Stand Up And Be Cunted

In a year of many firsts, we have yet another, it seems.  In my 36 years of dating (hateful word, but we English don't really have a neat native expression; and I'm taking as my starting point that first awful date in Ealing when I was 14 and those espadrilles ate my feet alive) I have never, ever been stood up.  I have tonight.

A chap I saw a couple of weeks ago seemed quite nice.  There was no immediate spark but I thought it worth giving another shot because sometimes you don't know.  Allegedly.  Although according to some experts on Facebook you do.

We arranged to meet for dinner tonight, this time on my manor.  Early in the day he texted to say he might be a little later than planned, due to an unexpected meeting.  And he texted again just before 10pm to apologise for standing me up.  I have not, and will not, respond.  There is absolutely no excuse for such behaviour.  I'm wondering if my Dating Website profile has some coded message which you only see when you view the internet backwards: "All cunts apply within".  

That Noel Edmonds believes in Cosmic Ordering.  Can I just say that the Universe is not listening properly to me.  I may be driven to standing in the street shouting at the sky.  Yeah, that will work.

What Lies Beneath

I have some time to spare so, to distract myself from the nerves, here is something interesting:

You know I go on, and on, about the murdery cellar?  Well, I was googling my local area and it turns out that about fifteen minutes walk from here, on the Avenue Louise, is the building which was Brussels' Nazi HQ during the Second World War.  And they really did have quite a murdery cellar.  My grasp of history is so poor I didn't even realise Brussels was occupied during the war.

On 20 January 1943, Jean de Sélys Longchamps, a Belgian (born in Brussels) who had become a fighter pilot in the Royal Air Force, mounted a solo attack on the headquarters at number 453.  Benefiting from the wide avenues, and the large height of the apartment block relative to the neighbouring buildings, he flew his Hawker Typhoon at a low altitude straight towards the building, firing the plane's 20mm cannons, before returning to England.

Following this attack, the Sicherheitsdienst moved their headquarters to number 347 Avenue Louise. The cellars at this address were used to detain and interrogate captured members of the Belgian resistance. The torture which took place here brought the name of Avenue Louise considerable infamy at the time.

The only evidence now of the Gestapo's presence on Avenue Louise is a monument to Baron de Selys Longchamps.  I suppose that is quite a normal response.  It probably isn't something in the tourist guides.

  

The Day Today

Early-ish to the Boy, who is currently regarding me as sort of Himmler, due to his beloved older sister being home.  Why, indeed, would he wish to spend time with me when she has Peppa Pig on her iPhone?  It was a fine morning, the sort where you can see aeroplanes like tiny white cursors leaving vapour trails miles up.  I talked at some length about ants, and stinging nettles, and bees, and what is likely to happen if you throw something repeatedly (repeatedly).  In the park I fed A85 by hand and threw bread high to test the crows' ability to catch.

Very little time for lunch. Ten minutes' sit-down in Ambiorix with a Fry's Peppermint Cream.

Then to the Girls.  I had to wake C but she was delightful and sleep-drunk, very forgiving of my intrusion.  She proceeded to spit strawberries all over the crèche reception area, as she hasn't really got the hang of chewing.  H was amenable, which is always good news.  A father whom I've seen often there, and on whom I have a slightly embarrassing crush, asked if I would read a chapter or two of a book he is writing and which he will be translating into English - because I'm a native speaker and will know if it reads as "English" or not.  I think his motives are pure but I'm not a terribly good judge of these things.

Relatively poo-free afternoon, lots of singing The Wheels on the Bus, and I explained to H what blow-flies do, which was fun.

As usual I asked myself quite why the two-mile walk home.  But like going to the gym (says one who has never been), once you start it's hard to stop.  My average mileage each day is about five miles, but those final two are hard, which is why they are sometimes oiled with frites.  There's a feeling of ridiculous joy when I seen the Generali building as that means I'm nearly home.

Before the sweat had time to settle I got my washing down to the cellar, paddling reluctantly in the foul leak-puddle surrounding the washing machine.  I think my feet smell of leak-puddle now.  Inexplicably there was large piece of waffle by the top of the cellar stairs. 

And tomorrow is my job interview.

