'Tis the season of Christmas parties, abundant hangovers, and random snogging - sadly, I've missed out on most of it, being neither still at an office (no random snogging at the office party, generally, given there were only four men who worked there), nor in London early enough to capitalise on invites from mates till Saturday, when I attended two. So the Christmas party this year was really the weekend that I spent in Sheffield with friends a couple of weeks ago (followed by my last weekend in Scotland, spent in the Borders, with actual SNOW. Yeah, Scotland knows how to do December: 100 mile an hour winds and snow).
I rocked up at lunchtime on the Friday, to be whisked off to Chatsworth by my friend Lucy, to gaze at 20 foot high Christmas trees, huge tables fully laid up with the family silver and a fantastic room where you could write a wish on a label and tie it to a pillar - best not to start reading any of them if you're feeling at all 'seasonally affected', as they were all either ridiculously sweet or terribly sad. My wish was probably that Ash would win Masterchef and Harry would win Strictly, both of which came to pass, so it definitely works.
Feeling suitably festive, we headed off for dinner with our friend Shelly, her mum and her stepdad, after which Lucy and I decided to go 'out out' (as Micky Flanagan would say) to a bar down the road. I was warned it would be a total meat market. 'Bring it on!' I thought, 'I'm wearing a frock and everything!' It's amazing how liberated you feel when you know you're not going to have to tackle hills and cobbles, plus a howling gale and probably lashing rain on a night out. You can wear shoes that are in some way ladylike. Heck, you can even discard the cardigan if you want to. It's practically akin to ditching the corsets and grabbing a Flapper dress. And getting a job! Like Lady Sybil in Downton! Well, maybe not that liberating, but you get the idea.
As the bar was rammed, we stationed ourselves in a less crowded courtyard bit outside. We were first approached by two chaps, one of whom looked quite a lot like Alexander Armstrong from Armstrong and Miller (or the chap from the Pimm's ad, if that's more your bag, reference-wise), who I've always thought looks like a fun type. (Yeah, I have a thing for raging poshos, what of it?) We had a good old natter; 'Why did you come over to talk to us?' I eventually asked AA. 'I liked your specs', he said, 'I thought they looked cool.' Crikey! No-one's ever said that before. He lost points, however when, on finding out how old I was, he asked if I had kids/husband. I said no to both. His third question: 'Are you a lesbian, then?' Oh MEN. Men. Men. Seriously, can you not have a bit of a think about things before you say them? Is being married really the only way one can prove one's a card-carrying heterosexual? If I were a lesbian, d'you not think I'd be in a gay bar, trying to find a nice lady, instead of here, surrounded by drunk men? He was 42 and had never been married, did that make him gay?
Luckily for him, my inner Germaine Greer was out somewhere else - possibly opining on the Late Review about an opera performed entirely by dwarves, or critiquing Come Dine with Me - the Late Review's quite random these days. I laughed instead and told him to stop being such a fuckwit. He eventually offered me his number. He lived in Coventry. 'What am I going to do with that?' I said. Again, why do men do this? If you're the one who's interested in me, ask for my bloody number. As modern women, we have enough on our plate. We have to have Stressful Jobs (people look down on you if you have an easy job; they think it's a waste of the three years you spent at university, getting into debt). We have to have houses with tasteful stuff in, which have to be kept clean and tidy. Unless you're me, in which case you invite people round every three months just to force you to clean and tidy the house. We have to keep up with everything from the Leveson enquiry to global warming, apps to Twitter and the Man Booker Prize. We are expected to look groomed, primed and primped to within an inch of our lives. We're also trying to fit in trips to the gym three times a week, so that we don't have to wear hessian sacks to cover up all our unsightly bits. And see all our friends and family. It's no wonder you keep reading about those women who get up at 5.30am just to get it all done. And now we have to phone you as well? Give me a break. I've read the bloody Rules - that's still your job.
I left it at, 'I'm an old fashioned girl. You'd have to call me' (why I wanted a man who harboured suspicions I was a lesbian to call me I've no idea; actually, I knew if he took my number he wouldn't call me, so I didn't have anything to lose or gain by giving up the information. Anyway, despite the lesbian thing, I did think he was quite fun.)
