Romance: Fewer options

So. My list of four possible suitors has been whittled down, rather rapidly, to just one.

Simon, the Chicago man with a smell of clean laundry about him, has disappeared. If you have ever backpacked anywhere then this will surprise you in no way at all. Traveller types are highly unpredictable and are very prone to just disappearing off on the back of someone’s moped at 4am, never to be seen again. They are always fine; you hear from them six weeks down the line and they explain that they went to a party, got on the bong, played some awesome guitar and decided to open an artist’s studio in the ghetto. They have already made a fortune, sold the studio and then lost their money playing poker in Rio, but fortunately they have hooked up with a millionairess who is a) twenty years their senior, b) married and c) pure filth in bed. You hear nothing more for two years and then they suddenly arrive on your doorstep in London with a six pack of Eastern European beer and a bag of laundry. It is quite possible that they will have a glowering young lady from Bulgaria on their arm in addition.

Antonio, fortunately for me, decided that Buenos Aires was too cold; he could not feasibly walk around with his biceps bursting through the short sleeves of his hi-tech breathable trekking top, so he got on a plane to somewhere hot. Florida, I think. Poor thing.

Alfredo, my UTTERLY BEAUTIFUL Spanish teacher, has ditched me. He alleges that he has to go back to college himself this week (he is doing a PhD in something completely awesome like International Relations). I don’t believe him. I think that when he went to the loo and came back to find me out of my seat staring at the picture of him with Another Woman, trying frantically to discern whether she was his lover, friend or relative, he decided that he could not take any more. My significant glances across the pencil case were obviously too much for him. Probably for the best. I wasn’t learning anything.

So we are left with Paul. Paul has now found me a place to live (more on that in my next blog) but we are still in touch (surely this is significant?) and he invited me to drink red wine with him on Saturday after a flirty but inconclusive night at the party last Wednesday. Naturally I turned up in an outfit that said “casual; better than the average traveller’s wardrobe yet not so much as a whiff of try-hard.” But then began a game of flirting cat and mouse which exhausted me. He, like me, blew hot and cold. At one point, he grabbed me and threw me in the air (in spite of being the same height as me) but then when we went for dinner later on and other people joined us, he did not laugh at any of my jokes about empanadas (empanadas are basically like Cornish pasties except even dirtier). I, too was rubbish. One minute I was leaning in seductively to say something in his ear, my L’Oreal Elive-scented hair wafting invitingly in his face, the next I was being blokish and swash-buckling with the Scottish bloke to my left.

It was all a bit school playground really. I think we fancy each other but we are both too retarded to know what to do about it. I hope one of us mans up soon because the suspense, although rather delicious, is driving me a bit mad.

He has invited me to some cultural thingy on Thursday night so I am putting on my best, er, jeans, and hoping for the best.

Anyway. I must get back to decorating my pad which is the coolest place in the whole universe. Details, with a report on my date-or-not-date-I-don’t-bloody-well-know with Paul asap.


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