All You Can Eat

Something that you often hear, after yet another lucky escape, is "never mind you have to kiss a lot of frogs", and that somehow this winnowing process brings you closer and closer to the Holy Grail of Chaps, somewhere in your and his future.  Yes, right now he is sitting somewhere with a coffee, reading the Guardian and picking his nose, completely unaware that I'm on my way.

But what if kissing frogs is just kissing frogs.  You may well end up with a pile of discarded amphibians behind you and yet another pile in front.  Just more and more and more frogs.  A endless frog buffet.  To use another analogy, you're sorting through that haystack looking for the needle and at some point you realise it's just hay. 

It's not as if I deliberately choose men who aren't really interested - there isn't a separate bunch who are camping on my doorstep and bringing me frites in the middle of the night and begging me to go to Oostende with them, that I am studiously ignoring.

I think I've said this before, but I'm fine on my own.  I like my own company a lot and find it necessary for recharging, and I've never thought that having a boyfriend would complete me.  I'm fairly complete, apart from a few bits which I suspect are down the back of the sofa.

But, like most people, I want to be loved, and to give love.  And to have someone kind and a bit filthy to have a good laugh with, who will think I'm great.

Fuck. Off.

Well, the feeling in my ancient bladder was right and the young man sent me an email today, the day before we had planned to meet, about some girl, etc, and about it being inappropriate for us to meet.  He hoped I didn't feel disrespected.  I did. 

I am sick of this, of all of it.  Men treat me like I'm nothing.  And I'm so bloody fucking something. 

The Story So Far

I now have two job interviews.  And the organisations have both been splendidly co-operative in allowing these to be on Wednesday mornings when I do not work.  The second job I haven't even applied for - a few weeks back I mentioned that an employer phoned me within the hour of my sending a CV, and that I could not make the interview.  Well it's them - they said they'd get back to me about another job and hey presto they have.  Once I'd hung up the phone, I went back and read stories to The Girls with renewed nanniness.  If that is not a word, it damn well should be.

In other news, my 25 year old date appears to have evaporated.  I could be wrong, but I feel it in my ancient bladder.  I think in theory these young and pert bucks like the idea of, to use a tabloid term, a romp with a lady of some vintage, but the reality might be a bit much.  A bit like tupping your mum.  Or perhaps he just got distracted by something new and shiny.  It happens.

Still, maybe it's for the best.  Much as I like romping with the young, because I'm a filthy old ho, women of a certain age look dog-rough in the morning.  And at any time of day, you have to be careful not to be seen in profile.  Gravity is an absolute cunt in cunt's clothing.

In other, other news, I seem to have started writing something, other than this blog.

It's a story that has been knocking about in my head for some time and recently I have been coming home and actually writing it.  All day I have dialogue going on in my head that I cannot wait to get home and transcribe.  Either that or the voices are getting worse.  The story is resolving itself into something very dark and very funny.  Well it's amusing me anyway. 

I think that what has inhibited my output before is that I'd get to a certain point and stop because "I don't know much about..." whatever.  Now I have decided I will just do a bit of research and make the rest up.  It seems to work for Steven Moffat.  This is not a picture of Steven Moffat.  It is a gratuitous Joseph Fiennes.

Bicep Watch

Everyone needs a hobby.  Mine is perfect because you can incorporate it into everyday life.  You don't have to buy any equipment or join any awkward groups.  The only problem is being caught looking, but I think I can pass it off as something else most of the time.  Especially in sunglasses.

Bicep Watch 1:  chap on a bike in the Parc du Woluwe yesterday doing the bins.  I faked uninterest behind my sunglasses.

Bicep Watch 2: on the way to the Parc du Woluwe today a nicely nerdy looking chap with enormous biceps unloading some stuff from a truck.  I mean, really obscenely good biceps.  If you looked up "bicep" on the internet, there's probably a photo of him.

Bicep Watch 3:  while I was with the girls this afternoon I heard noise out the back in the garden and, lo, there was a chap next door cutting the ivy.  I had to think of all sorts of reasons to keep observing the weather or put things in the bin.

One of these days I'm going to be caught with drool on my top, and it will all be very unpleasant.