Paul and I are doing a dance. You know, that dance. The cold-war-of-dating dance.
Paul is Russia, I am America.
Russia makes threatening noises and aims its guns at America; America steps up and makes threatening noises back. America polishes its arsenal of nuclear weapons ( I went and got my bikini line done) and begins to take emergency measures (I found the Argentinian equivalent of IKEA and bought a bedspread to improve the rather alternative decor in my new bedroom.)
Then without warning, Russia retreats, takes stock and decides to withdraw and build up its defences. America follows suit and wonders what the flaming Jesus Russia is thinking of. This is repeated ad infinitum, both in the flesh and via electronic communication.
I can’t take any more! It is driving me mad! To hell with the glory of the chase; I want some decisive action and I want it now. I want a nuclear strike. I’m in the country of beef and red wine and passion! I’ve just done my sodding bikini line! Can he not appreciate the agony I have undergone in the hope of a night of, er, holding hands and maybe a chaste kiss?
Instead I have brinkmanship. I have torture. I have a phone full of hilarious messages, a backlog of excellent conversations and three nights out which must surely – SURELY – constitute dates.
And yet: nothing.
It’s been a while since I found myself in this situation and I’m unsure as to how best to proceed. As usual, I am playing by the Rules (he texts me; he books me for dates, he commences all conversations) so I know I’m not doing anything wrong but still. If he doesn’t make a move soon I’m at very high risk of getting wildly drunk and lunging at him. And as I have mentioned previously, this is not something I believe in. I hope sincerely that it doesn’t come to that. Pray for me, readers. Pray hard.
In other news, I have moved into an awesome, if not completely ridiculous apartment in the coolest neighbourhood in the whole world ever. My bed is essentially a toddler’s cot and there are weird plaster cats dotted around the place; furthermore my wardrobe may well lead to Narnia it is so huge. The building in which I reside features a man who sits in the communal hallway eating plates of rice, spaghetti, bananas and fried eggs (I shit you not) and if you sit on our patio at night you can hear the old man upstairs who plays Michael Jackson’s Heal the World on a loop. I am not sitting on the patio much given that it is winter here but when summer months arrive I suspect I will find it less amusing.
Anyway. I am going on a counter-date tomorrow with a man I met in a health food shop. This, if nothing else, should give Paul a run for his money. I damn well hope so because I have taken quite a shine to that Welshman, readers. Quite a shine.