Living in London is both a blessing and a burden for single adults looking for love. On the one hand there are tons of amazing places to explore and literally millions of interesting people to meet in a city of this size. I'm all for options. On the other hand, Londoners can be completely detached from their surroundings and many live in their own private bubble. On a day-to-day basis people rarely take notice of one-another making it almost impossible to spark up a conversation. Everyone is in a rush to get somewhere and it's ridiculously easy to get sucked into this lifestyle.
Take tube journeys, for example. As a northern girl back home I was used to chatting away to old ladies about their recent M&S bargains on public transport. London is a different story altogether. Over the last 8 years I've learned lots.
1. Commuting is incomplete without being plugged into your iPod and thus drowning out the miserable drone of 'Mind the Gap'.
2. Checking your texts, Whatsapp, Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr (insert social media here) is ritualistic, meaning nobody ever looks up from their mobile.
3. The impeccably written journalism of the Metro (sarcasm) is instantly more compelling when faced with a row of fellow commuters uncomfortably fidgeting opposite you.
4. Your feet become really interesting when you are forced to endure the sweaty armpit of a man invading your personal space during rush hour.
All of the above examples are indicative of our need to keep ourselves to ourselves and the barrier we put up which is so high that it could almost outdo the might of the Shard. It also communicates the message: 'Don't fucking look at me, I'm busy, stressed and just want to get home'. Be warned, if you do ever catch the eye of a stranger on public transport you are dangerously teetering on stalker territory. It's best to look away instantly in case they pull the emergency alarm and you're stuck in an uncomfortable tunnel similar to Hades or Elephant and Castle for an hour.
I remember a rare occasion a few months ago when a guy attempted to flirt with my friend and I on the tube. It was the middle of the day but he and his rowdy friends stunk of beer and their Arsenal shirts indicated that they had been watching the game at a pub near the Emirates and close to my home. This was most certainly the only reason he had the balls to chat to us, let's call it dutch courage. His first mistake was his opening line. Turning to face me and sniffing my hair he confidently asked me in his South London twang:
"What perfume are you wearing, Chanel Mademoiselle, right darlin'? It smells divine".
I exchanged a terrified glance at my friend who eyed-me knowingly with a look that said:'What the Fuck?'. Without panicking I turned to him and replied in my polite British way:
"Ermmm, yep it is. Although I'm a bit worried that you know that.... and that you were sniffing me".
He attempted a half-smile, visibly embarrassed and turned to his friends, who had started to laugh hysterically at his attempt to start a conversation, for support. This was his second mistake. Having friends that did not back him up and instead took the piss did nothing for his street-credibility. The realisation that I had basically just called him a weirdo in front of his friends soon took over and he quickly tried to save himself from the depths of humiliation by responding:
"Oh no, it's just that I used to work in the perfume section at Debenhams, it's my favourite".
Wow. Now instead of a him just being a hair-smelling creep he had emasculated himself in front of his friends by revealing his history of working in women's perfume. His friends continued to laugh for what seemed like an eternity (the distance between Caledonian Road and King's Cross is ridiculously long) as my friend and I awkwardly tried to chat amongst ourselves about the bar we were heading for and avoid any follow-up of conversation with the Arsenal lads. One of his friends did find some compassion and decided to give him advice, correctly telling him, and the rest of the carriage that:
"You can't try and chat up girls by guessing their perfume, you just sound gay".
I wonder if he ever did use that line again. Would it actually work? In conclusion, public transportation is probably not the best place to meet the man of your dreams.
The alternative? Don't even get me started on meeting men in clubs. My experiences of Thursday nights in the city are not pretty. Young guys with their collars unbuttoned, ties around their heads and Vodka-Red Bull breath with hands like Mr Tickle are not a turn-on. Happy Hour in these places should be renamed 'avoid-these-men-like-the-plague Hour'. Another option is a Friday night out in Shoreditch. Men who work in media dressed in skinnier jeans than me, a checkered shirt, beard and sailor tattoos (Captain Birds Eye?) sipping cocktails from a jar and debating whether Patty and Bun or Meat Liquor do the best burger is not exactly appealing. It's hard to feel anything but uncool in these hipster-filled dark caverns filled with posers. I don't know which is worse to be honest.
How does a newbie dater go about finding eligible men and scoring a date in this whirlwind of a city? This combined with the fact that I have not dated for 6 years and have no concept of modern dating etiquette apart from my brief education thanks to Channel 4's First Dates does nothing for my self-belief. Am I a slag if I kiss on the first date? How long should I wait before I respond to texts? Am I still too young for Harry Styles? I really am up a creek without a paddle. God. Help. Me.
LLL x
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