20 Foreign Matter

So there I was working hard in Lanzarote (okay, okay I was working in Lanzarote) instructing my cameraman what shots to get, as well as ordering a barman do his best Tom Cruise impression for the camera, when a couple of guys that had sat watching me hard at it, motioned for me to go over to them.

I went expecting one of the usual questions...

A/ What are you filming?
B/ What a great job you have, how did you get in to that?
C/ Can I be on camera?

Or in this instance there could have been an extra option...

D/ Why are you such a bossy boots?

Turns out it was none of the above. Instead, no sooner had I approached them when one of them asked in a foreign accent if he could have my phone number.

Jeez, if I had a pound for every time a guy asks me that...

Actually in all seriousness, similar things have happened to me a couple of times before. And by things I mean forward foreign men.

I wasn't exactly overjoyed about it the first time, due to the fact that I was rushing to catch a train. What part of seeing a girl virtually running across a platform would make the guy in question think I had enough time to (and would want to) stop and give a stranger my phone number?

The second time occurred when I was lying alone on an almost deserted beach in Australia. A guy suddenly appeared in front of me, blocking my sunrays, and asked in broken English if I would be his girlfriend.

I kid you not. No other chit-chat. He didn't even want to try going on a date first. What I couldn't understand is why he thought I'd be suitable partner material. I was lying miles from anyone. He must have had special binoculars to check whether he'd want me for that role.

Needless to say neither of them got a positive response from me. It did make me think about the difference between nationalities though. Do we Brits have it wrong? Are we wasting far too much time by making small talk. Should we start getting straight to the point and stop dilly-dallying?

Anyway back to man in Lanzarote. I asked him what he would do with the number if I gave him it and the conversation went a bit like this...

Lanza Man: I would phone you and take you on a date.

Me: I don't live in Lanzarote though.

Lanza Man: Where do you live?

Me: Manchester.

Lanza Man: I will come there then.

Me: That's a long way to come for a date.

Lanza Man: I will come for forever...


So of course I gave him my number.

What?! What's wrong with that??? OK, I've made it pretty clear that I wasn't happy about the forwardness (or weirdness in the second instance) of the men from the other occasions, but this time was different for two reasons...

Number 1 - Back then I didn't write a blog. You may be surprised to know this but sometimes I do things nowadays just cause they might be interesting for you to read about. Similarly if I go on a bad date part of me is gutted and the other part is rubbing my hands in glee at the thought of typing up the details later on. Read Mr Trafford Centre for the perfect example.

Number 2 - Did I mention that Lanza Man was Hot, Hot, Hot with a capital H! H! H!?

Two perfectly good reasons why I ended up giving my digits to a guy despite not knowing his name, age, where he was from, whether he was single, hobbies etc, etc..

Within half an hour my phone rang with an unknown number...

22 Sweet Stuff

Tuppence over at Tuppenny Tales started blogging around the same time as me. I'm an avid reader of her blog and thought she enjoyed reading mine too.

That is until she wrote a whole post pointing out to her readers that I hadn't written anything for a few weeks. She said that I'm a disgrace to the blogging world and that I shouldn't actually call myself a blogger.

I was gutted.

Until I woke up.

Yes it had just been a dream! Hurrah! (Or should that be nightmare?)

Talk about a relief. Of course I went over to her blog just to double check that it had been a dream. It had. There was no slander of any sort. In actual fact she was being very nice and linking to my post about Mr Trafford Centre, because she was going on a date to the same venue and was praying it wasn't the same guy.

To be honest though, despite the dream/nightmare suggesting otherwise, I wasn't really worried what other people thought about me not blogging. I was just missing it myself!

I may not have been doing it for very long, but it had become a way of life. An addiction. An addiction that I wasn't getting the time to feed.

Then when I did find some time and finally sat down to write...my laptop promptly died. It was like going cold turkey. There were scenes similar to those in Trainspotting, when Ewan McGregor's character was coming off the heroin. Just without the various body excretions.

The guy at the repair shop seemed a bit bemused when I rambled on and on about needing my laptop back immediately because...'I'm meant to write about my holiday...started it...need to finish it...but Taggart already on another holiday...Cancun...lucky bitch...probably too late to write about it now?...Still need to write other stuff...will lose my readers if I don't hurry up....'

It was also one of the few times that I've cursed being single. Only because I reckoned that if I had a man in my life, he'd have a computer and I would have been able to borrow his.