Following on from this, Lucy and I were approached by a Young Man. Now, this one really was young. We both rolled our eyes as he came in with a classic, 'I need your advice' line, and proceeded to tell us an extremely long-winded story about his 'brother'. It was approximately the length of The Lord of the Rings. Halfway through I told him to get to the point - I could feel my life ebbing away. He eventually ground to a halt. Lucy and I gave our 'advice' - we were feeling in a generous and humouring sort of mood (God knows, I've tried some random conversational gambits in my time). I then asked him if he'd read The Game - it was a classic Game 'opener'. He said he hadn't. I told him I had, and if he wanted to chat to girls by seeming not to chat them up, he was going to have to make his story a lot shorter, sharper and funnier.
Despite this, he still seemed keen for a chat. I thought I'd better give him the option of leaving. 'How old are you?' I said. He made me guess, so I upped it a bit and said 24. He was 21. 21! Seriously, dude, I'm wearing a cardigan and specs and you're chatting me up? Young blokes really are confusing these days, no? You think it's all Nuts and Zoo and girls in their pants with fake eyelashes like tarantula's legs that they go for. Turns out, it's women who're old enough to be their mums, in a cardi, specs and knee-length boots. I told him I'd bet him a tenner he couldn't get within five years of my age if he guessed it. He guessed 29. I nearly died laughing and told him I was 41. I think he thought I was making it up for a laugh.
Even that didn't stop him. I'll give him points for persistence. 'So, are you coming back to mine, then?' he said. Eh? 'Of course not!' I shrieked, 'I'm old enough to be your mum!' He really didn't seem to care. I asked him to give me three good reasons why I should. 'Well', he said, 'we've had a good laugh, haven't we?' I thought, if you count me laughing at you rather than with you, then yes. But had to tell him that actually me having a laugh wasn't that unusual; young men might not generally find a woman they can have a conversation with, (constantly applying fake tan, getting your nails done and putting those eyelashes and all that make up on doesn't leave much time for intellectual stimulation), but I'd spent the week climbing indoor rock walls, let's not forget - that's chat that's going to sustain me for the next three months.
His next good reason was that he was attractive. Well, if I wanted the Daily Mail to hound me in a Caroline Flack/Harry Styles from One Direction way, then yes, he was OK, but I did have to refer him to my prior point that he was young enough to be my offspring: not attractive.
'Come on, then, what's your third point?' I said, bashing him 'playfully' on the arm. I might've been a bit drunk by this stage. 'Um, well, I've got a lot of stamina?' he ventured. I collapsed laughing before telling him that as I was so very old, this was actually quite a late night for me as it was, and that sounded exhausting. I tried really hard to find him someone more age appropriate to chat up, but failed. He reappeared about ten minutes after I'd waved him on his way, and said to Lucy, 'I'm really gutted I failed with your friend'.
So, I spanned two whole decades in terms of chat ups - got to love meat market bars for that.
Then on the train home, Rock Climbing Boy and I were texting (RCB is the ideal mid-point in my Goldilocksian venn diagram of dating, by the way, being 31.) He'd moved into a new flat, so I was asking if he was all sorted. After a few texts, he ended up saying he was hungover and vegging on the sofa, but if I wanted to come over, he'd cook me whatever was in the fridge. Why not, in for a penny, in for a pound, I thought. Then had a frantic texting session with Lucy about the fact I hadn't shaved my legs since our last date. 'Take round red wine and dark chocolate, get him stuck into that, then tell him the heating on the train was broken, you're freezing cold and you need a shower to warm up', she texted. 'Then you can grab his razor!' I really did feel very Bridget Jones. You can tell this whole 'Date 2' thing never really happens, can't you? In the end, I struck a blow for feminism and just didn't bother. My inner Germaine Greer stopped reviewing Skyrim and high fived me. He had the manners not to draw attention to it or complain. Chaps, you can take us on fancy dates, pay for dinner and pull out all the stops, but what we really want is someone with nice manners. Who won't think we're a lesbian if we're unmarried at the age of 41.
Monday 19 December 2011
Crotchets and Quavering
The best part of Christmas (other than the moment when you think, 'Yes, I have FINISHED my Christmas shopping')? Christmas music! Although it's hard not to get a bit Grinchy when you're hearing Slade, Wizzard and Mariah Carey on a constant loop from the end of November. Added to which, some bugger used Fairytale of New York on an advert this year. Seriously? One of the most heavily played Chrimbo songs of all time and now you're using it on an advert as well? As I've been at home all day with the radio on for six weeks, I've felt positively hounded by Christmas this year.
