Readers. I have met a man I like.
Hang on, WHAT?
My dog Grouse, when he passes wind, often looks round at his backside in total confusion. “What was that?” he thinks. “Who made that noise?”
That is how I feel writing the opening line of this blog.
“I have met a man I like.”
Eh? Me? Lucy Robinson? Dater of drug addicts, face-clutchers, pigeon-racers? In fact, dater of (in recent months) bloody no-one at all?
What the flaming Jesus is going on!
I honestly don’t know. I was going about my business, trying to remember the Spanish word for ‘aubergine’ at the local farmers’ market one sunny Saturday morning at the beginning of November, when my phone rings. “Hello,” said The Man. “It’s me! The Man! I’m here in Buenos Aires! Want to meet up?”
“Yes! Great! No worries,” I said breezily.
“Shit,” I said to my friend. “There’s a friend of a friend in town. I looked him up on facebook. He’s hot. He wants to meet me in an hour. SHIT.”
My friend looked at me, ordered my aubergine and took me for an organic hippy lemonade at a rickety table.
“Lucy,” she said carefully. “Basically calm the f*** down. What does it matter if he’s hot? You don’t even know he’s single! You don’t know you’ll like him. You don’t know he’ll like you. Chill, chica.”
I downed my lemonade and wondered why the feck there are some people who can be this reasonable and why the feck I am not one of them.
Anyway. We met up, he was single; I liked him; he liked me. Within 14 hours of meeting we were snogging on an old sofa in the corner of a tango hall and now he appears to have unofficially moved in with me.
(About that. He is moving into a flat of his own next week. I haven’t completely lost my mind.)
I cannot believe I am writing these words, after more than a year of dating horror. But it’s true. I can’t deny it any longer. I like The Man.
Look. Don’t worry. I’m not about to abandon you and become some sort of Attached Person; the bare facts of the matter still remain. He lives in London while I am a person of no fixed abode currently mincing round South America. According to my latest plans I am not going to be living in London again for a good year. This is not heading for a happily-ever-after.
But anyway, a brief update. We spent Christmas day together and it was awesome. We hung out with the ace-as-you-like friends who introduced us and then came home and danced quietly on my balcony at 2am. We are to spend New Year’s Eve together with the same friends and a load of others. He bought a tent and an inflatable killer whale. He calls me Robinson, tells me I have beautiful eyes and fixes my perennially malfunctioning bog. He made me lunch the other day when I was a bit ill, assembled a fan that I bought in the vain hope of cooling my HORRIBLE BOILING BEDROOM down and he sat staring at me in a kindly fashion when I told him, last night, that I was going to lose my mind if I didn’t get some ‘me time’ soon and then starting yelling “oh no, now you think I’m mad, you do, don’t you,” and even shed a couple of tears. (I know, I know. Regrettable. I have since apologised.)
He is basically amazing.
And, because he is about to arrive at my apartment (at 12.30am because he kindly offered to take himself off for the evening to give me some space – I mean, seriously. Amazing) I am going to have to break this off here. I shall send a further update when I return from Punta del Este where we will be rocking on the beach to live music and fireworks tomorrow.
Life is mad. Happy New Year to you all, my beloved readers. I cannot tell you how much I have enjoyed spending 2010 with you. PEACE. x