Mistletoe and Wine

'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.