Nevertheless, I do have to profess a profound love for Christmas hits. They're generally raucous and jolly - apart from Pipes of Peace (*sad face*), Do They Know it's Christmas (*sad charity face*) and Wham's Last Christmas (*sad singleton face*). But you can cheer yourself up by visualising George 'n' Andrew's spectacular flicky hair do's and cringey jumpers in the video and give yourself a retro chuckle by remembering that when that first came out, we all thought George Michael was straight.
And because Christmas songs are wheeled out every year, they instantly transport you into happy Christmases past and prep you for The Great Trek Home (complete with carrier bags whose handles snap just as you heave them onto the train and the grinding realisation that you've left Mum's main present on the sofa in your flat). Plus they turn all of December into an impromtu karaoke session. I challenge even the most tone deaf person not to want to warble along to Mariah Carey's All I Want for Christmas (the backing vocals on that are a particular joy). If all else fails, you can just shout, 'You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot' and channel your inner Scrooge with the Pogues and the much-missed Kirsty McColl.
2011's top Christmas music moments so far:
1/ A steel band playing Christmas tunes on Oxford Street yesterday. I love a steel band at the best of times, reminiscent as they are of sunshine and carnivals. Steel band + Christmas tunes = pure joy.
2/ A brass band playing carols outside a pub in Cleaver Square yesterday evening. I am so horribly sentimental now that this actually brought a tear to my eyes. I think it might've been the final scenes of Brassed Off that engendered a Pavlovian reaction to brass bands. They could be playing the world's happiest song, and I'd still be all teary.
3/ My karaoke leaving do at work. Man, I went out in style. I'd booked two hours (fool! Why do I never just go, 'come on, we're only just getting drunk two hours in - go for four, minimum'), starting at 7pm. I think I finally got home at 1.00am. We had a crack at everything (though The Only Rap Song I Can Do, Neneh Cherry's Buffalo Stance, was disappointingly absent. My colleagues would've been amazed at my word-and-timing perfect rendition of that). Finally, hoarse, drunker than a barrel of skunks at the Jack Daniels factory and emotional, it was time to finish. But what to choose for my actual swansong? It's Christmas, emotions were running high, there was only one choice: Frankie Goes to Hollywood's The Power of Love. Yeah, half my colleagues weren't born when that came out, but dammit, it's a bloody great song. It's got mental lyrics ('I'll protect you from the hooded claw'), and has nothing to do with Christmas ('keep the vampires from your door'), but has brilliant soaring bits that if you're really in the mood can't be beaten.
I. Gave. It. Loads. I made that song my own, as Louis Walsh would say. Even the guy who'd come to try to eject us from the karaoke room went, 'Wow. That was really good' at the end. (High praise indeed). I can only apologise to the colleagues who were sitting there going, 'This is so SAD. How could she pick such a SAD SONG?' And hey, I could've had a crack at Adele's Someone Like You, and pointed at them all individually throughout, whilst weeping profusely. They'd never have allowed anyone to leave the company again if I'd done that.
Nevertheless, I do have to profess a profound love for Christmas hits. They're generally raucous and jolly - apart from Pipes of Peace (*sad face*), Do They Know it's Christmas (*sad charity face*) and Wham's Last Christmas (*sad singleton face*). But you can cheer yourself up by visualising George 'n' Andrew's spectacular flicky hair do's and cringey jumpers in the video and give yourself a retro chuckle by remembering that when that first came out, we all thought George Michael was straight.
And because Christmas songs are wheeled out every year, they instantly transport you into happy Christmases past and prep you for The Great Trek Home (complete with carrier bags whose handles snap just as you heave them onto the train and the grinding realisation that you've left Mum's main present on the sofa in your flat). Plus they turn all of December into an impromtu karaoke session. I challenge even the most tone deaf person not to want to warble along to Mariah Carey's All I Want for Christmas (the backing vocals on that are a particular joy). If all else fails, you can just shout, 'You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot' and channel your inner Scrooge with the Pogues and the much-missed Kirsty McColl.