I jest, but it really was horrible. Not only is blogging about writing and expressing yourself, it's also about the blogging community. I feel like I have friends there and I was missing seeing what they were getting up to.

I've never met the afore-mentioned Tuppence but I feel like I know her. I wondered what was happening in her love-life. And what about Kate at Perfect Ten? Did that little box she'd found amongst her boyfriend's stuff contain an engagement ring? Was she still having flirty texts with Foxy Scott?

I wondered what Lainey had been writing about. She'd told us about her time at Boot Camp. What was happening in her life now? What about the bloggers who write about a completely different life to mine, like Argentum Vulgaris who has told about being 'dad' to 14 children.

I was even missing reading about what my real-life proper friend was up to over in her blog The Single Mum Life. OK, I could have just called her to get her news, but we are all often a lot more honest in our blogs. I've learnt a lot more about her from reading. And when she wrote about doing a pregnancy test the other weekend, I was in the same position as the rest of her readers and didn't know the result...

And then of course there is Fishy. Ah Fishy. The blogger I went on a date with. He was quite put out when he texted me, and as my phone had broken and hadn't saved my newer numbers (yes just yet another technological problem I was dealing with!) I'd had to ask who he was.

He replied that his number should be engraved on my heart.

Er right. Not quite. But I sort of know what he meant. He's become a really good friend in a short space of time, and I feel like I know him well despite only having met him once.

I think that is down to blogging. I can't recommend it enough. It can solve all problems. Need more friends? Blog. Need some advice? Blog. Having a bad day? Blog.

I've never received so many lovely comments and texts as I did the time I put up the post The One and Only about the crap day I was having.

Mind you, I also received a text asking if I 'fancied a shag' but I think that was a joke. Wasn't it? (If you haven't read that particular post, then please do so in order to put this in to context!)

Anyway the whole point of this post is to tell you that I'm officially back and I've missed this and you so much that I'm not leaving you again. Whether you like it or not!

Rapunzel x

p.s Just incase you wondering about the reasons behind the choice of photo... a friend emailed it to me and when I said I might use it in my blog, he said he'd be impressed if I could make that work. Personally I feel it is the perfect accompaniment to the title. Don't you?*

p.p.s Another wee reminder. If you haven't already rated the video of me in my Tower, then please do so. Och yer awfy guid!

* Shhhhh! He might not notice that although the photo works with the title, the title has bugger all relevance to the post!

48 Something Fishy

I really need to to have a little word with myself.

I've just been on one of the worst dates I've ever had. The only good thing about it, was that I gave you all a laugh when I vented about the arse that was Mr Trafford Centre.

Why on earth then, did I think it would be wise to agree to go on a date with fellow blogger Fishy ?

Oh yes, I'll still be able to write about the date. Difference is that this time, not only will I be blogging to you, but to him as well. How can that ever be a good thing?

And worse still, he'll be writing about me too.

I couldn't be like those celebrities that say they don't read their own press. They never buy newspapers or google themselves. I hate not knowing things and hate being the one in the dark.

An ex discovered that after 'accidentally' putting his tongue down the throat of a Julia Roberts lookalike. My female intuition sensed that he was acting differently and I made it my business to find out why. Of course when I did know, I wish I didn't. I couldn't watch Pretty Woman for months.

Fact is I won't be able to stop myself reading Fish's post about our date. Even if I sit on my hands.

I'm worried that he might describe terrible habits that I have, that I'm currently blissfully unaware of.

What if I end up not wanting to go on dates with me either?

There is also the small matter that we have been match-made by Bamberio. She is a regular reader of both our blogs but has never met me or Fishy. Is she really in the position to do a credible Cilla?

And to be quite honest, Fishy isn't even my type. And that's despite the spec for my ideal man being fairly concise...

Mr Ideal is tall.
Mr Ideal is funny.
Mr Ideal has no dependents. And that includes pets.

Now before you think I'm some animal and child-hating witch, I'm not at all. I'm just a spontaneous person and would like to be able to travel to Timbuktu with my significant other at a moment's notice.

It's not the same when they have to be back in time to feed the budgie.

I did have a different list recently. After one too many Ribenas I asked the concierges to find me a boyfriend. When they asked what I look for in a man, I only had two criteria.

He must be able to swim.
He must be able to drive.

I've no idea what that was all about either and as these things didn't seem so important in the cold light of day, I didn't bother adding them to my must haves. Surely Fishy can swim anyway?

He doesn't fare too well with the rest of the list though...

Short Fishy lives with his depressed cat Mildred.

