I’m walking through Hyde Park, and I’m on my own. It’s daylight, it’s a Wednesday and it’s relatively warm. I’m wearing a floral dress, a blazer and I’m mentally planning my Morrisons shop based on how much money I have left in my bank account, compared to how much money I wanted to spend at Hifi that night. Hyde Park is generally busy throughout the day, filled with runners and unenthusiastic students shuffling their way to University.
Hence the surprise when I see two gentlemen walking through in suits. Not so surprised when they stop me. Automatically, I’m on edge, they’re going to ask me for directions, they’re going to ask me to fill out a survey. I’m hoping they don’t ask me to buy anything, because that’s definitely not within my budget. They shake my hands and they talk to me and it’s all going well because quite frankly, they haven’t asked me for any money yet. One seems to be the talker; he asks me where I’m from, where I’m going, what my name is. He’s from London, and his name is George. He tells me he likes my accent and my dimples (neither of which I’m particularly fond of) and then tells me he’s going to give me his number…
This just does not happen. Ever.
In an ideal world, this is pretty perfect situation. Not only am I sober enough to remember what he looks like, he didn’t have to scream over drum and bass to tell me his name, and we didn’t have to swim through a sweaty club to meet. So really, you could say it was going well.
I text him a few days later, just to tell him it was nice to meet him. When he texts back, he uses perfect grammar, perfect spelling and that’s basically the end of his perfectness…
Firstly, he talks only in metaphors. My eyes aren’t just blue, they are the beautiful glaciers that have pierced his heart (my eyes aren’t even blue). I’m not funny, I am the light of joy that brings wonders to his day. My hair isn’t blonde, it’s the golden waves of desire that frame my face.
You think I’m joking. I’m not. Every single text has some form of metaphor or simile. I love for people to talk to me using correct grammar and spelling in their texts, but only for ease. I don’t want to have to decode your texts at 7am to see whether you’re giving me a compliment or an insult.
I still ignore the voice in my head screaming at me to stop talking to him, and before I know it, he’s added me on Facebook. His profile doesn’t scream out serial killer, and I think that maybe I’ve just been too fussy (as so my friends keep telling me). He’s suggested he’d like to take me on a date, (I’m thinking of food, and only food) could it really be such a bad idea?
Then, on my own self confessed psycho-stalker, bunny-boiler mode, I decide to see whether he has Twitter. Possibly the best thing I’ve done. I draw the line when I see his tweet about how “the students here are so loose, you text them asking to bang and they’re here straight away. Move onto the next one, bang, next one …” or his request for someone to be his “friends with benefits”. My ‘gentlemen’ was metaphorically speaking, a snake.
Quite frankly, I’m not interested in getting Chlamydia and this guy screams walking STD. My advice, if someone in a suit stops you in Hyde Park, run. And always do a cheeky twitter-stalk if you have your doubts.
Anonymous
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