2011's top Christmas music moments so far:
1/ A steel band playing Christmas tunes on Oxford Street yesterday. I love a steel band at the best of times, reminiscent as they are of sunshine and carnivals. Steel band + Christmas tunes = pure joy.
2/ A brass band playing carols outside a pub in Cleaver Square yesterday evening. I am so horribly sentimental now that this actually brought a tear to my eyes. I think it might've been the final scenes of Brassed Off that engendered a Pavlovian reaction to brass bands. They could be playing the world's happiest song, and I'd still be all teary.
3/ My karaoke leaving do at work. Man, I went out in style. I'd booked two hours (fool! Why do I never just go, 'come on, we're only just getting drunk two hours in - go for four, minimum'), starting at 7pm. I think I finally got home at 1.00am. We had a crack at everything (though The Only Rap Song I Can Do, Neneh Cherry's Buffalo Stance, was disappointingly absent. My colleagues would've been amazed at my word-and-timing perfect rendition of that). Finally, hoarse, drunker than a barrel of skunks at the Jack Daniels factory and emotional, it was time to finish. But what to choose for my actual swansong? It's Christmas, emotions were running high, there was only one choice: Frankie Goes to Hollywood's The Power of Love. Yeah, half my colleagues weren't born when that came out, but dammit, it's a bloody great song. It's got mental lyrics ('I'll protect you from the hooded claw'), and has nothing to do with Christmas ('keep the vampires from your door'), but has brilliant soaring bits that if you're really in the mood can't be beaten.
I. Gave. It. Loads. I made that song my own, as Louis Walsh would say. Even the guy who'd come to try to eject us from the karaoke room went, 'Wow. That was really good' at the end. (High praise indeed). I can only apologise to the colleagues who were sitting there going, 'This is so SAD. How could she pick such a SAD SONG?' And hey, I could've had a crack at Adele's Someone Like You, and pointed at them all individually throughout, whilst weeping profusely. They'd never have allowed anyone to leave the company again if I'd done that.
Thursday 8 December 2011
Blow the Winds Southerly
As an addendum to the earlier post, my intention to possibly go to the gym and definitely get rid of my books this afternoon ended up being - naturally - postponed (although I did offload the final bag of clothes to the charity shop). But at least this time it's not my fault - we're being battered by truly mad winds in Scotland (apparently it going to get up to 100 miles an hour tonight; I suddenly had a vision of all the 'Occupy Edinburgh' tents being blown around the city like so many plastic bags).
It's quite nice when one's procrastination is government-approved.
It's quite nice when one's procrastination is government-approved.
Flying South for Winter
I am currently enjoying what's known in the trade as 'gardening leave', although why they call it that, I've no idea. Barely anyone I know has a garden, and about 80% of the ones that do employ someone else to do the actual gardening bit for them. Plus, it implies a level of activity that's frankly unrealistic, when you're as pathologically lazy as I am. What it should really be called is 'Pajama Leave', as there's no need to get up before 10am, and you don't have to get dressed at all if you're not venturing out of the house.
Yes, it's true, for those that don't know, I'm leaving Edinburgh and moving back down South. Edinburgh is prepping for my departure by being absolutely freezing (I went to see a friend in Glasgow on Tuesday and was surprised by the amount of snow on the fields as I whizzed along on the train). I am currently to be found not only wearing flannel PJs in bed, but also a long-sleeved thermal top underneath. During the day, I'm spending a lot of time when indoors in my puffa coat and scarf, wondering quite how high my heating bills will be if I have the radiators on all day. It's a bit like being an invalid (spending all your time in your dressing gown), but in the Arctic. The upside is, I'm encouraged to go to the gym just to warm up through doing some exercise and using the sauna.
I assumed when I embarked on my gardening leave that I'd automatically morph into the kind of woman who goes to yoga every morning, then sits around in chi-chi cafes sipping chai lattes whilst reading Grazia. Sadly, this has not really come to pass - although I have done a fair few yoga classes, I'm not suddenly some wheatgrass-imbibing detox type. No, I spent this morning:
Recently, I've whiled away a whole day reading Russell Brand's second book. I've embarked on a series of improving facials, which see me having my face prodded with a number of electrical 'wands' in order to improve my crepey eyelids and get rid of any forehead wrinkles. I know no-one else will notice the difference, but I think it's working, and it makes me feel like one of those Ladies Who Lunch. My internet connection is so slow that checking emails takes forever. There's all that catching up to do on iPlayer, now my TV's been taken down South for the winter (it's frustrating that I have a huge box set of Mad Men, which I've never seen, but which I know I'm going to love, as part of my leaving gift from work, but nothing to play it on. Although perhaps this is a good thing - I really wouldn't leave the house if I could just watch DVDs 24/7).
