Brief Encounter

He sat down and looked into my eyes.

"Let me ask you a question. You have to answer honestly, okay?"

"Okay," I said.

"Do you find me attractive?"

Well this wasn't exactly what I expected, I thought.

"Erm, not really," I ventured hesitantly.

"Ah. That's okay. I respect your honesty. Now ask me a question."

"Oh, er, well, let me think," I floundered. "What is your best attribute, and what is your worst?."

He took a moment and then gave me his deadly serious answer.

"Well, I'm really good in bed. Really good. I can go all night."

I was speechless.

"But I guess my worst attribute," he continued, "is that don't really know how to chat women up."

No shit Sherlock, I thought. I'm never going Speed Dating again.

The Modern Valentine

Valentine's evening. The moon was out in full. It looked beautiful rising above the heath as we stood breathless under the warm glow of a park lamp. The heat from our bodies warmed the space between us and my cheeks flushed as words struggled to escape from my constricted throat. I looked at him, my eyes a window to my inner turmoil. He held my gaze level with his, betraying nothing but the steely strength that burned within him. I wanted to give him what he demanded of me, what was his right, but my courage was failing and I was sure that I would let him down in the end.

"NUMBER 61," he shouted at me, breaking through my reverie. "DROP DOWN AND GIVE ME TEN!"

I'd been day dreaming again.

British Military Fitness may not be every single girl's alternative for a Valentine's day treat for herself. Society dictates that if you're single, you should be at home with a fine bottle of wine, some good company and a few choice DVDs or out on the pull with the girls, having a laugh and basically getting a bit mucky.

Bored!

So there I was with the other hardy single folk of South East London. We remarked on our dwindled numbers and joked about how those regulars that were Missing In Action were probably getting stuck into an altogether different type of exercise at home. And then we ran. We ran some more. We raced each other, did sit ups, burpees, press ups, squat thrusts, used all the muscles in our bodies, all under the watchful eye of members of Her Majesty's infantry.

It was great! God knows why, but it was!

Quick Question

Why do (some) men do their flies up AFTER they come out of the pub toilets? Clearly that must mean that they haven't washed their hands as they wouldn't stand at the sinks with their willies hanging out, would they?

Doesn't bear thinking about.

Thirty Whatever

I celebrated my 30th birthday a couple of weeks ago in a nice French bar/brasserie near Covent Garden. I was wearing a new dress, new boots and a big smile. Friends from the four hundred and fifty two corners of my life joined me and I had a great time... apparently.

I say "apparently" because from approximately 11pm I have very little recollection of the evening, although I suppose I did relatively well to remember up until then. I blame the white wine. White wine, you see, is the work of the devil, of Beelzebub himself. It is what I consider to be a "threshold drink" and by that I mean that the threshold between being sober and being utterly shitfaced is very, very small indeed.

I danced... apparently, I danced some more... apparently, and then we got a taxi home... apparently.