This is not a blog post about books, or writing, or my travels. It is not a blog post about procrastination or losing my mojo. It’s a blog post that will attempt to provide some answer to a particular question I get asked a lot.
‘Why are you still single?’
It’s a funny question. Because I don’t really know the answer. I know some people think I am too fussy. And perhaps I am. After all, I refuse to date idiots, liars or men who still get their Mum to buy their underwear.
Quantity is not the issue – there are plenty of men around. It’s more of a problem with quality control i.e. most men can’t pass it. And being a good corporate girl, here’s a little story to provide some evidence to back my claim.
On Saturday night I went out for a few drinks with a good friend, whose identity I will protect. She will simply be referred to as Wingman #1. I will provide just three clues to her identity: she is tall, blonde and goes by the name of Kelly Cleary.
Wingman #1 and I met at Ortiga in the Valley at 7pm. It was the first time we’d caught up since I got back, so we ordered a bottle of champagne and a plate of assorted jamon (i.e. fancy Spanish ham, the cost of which nearly required us to remortgage our homes), and spent a good couple of hours catching up on the goss. All very civilised. No men involved.
The fun began when we decided to find a new venue. Exiting onto Brunswick Street, we looked up the road and saw that Bravo was pretty packed so decided to give it a go. I was relieved. It was only about a 200m walk, and my feet were already killing from wearing heels for the first time in nearly six months. While we tottered up the street, I wasn’t praying to meet any men. I was praying for a bar stool.
From a distance what had not been apparent was that everyone there was barely of legal age. These were kids who were still in nappies while I was in High School. It felt a bit like being at a Churchie Dance with alcohol. Wingman #1 and I looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and realised there was nothing to do about it but order another drink.
Introducing Eligible Bachelor #1
We had only just placed our orders when Eligible Bachelor #1 approached. He was about 22 and had wild blonde hair to his shoulders that looked like it hadn’t seen a brush in weeks, if ever. He had no hips to speak of and his pants were hanging so far off his bum it was truly a miracle of gravity that they were staying up at all. Or else he had some duct tape hidden in his bum crack. He smiled winningly at us, before leaning in and whispering ‘So, do you girls know anyone around here that's selling drugs?’
Err, no.
His breath smelt distinctly like vomit. It was all such a highly appealing package, I’m still trying to work out why neither Wingman #1 or I didn’t nab him on the spot and try to march him up the aisle.
We tried valiantly for at least 15 minutes to get rid of him. He was fixated on his hair and, more specifically, our opinion of it. He pulled one of his equally glazy eyed mates into the conversation, and asked us whose hair we liked best – which was like choosing between Worzel Gumidge or a tennis ball. He seemed serious. I have never come across a man so fixated on his own hair since Bert Newton or Donald Trump.
He eventually wandered off in search of a drug dealer. Wingman #1 and I slumped against the bar, grateful for our escape. It was unfortunately to be short-lived.
Introducing Eligible Bachelor #2
I mistakenly made about two seconds of eye contact with him. He was quite good looking, but short. And I mean really short. I was wearing heels but even if I’d had flats on he would have come up to about my ears. Which is perhaps why he turned out to have such a fixation on them.
Now, I don’t want to give the impression that I’m size-ist. Okay, maybe I am. I’m five foot nine and I like my men at least the same. Call me old fashioned, but I’m not looking for a man who can see up my nostrils.
But this guy was nice. He was from Northern England (my Scottish boss would tell me this was the first warning sign) but had a lovely accent that sounded nearly Irish (swoon). And he was funny. He was also flirting with me outrageously. Within five minutes he had asked me out to dinner , which he repeatedly did for the next hour. And the strangest thing was that I contemplated it. I thought of Tom and Katie, of Nicole and Keith, and I thought, hell, if they can date a shorter man, so can I!
But after a while things started to get a little strange. I suspect it was the drugs kicking in. He started rubbing the back of my head and commenting on the feel of my hair in a way that suggested he was a serial killer who was making a wig out of human hair. Then he started telling me I had beautiful ears (for the record, they are very ordinary ears). He kept trying to hug me. Eventually I had to have the Dirty Dancing ‘this is my personal space, this is your personal space’ conversation with him, which he promptly ignored by trying to stick his tongue in my apparently beautiful ear. I turned my back on him and started talking to a lovely girl sitting next to me who looked like Marion Grasby from Masterchef. Not that she had any idea who Marion is. Turned out she was 18 and I was old enough to be her mother.
Eventually Eligible Bachelor #2 also wandered off. But not for long. About three minutes later, he reappeared at the other end of the bar, in our direct line of sight, with another girl whose face he promptly proceeded to try and suck off. Now she must have had a really amazing set of ears.
After a 10 minute display of rampant public affection, he disappeared again, only to reappear by my side. I knew that it was really going to get interesting now.
Me: ‘Hello.’
EB#2: ‘I just had the strangest thing happen to me.’
Me: *raises eyebrows*
EB#2: ‘I’ve just been outside with the Police for the last half hour.’
Me: ‘Really? That’s weird because I could have sworn that you were just across the bar devouring some poor girl.’
EB#2: ‘No, I’ve been outside with the Police!’ *sways slightly*
Me: ‘Goodbye.’
Thankfully he walked off without too much of a fuss. I suspect he went in search of the same drug dealer as EB#1. Or perhaps a pair of Gary Glitter platform shoes.
At this Wingman #1 and I decided it was time to blow this pop stand and never look back. We made our way down to Cloudland for one last drink.
Introducing Eligible Bachelors #3 and #4
These guys were both tall (tick) and very good looking, but the real reason they stood out was that they were both wearing suits. On a Saturday night. When they approached us I immediately assumed they were Real Estate Agents. Or very devout Jehovah’s Witness.
EB#3 was wearing a duck egg blue cotton suit from Zara. We’ll call him ‘The Hamptons’.
EB#4 was wearing a grey wool three piece. We’ll call him ‘Wall Street’.
They were out celebrating The Hamptons birthday. When Wingman #1 said ‘Happy Birthday Helen' to him and he didn’t get it, we knew we were dealing with a couple of young ones. Turned out it was his 24th birthday. I remember that birthday myself…it was at the turn of the century. Literally.
I may be a reformed size-ist, but I’m not an age-ist. I have friends who married younger men. My own Mum was a cradle snatcher. It can work. But as soon as Wall Street started telling me about his job (without me even asking), I knew this was not going to be one to add to the statistics. He works in banking. And honestly, there is no greater arrogance than a freshly hatched wanker banker. Especially one in a three piece wool suit in a bar on a Saturday night. I can’t even bring myself to tell you about his conversation, or the way he talked to me about business like I would know no more about that than the intricacies of a prostate examination. When he eventually asked me what I did for a living, I told him I was a professional dog walker.
The only interesting thing about those poor boys was watching The Hamptons try not to spill his vodka cranberry on his duck egg blue suit. He didn’t, which was frankly quite disappointing.
Over a slice of New York pizza just after 2am, Wingman #1 and I were in champagne and vodka fueled fits of laughter about our night and the quality of the men who had featured in it. Eventually we stopped long enough for Wingman #1 to look at me over her feta and spinach pizza and say ‘And people wonder why we’re still single.’
Well, now you know.
*This post is dedicated to all the single girls of Brisbane. Good luck, it's all I can say.