I'm also finally wading through the last mountain of paper in preparation for moving out. As per usual, when boxing up all my possessions, I had a near breakdown about how much stuff I have. I thought I'd made a conscious effort not to buy loads of things, but somehow, when I produced a vague list as to what I'd acquired in the last 18 months, it was still alarmingly long and included things such as 'huge Rob Ryan framed print' and 'massive rug', plus duvet, airbed, pillows, baking kit, cake tins and at least 3 pairs of boots. The worst of it is the paper, though. How on earth do I accrue so much of it? What makes me constitutionally incapable of throwing out magazines, not ripping out recipes which I'll clearly never make and having thousands of envelopes everywhere with scrappy 'to do' lists and random phone numbers on them? Every time I move house, I swear it will be different, and every time I end up flicking through 6-month old magazines (you can't just throw them out! There might be something useful in there) and making hundreds of trips to the recycling bins. I should be taking the time to do improving things like going to galleries and museums, but no, I'm hefting massive bags of rubbish around and cursing. I never tested out whether the fireplace in my sitting room was in working order, but this week might well be the time to try - keep warm for free and get rid of all your crap? Win-win, I'd say.
Yes, it's true, for those that don't know, I'm leaving Edinburgh and moving back down South. Edinburgh is prepping for my departure by being absolutely freezing (I went to see a friend in Glasgow on Tuesday and was surprised by the amount of snow on the fields as I whizzed along on the train). I am currently to be found not only wearing flannel PJs in bed, but also a long-sleeved thermal top underneath. During the day, I'm spending a lot of time when indoors in my puffa coat and scarf, wondering quite how high my heating bills will be if I have the radiators on all day. It's a bit like being an invalid (spending all your time in your dressing gown), but in the Arctic. The upside is, I'm encouraged to go to the gym just to warm up through doing some exercise and using the sauna.
I assumed when I embarked on my gardening leave that I'd automatically morph into the kind of woman who goes to yoga every morning, then sits around in chi-chi cafes sipping chai lattes whilst reading Grazia. Sadly, this has not really come to pass - although I have done a fair few yoga classes, I'm not suddenly some wheatgrass-imbibing detox type. No, I spent this morning:
- Cleaning the fridge. Well, I got halfway through that, then got bored. I have thrown out most of the foodstuffs that had an expiry date of the end of October, though.
- Thinking about whether to go to a Body Pump class or not. This is my new thing - an hour or so of grunting about with weights on a bar in a class, surrounded by men with no necks, and quite a few superbuff girls. Needless to say, the amount of weight I can cope with makes it look as though I'm lifting a cocktail stick with an olive on each end of it. It's also pretty dull (the only variation is whether you're going '2 up and 2 down' or '3 up and 1 down' or even 'up for 4, down for 4'. The real high point is when you only go 'halfway up' - yes, paint drying seems like watching Usain Bolt set another 100m record in comparison). Still, it definitely works; after one class, my arms were shaking so much, I couldn't put any mascara on. However, as I went to a class yesterday, I can't face another one today. Fail. I'm now wondering whether if I fill a rucksack full of books to take to the second hand shop and trek for the 40 minutes to get there, that will be equivalent as a form of exercise. Let's say yes.
- Buying a danish pastry the size of my head and a coffee from the lovely cafe next door, and then settling down to watch Frozen Planet on iPlayer. The cafe is staffed by a number of nice looking young men, which is always a bonus. There is one who is particularly handsome, who makes the coffee. He looks like he should be some sort of conceptual artist, really, and is only there by accident. I curse myself every time for going in there with no make up on and with unbrushed hair. Because obviously me requesting 'a date slice and an Americano with hot milk to take out, please' is the ideal romantic opener, and if only I were more spruced up, then Art Boy would immediately light up, say, 'no, don't worry, that's on me' and, er, invite me to see his etchings. He was serving again today, and I've now got to the point where I can't look him in the eye when he hands over the coffee. So I say thanks, he says, 'no problem' and I scuttle out. I wondered today if, in a few weeks time, he will think to himself, 'I haven't seen that scruffy, blushing ginger girl who has such a thing for date slices for a while. I wonder where she is.' I doubt it, but a girl can dream.
