BABY HELL
I've been to some bad parties in my time. None prepared me for the living hell that was my friend Derek's 35th.
It was a surprise party. I nearly scuppered it by asking him if he was doing anything for this birthday on Sunday, which I had down in my diary as his anniversary. He told me his birthday had just passed. I realised my mistake, but was sure he hadn't cottoned on (despite my protestations his wife, in her usual affable way, blamed me when she learned that hubby had not been surprised after all).
Anyway, so I arrived at their suburban utopia in Hendon. It was filled with the couple's largely awkward, but nice friends. Babies were everywhere - waving balloons, wailing, smoked salmon hanging limply from their nostrils as they searched for their wayward parents.
Including myself, there were four single people: I had stumbled into what I can only describe as baby hell. Derek's friends - most of whom I hadn't seen since he wedded Erick - were now themselves married with drooling oiks clinging to their or their wives' bosom. Everyone had grown up, done the natural thing. And here was I, five years on, in the same flat, in the same job, forever single and standing around in a party where I felt as out-of-place as a nun in a brothel.
To make matters worse, I then hooked up with Jane. We watched Unleashed. The fight scenes and Bob Hoskin were amazing; the plot-line, particularly the requisite mushy, over-satinised fluffy bits, were dreadful.
After we'd watched the Simpsons (the new Ricky Gervais one, which was disappointing), had a blow-job, eaten and watched the film, I got a text. It was from a chunky-but-sweet Essex girl called Joanna who'm I'd known since I was 16. She asked me to go for a drink. She'd asked me out once before - I said no. I didn't fancy her. I still don't. But luckily I could let her down gently - and, for a change, honestly - by telling her I was seeing someone.
How long that will last, I don't know. I already have that nagging feeling in the back of my head saying: "End it, End it." There's just no chemistry and, bar the oral sex, little passion.
All this leads me to conclude that a) I need to end it and b) I've become as fucked up as all those girls that used to blow hot and cold with me all those years ago.
I've been to some bad parties in my time. None prepared me for the living hell that was my friend Derek's 35th.
It was a surprise party. I nearly scuppered it by asking him if he was doing anything for this birthday on Sunday, which I had down in my diary as his anniversary. He told me his birthday had just passed. I realised my mistake, but was sure he hadn't cottoned on (despite my protestations his wife, in her usual affable way, blamed me when she learned that hubby had not been surprised after all).
Anyway, so I arrived at their suburban utopia in Hendon. It was filled with the couple's largely awkward, but nice friends. Babies were everywhere - waving balloons, wailing, smoked salmon hanging limply from their nostrils as they searched for their wayward parents.
Including myself, there were four single people: I had stumbled into what I can only describe as baby hell. Derek's friends - most of whom I hadn't seen since he wedded Erick - were now themselves married with drooling oiks clinging to their or their wives' bosom. Everyone had grown up, done the natural thing. And here was I, five years on, in the same flat, in the same job, forever single and standing around in a party where I felt as out-of-place as a nun in a brothel.
To make matters worse, I then hooked up with Jane. We watched Unleashed. The fight scenes and Bob Hoskin were amazing; the plot-line, particularly the requisite mushy, over-satinised fluffy bits, were dreadful.
After we'd watched the Simpsons (the new Ricky Gervais one, which was disappointing), had a blow-job, eaten and watched the film, I got a text. It was from a chunky-but-sweet Essex girl called Joanna who'm I'd known since I was 16. She asked me to go for a drink. She'd asked me out once before - I said no. I didn't fancy her. I still don't. But luckily I could let her down gently - and, for a change, honestly - by telling her I was seeing someone.
How long that will last, I don't know. I already have that nagging feeling in the back of my head saying: "End it, End it." There's just no chemistry and, bar the oral sex, little passion.
All this leads me to conclude that a) I need to end it and b) I've become as fucked up as all those girls that used to blow hot and cold with me all those years ago.
posted by David Cohen at 10:47 pm
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