over.
Then James goes, Sara, what are you doing hanging around with those people? I'm like, what do you mean by that? And he goes, well, you know, they're kind of, well, a bunch of losers. I say, hang on a minute, James, that's incredibly rude. And anyway, it's not like your friends are so fucking great, is it?
We sort of glare at each other and I'm sure more unpleasant words would have been exchanged if the cab hadn't chosen that moment to pull up outside my front door. I flounce out of the cab, chuck some money at the driver and start the usual long search for my house keys.
I live in quite a nice area; green and leafy, and like most of London, it's being overrun by property developers with pound signs in their eyes. However, our house is the black sheep of the street. Like a once glamorous movie star past her prime, our house stands firm in its resistance to the 21st Century home-improvement madness. The weed-festooned front garden alone signals a heartfelt fuck-you defiance to the Farrow & Ball colour palette and Zen gravel arrangement of next door. And it's not much better inside. Helen and I could hardly be described as house proud.
I open the door and usher James in. It's like I'm seeing the place for the first time. The green shag pile carpet looks even shabbier than usual, set off nicely by the drift of junk mail Helen and I always talk about clearing away but never get any further than kicking into the corner. The bare lightbulb (the lampshade went missing after one of our wilder parties, we meant to replace it, but...) highlights the peeling anaglypta on the walls. The sitting room sofa is one of those nasty Dralon affairs. There is a patch of damp on the wall next to the bay window. The curtains sag.
Yeah. It's a dump.
I can tell that James is less than impressed, although I'm not sure that the pained expression on his face is down to my lack of des res or his rapidly swelling jaw. I sit him down and decide that the only option is to anaethetise him with vodka. Even if it doesn't numb the pain, at the very least it might cheer him up.
Bad idea. James gets even moodier.
Eventually I reach the point where I've had enough - I am in no way a glutton for punishment - and offer to call him a minicab. He accepts without any hesitation, and the silence while we wait for it to show up is acute. James practically leaps up when we hear the toot of a car horn outside - showing an insulting level of haste in my opinion - plants a passionless kiss on my lips and throws an, I'll call you, over his shoulder as he races out of the door.
In my experience, that can mean only one thing: Game Over.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
The Party
I am SO hungover. So please excuse any typos. In fact, it's a miracle I'm able to type at all. My brain is like an arid desert today.
Anyway...
I took James along to Nadia's party last night. I was feeling a bit nervous about the prospect of introducing him to my friends; James is so different to my usual type that I had no idea how they would react. My usual type is creative, unconventional, radical, with a definite edge - the total opposite to James. So I was working on the assumption that he might come as a bit of a surprise.
By the time we get to Nadia's flat - she lives in this really cool factory conversion in Wandsworth - the party's been in full swing for a couple of hours. All the usual suspects are there and they're all very well lubricated. It's like the Fall of the Roman Empire with Ikea furniture. I find Nadia, give her a kiss hello and introduce James. She looks him up and down, gives me a wink and goes, very nice. Where did you find this one then? I'm like, oh you know, just another conquest from The Club. You know I like to keep the punters happy. James gives me a look. I look back, smile and say, James, I'm joking. Sometimes I don't think he quite gets my sense of humour.
By this point, the rest of the posse figure out that we're here and within minutes we're surrounded. All my friends have heard about James, with varying degrees of detail, so naturally they all want to take a look at him. It all starts off well. My friends behave themselves, refrain from dropping any major clangers and the piss-taking is mild. The girls are drooling over him, James is loving the attention and on a total charm offensive, and even Joe and Paul are more friendly than they usually are to any of my men (they're kind of over-protective and extremely suspicious of any new testosterone invading their patch). So I'm happy, relaxed and knocking the wine back like it's going out of fashion.
Then Dave, Evie's other half, rocks up. I like Dave but when he's drunk he's unbearable; a fully paid-up member of the Angry Pisshead Club. And Dave is totally hammered tonight. As usual, he launches straight into his favorite subject, football, directing a slurred, Who do you support, mate? at James. James goes, Chelsea. Who else? Dave, a lifelong Arsenal fan, goes ballistic. I won't go into the details, suffice it to say that James gets all pinched around the mouth and starts frowning, there's a fair bit of swearing, aspersions are cast as to Frank Lampard's sexuality, to which James' rejoinder is that Thierry Henri couldn't kick his way out of a paper bag. Dave loses it and throws a punch that lands right on James' jaw.
I mean, for fuck's sake! What is it with men and football?
As you can imagine, being physically assaulted totally kills James' party spirit, and since Evie has dragged Dave home for a major bollocking he can't even get his revenge. So I call a minicab and take James back to my place.
And that's when it all started to really go wrong.
I'm too knackered right now to write any more so I'm off to veg in front of the telly. More tomorrow.
Anyway...
I took James along to Nadia's party last night. I was feeling a bit nervous about the prospect of introducing him to my friends; James is so different to my usual type that I had no idea how they would react. My usual type is creative, unconventional, radical, with a definite edge - the total opposite to James. So I was working on the assumption that he might come as a bit of a surprise.
By the time we get to Nadia's flat - she lives in this really cool factory conversion in Wandsworth - the party's been in full swing for a couple of hours. All the usual suspects are there and they're all very well lubricated. It's like the Fall of the Roman Empire with Ikea furniture. I find Nadia, give her a kiss hello and introduce James. She looks him up and down, gives me a wink and goes, very nice. Where did you find this one then? I'm like, oh you know, just another conquest from The Club. You know I like to keep the punters happy. James gives me a look. I look back, smile and say, James, I'm joking. Sometimes I don't think he quite gets my sense of humour.
By this point, the rest of the posse figure out that we're here and within minutes we're surrounded. All my friends have heard about James, with varying degrees of detail, so naturally they all want to take a look at him. It all starts off well. My friends behave themselves, refrain from dropping any major clangers and the piss-taking is mild. The girls are drooling over him, James is loving the attention and on a total charm offensive, and even Joe and Paul are more friendly than they usually are to any of my men (they're kind of over-protective and extremely suspicious of any new testosterone invading their patch). So I'm happy, relaxed and knocking the wine back like it's going out of fashion.
Then Dave, Evie's other half, rocks up. I like Dave but when he's drunk he's unbearable; a fully paid-up member of the Angry Pisshead Club. And Dave is totally hammered tonight. As usual, he launches straight into his favorite subject, football, directing a slurred, Who do you support, mate? at James. James goes, Chelsea. Who else? Dave, a lifelong Arsenal fan, goes ballistic. I won't go into the details, suffice it to say that James gets all pinched around the mouth and starts frowning, there's a fair bit of swearing, aspersions are cast as to Frank Lampard's sexuality, to which James' rejoinder is that Thierry Henri couldn't kick his way out of a paper bag. Dave loses it and throws a punch that lands right on James' jaw.
I mean, for fuck's sake! What is it with men and football?
As you can imagine, being physically assaulted totally kills James' party spirit, and since Evie has dragged Dave home for a major bollocking he can't even get his revenge. So I call a minicab and take James back to my place.
And that's when it all started to really go wrong.
I'm too knackered right now to write any more so I'm off to veg in front of the telly. More tomorrow.
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