Recently, I've whiled away a whole day reading Russell Brand's second book. I've embarked on a series of improving facials, which see me having my face prodded with a number of electrical 'wands' in order to improve my crepey eyelids and get rid of any forehead wrinkles. I know no-one else will notice the difference, but I think it's working, and it makes me feel like one of those Ladies Who Lunch. My internet connection is so slow that checking emails takes forever. There's all that catching up to do on iPlayer, now my TV's been taken down South for the winter (it's frustrating that I have a huge box set of Mad Men, which I've never seen, but which I know I'm going to love, as part of my leaving gift from work, but nothing to play it on. Although perhaps this is a good thing - I really wouldn't leave the house if I could just watch DVDs 24/7).
I'm also finally wading through the last mountain of paper in preparation for moving out. As per usual, when boxing up all my possessions, I had a near breakdown about how much stuff I have. I thought I'd made a conscious effort not to buy loads of things, but somehow, when I produced a vague list as to what I'd acquired in the last 18 months, it was still alarmingly long and included things such as 'huge Rob Ryan framed print' and 'massive rug', plus duvet, airbed, pillows, baking kit, cake tins and at least 3 pairs of boots. The worst of it is the paper, though. How on earth do I accrue so much of it? What makes me constitutionally incapable of throwing out magazines, not ripping out recipes which I'll clearly never make and having thousands of envelopes everywhere with scrappy 'to do' lists and random phone numbers on them? Every time I move house, I swear it will be different, and every time I end up flicking through 6-month old magazines (you can't just throw them out! There might be something useful in there) and making hundreds of trips to the recycling bins. I should be taking the time to do improving things like going to galleries and museums, but no, I'm hefting massive bags of rubbish around and cursing. I never tested out whether the fireplace in my sitting room was in working order, but this week might well be the time to try - keep warm for free and get rid of all your crap? Win-win, I'd say.
Thursday 1 December 2011
Scaling New Heights
So, I hope you're all now fully recovered from your shock at the fact that I'd not only been asked out (on a definite date, not one of these, 'Is this a date? Or are we just having a drink in a pub? It is, after all, the third time we've done this, and on no occasion at the end of the evening have you attempted anything more amorous than a peck on the cheek and a cheery, "See you soon, then!"' - I have been involved in quite a few of these scenarios). But that I also remained true to my resolution to try new things.
Having spent four days beating myself up for suggesting an activity that was clearly going to show me in the worst light imaginable, I not only enjoyed it, but also decided it's quite a good way of vetting a potential chap's qualities.
Viz:
When climbing a fake wall is mooted as a date, does he:
A/ Raise an eyebrow and say, 'Are you kidding? I think you'd be safer in a pub.'
B/ Say, 'Sure, I know just the place. I'll show you how to do it, you'll be fine. I'll pick you up about seven.'
When you arrive at the fake wall centre (a place alarmingly called 'Alien Rock'), does he:
A/ Wave vaguely at the equipment and tell you to 'get stuck in'
B/ Check very thoroughly that you have the right size shoes (explaining why they have to be so small that you are effectively turned into a rock climbing geisha) and then set up your harness for you so it's all the right way round and you just have to clamber into it
When you are attired in all this gear and contemplating a daunting array of walls and loads of people who know what they're doing, with a look on your face that even Stevie Wonder would say conveyed, 'I think I've just made a terrible mistake, this is going to be awful', does he:
A/ Give you short shrift and tell you not to be such a nancy
B/ Grin broadly at you and give you a massive hug
When talking you through how to do the same knot for the seventh time, does he:
A/ Look at you in despair and say, 'How do you NOT GET THIS?'
