Nope. Next!

Sorry, but no.

Paul cannot be. I heard nothing from him for five days and then he sent a text message today asking if I had found anywhere good to do yoga.

1. I do not do yoga. Not now, not ever. The downward dog leaves me with the posture of a hunchback and the sound of mentally stable women breathing deeply troubles me more than I can describe. I like to spend my ‘exercise’ time working up a sweat and charging around like an angry Water Buffalo – this, to me at least, feels like health ‘n’ fitness time well spent. It doesn’t sit well with me to sit on a mat with my feet round my ears and an expression of serenity on my face. I am not serene. I need a treadmill and a room that smells of perspiration and anger.

2. Paul’s message is not a date request. It is an information request. I apologise for the base sentiment but I do not put out for a bloody yoga query.

3. I am a Rules girl. If a man is interested, he will beat down your door for a date. Paul has vaguely hovered around the end of my street but he has not employed an army of gruff men to smash my door to smithereens with a battering ram. If he is half-arsed about this flirtation we’ve been having then I am going to pre-empt by being no-arsed. Enough.

(I love the way that I have clearly been rejected here but I’m somehow making out that I’ve decided that it’s not going to happen and that I  am the one calling the shots.Way to go, Robinson! Self-delusion will get you a long way!)

It is not to be. Never mind. I have just got back from a fashionable restaurant where a beautiful gay man pledged to find me an army of ruggend Argentinians bythe end of the week. I have taken him up on this and shall update you in the next few days.

In the meantime, a man walked past me and muttered something in Spanish yesterday which, according to my housemate, translated as “you are extremely beautiful. Come to my house at 4pm.” I can’t help but admire the man for this. What precision! What confidence! 4pm or nothing.

If I see him again I may have to take him up on it. My plans for a spectacular gap year* romance have hit rocky ground.

*Gap year my arse, Robinson, you washed-up old has-been.

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