Oh tweeps, I am a fool.
It appears Ritzi has been floundering in the ocean of sewage that is one sided London dating for so long, that she’s actually forgotten how to read the signs of what could actually be a decent guy.
Picture the scene – it’s Sunday afternoon/evening, and after an epic lunch with the girls, I arrived back home and surmised that it was still far to sunny to sit and write my OU assignments inside, so I took a good old fashioned notebook and pen down to the park, perched myself on a bench, and disappeared into the literary world for a few hours.
At one point I hear a, ‘pardon me?’ and I look up to find a slightly short but cute American fellow standing before me. ‘You haven’t seen any keys around here, have you?’
‘Uh… No, sorry.’ I reply. Well, I hadn’t seen any. And that was that. He toddled off, looking for his missing keys, and I returned to a world of time lapse prose and omniscient perspective.
An hour or so later, it got a tad chilly (maxi dress and cardigan is all well and good until 7pm comes around) so I strolled back through the park to my house. En route, I’m stopped by the Key Guy again, as he jogs after me.
‘Sorry – got another random question,’ he pants. Bless, he’s not fit. ‘Do you live in the neighbourhood?’
I bite back a comment about how we don’t call them ‘neighbourhoods’, silly yank, and replied that yes, I did indeed.
‘Do you know anyone renting rooms?’
I think about it briefly, which is a bit stupid because I know in an instant that I don’t. My friends are all looking for rooms, we don’t have them going spare. I suggest SpareRoom.co.uk, he comments on my writing in a park, I reply that it’s too nice a day to stay cooped up inside, he agrees.
And then Ritzi says nothing. Because she’s an idiot.
A slightly awkward, ‘well thanks, I’ll see you around,’ a cheeky grin and a wave, and the Key Guy was gone. It was only when I was half way home, shaking my head at his naivety if he thought there was ever a chance of ‘seeing someone around’ in the suburbs of this crazy town, that I stopped and slapped myself in the face with my own stupidity.
A zillion responses should have popped into my head, ‘I don’t know anywhere but here’s my card, drop me a line and I’ll let you know if somewhere comes up,’ is the key one. What a complete muppet. Relatively cute guy, unused to physical exertion, jogs after you and by not giving him a way in, you effectively tell him to jog on. Well done Ritz, I’ll just go see about those cats, shall I?
(Note – this whole post is rather third person centric, mainly because it’s being written by my subconscious mind, who can’t quite believe a single human being could be so dense.)
If by some miracle I actually do see the guy ‘around’ in the ‘neighbourhood’, I should probably marry him in an instant because I doubt the powers that be would forgive me that monumental fuck up of fate twice.
Yours ever lonesome,