B/ Laugh cheerily at you whilst describing you (not unkindly) as 'a bit of a spaz'
When you are 3/4 of the way up a wall and have got stuck, does he:
A/ Immediately winch you down, assuming you'll never make it to the top
B/ Shout up at you to 'dangle about for a bit and then have another go at it - go on, you can do it' - which proves to be enough encouragement to engineer a successful outcome
Dangling about on a rope is also a good test of whether you trust someone. I'm not sure I was much cop when the situation was reversed; I had to attach myself to a massive sandbag for a start, to avoid swinging off the ground like a vicar in a '70s comedy sketch about bell-ringing as he came down. I was feeling more attractive by the minute.
Still, I managed to get to the top of about three walls; the first two times I tried one of the 'beginner' ones, I got about 4/5 of the way up, then freaked out because I felt too high up. The third time I told myself not to be so wet and made it to the top (result!) It's not too hard if you pick the walls with big hand and foot holds and, as I'd been told, kind of climb it like a ladder, pushing up from your feet, rather than trying to haul yourself up with your arms. The holds are all in different colours, and have been mapped into 'routes' up, so if you just stick to the same colour, you will, in theory, be able to make it to the top. I wouldn't rush to do it again, but I'm really pleased I did it and did feel quite a big sense of achievement when I got to the top of the various walls and for challenging my fear of heights.
I'm not sure I passed with flying colours, but The Chap certainly passed the Gentleman Test - as an activity, it definitely reveals more about a person than an evening in the pub. Although I did of course make swift work of half a bottle of red wine afterwards at the sheer relief of being safe and sound on the ground, thus taking us back into more traditional date territory.
Having spent four days beating myself up for suggesting an activity that was clearly going to show me in the worst light imaginable, I not only enjoyed it, but also decided it's quite a good way of vetting a potential chap's qualities.
Viz:
When climbing a fake wall is mooted as a date, does he:
A/ Raise an eyebrow and say, 'Are you kidding? I think you'd be safer in a pub.'
B/ Say, 'Sure, I know just the place. I'll show you how to do it, you'll be fine. I'll pick you up about seven.'
When you arrive at the fake wall centre (a place alarmingly called 'Alien Rock'), does he:
A/ Wave vaguely at the equipment and tell you to 'get stuck in'
B/ Check very thoroughly that you have the right size shoes (explaining why they have to be so small that you are effectively turned into a rock climbing geisha) and then set up your harness for you so it's all the right way round and you just have to clamber into it
When you are attired in all this gear and contemplating a daunting array of walls and loads of people who know what they're doing, with a look on your face that even Stevie Wonder would say conveyed, 'I think I've just made a terrible mistake, this is going to be awful', does he:
A/ Give you short shrift and tell you not to be such a nancy
B/ Grin broadly at you and give you a massive hug
When talking you through how to do the same knot for the seventh time, does he:
A/ Look at you in despair and say, 'How do you NOT GET THIS?'
B/ Laugh cheerily at you whilst describing you (not unkindly) as 'a bit of a spaz'
When you are 3/4 of the way up a wall and have got stuck, does he:
A/ Immediately winch you down, assuming you'll never make it to the top
B/ Shout up at you to 'dangle about for a bit and then have another go at it - go on, you can do it' - which proves to be enough encouragement to engineer a successful outcome
Dangling about on a rope is also a good test of whether you trust someone. I'm not sure I was much cop when the situation was reversed; I had to attach myself to a massive sandbag for a start, to avoid swinging off the ground like a vicar in a '70s comedy sketch about bell-ringing as he came down. I was feeling more attractive by the minute.
Still, I managed to get to the top of about three walls; the first two times I tried one of the 'beginner' ones, I got about 4/5 of the way up, then freaked out because I felt too high up. The third time I told myself not to be so wet and made it to the top (result!) It's not too hard if you pick the walls with big hand and foot holds and, as I'd been told, kind of climb it like a ladder, pushing up from your feet, rather than trying to haul yourself up with your arms. The holds are all in different colours, and have been mapped into 'routes' up, so if you just stick to the same colour, you will, in theory, be able to make it to the top. I wouldn't rush to do it again, but I'm really pleased I did it and did feel quite a big sense of achievement when I got to the top of the various walls and for challenging my fear of heights.
I'm not sure I passed with flying colours, but The Chap certainly passed the Gentleman Test - as an activity, it definitely reveals more about a person than an evening in the pub. Although I did of course make swift work of half a bottle of red wine afterwards at the sheer relief of being safe and sound on the ground, thus taking us back into more traditional date territory.
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