He is absolutely hilarious though and I love a man that can make me laugh. Is it a case of one out of three ain't bad?

There are various other good things I've discovered about Fishy from reading his blog. Like that...er...

What I meant to say was there are various other things I've discovered about him.

Like that he has small nipples and doesn't like morris dancing.

He is a fan of Feargal Sharkey and sees no shame in dancing along to A Good Heart on dates.

He once had a job as a dinnerlady (not sure how that works? Is he a pre-op transsexual I wonder?)

He likes The Smiths, but doesn't like tuna. I'm the opposite - does that mean we are doomed?

He's been propositioned by his gay neighbour.

He wears socks with the days of the week on them.

His annual spend on haircuts is a mere £96, whereas I pay that in two visits.

He is appalling at flirting, yet thinks nothing of trying to pull the waitress while on a date with another girl.

He's definitely an interesting one is Fishy.

I can probably overlook all of those problems, except the last. My concierges are very protective over me. If they hear that he has flirted with another girl on our date, Fishy can dream on about ever being buzzed into my building, let alone being allowed up to see my view.

36 Mr Trafford Centre - Chapter 2

So there I was walking through the Trafford Centre with a stud muffin. A hunk of spunk. A hot piece of ass. Basically the most gorgeous guy you have ever seen. Phwoar!!

Well you would think so, wouldn't you? The fact he abandoned girls because they weren't up to his required standard, must mean he is something special himself?

If truth be told he was packing a few extra pounds. Being a guy though he'd get away with saying he was 'stocky.'

As for complaining about his dates not looking like their photos, I couldn't tell from his photo that he had a slight squint in one eye. Or a limp for that matter.

I realise that it could sound like I was on a date with Captain Hook. Please don't imagine that though, because inevitably when you start thinking of pirates, Jack Sparrow will pop into your head. I can assure you that Mr Trafford Centre was no Johnny Depp.

I was actually a bit concerned about his limp. It seemed like it was a new injury and he was still working out how to walk on it. I asked him how he got it.

'I did it years ago when I was mountain biking.'

'Oh right.' So not new at all. 'Does it affect you when you mountain bike now?'

'I don't know, I haven't been since.'

'Oh. What about when you ski? You said in your profile you love skiing. I used to go skiing. I went to France and Austria...'

'Yeah I went skiing once a couple of years back. On a dry slope..it was great!'

Couldn't believe I'd actually questioned whether I was outdoorsy enough for this guy. My walk to Harvey Nicks to participate in my hobby of cocktail drinking, probably means I'm more active than him. Liar, liar, your bum's on fire.

I ask him whether he wants to go for a drink first or go straight to a restaurant.

'You decide. The girls I've been out with before couldn't make decisions and it got on my nerves so I decided that on this date I'm leaving everything up to you.'

He was really getting on my wick.

I decide we should go straight for dinner. Get this date over as quickly as possible. (See some girls can make decisions. Wise decisions.)

We order and start chatting. The usual stuff. He tells me that his ambition is to go to America. I presume he means to live. No, he just means on holiday.

Now maybe I'm wrong but isn't an ambition something that you have to strive to achieve? Something you have to put blood, sweat and tears into? Something that you might never happen unless you work at it? (Like mine, which is to be able to do chin-ups. Ain't never gonna happen...)

Surely if you want to go on holiday to America, you just save some money and go? I mean, I've fulfilled his ambition three times.

I suppose there's always the possibility that he is a criminal...

'We're having a great time aren't we?' he says. 'Aren't we having a right laugh?...What about when we first met and I pretended to be a fat guy? Ha ha!'

I make a mental note that I must stop that bad habit I have. That habit of making the best of a situation and always trying to enjoy myself, because it seems to be giving him the wrong impression.

He tells me that he's checked the trains between Manchester and his town and they're frequent so I'll be able to see him easily. He suggests I go to his next weekend. Says I can stay over if I want.

Not in this lifetime.

Asks me if I have any pets. Quite glad he's moved onto safer chat territory but realise he hasn't paid much attention to things I've said though.

'Well no, because I live in an apartment, am a freelancer and am often working away. Pets wouldn't really fit into my life.'

You know how there is that myth that its always the girls that are the keen, clingy ones that move too fast? Not in mine and Mr Trafford's relationship...

'I'm thinking of getting a dog but don't worry, if we go away together for a weekend, I'll get my brother to look after it.'

A weekend away? Together? Hardly!

The bill comes. He pays. Good. At least there was one positive point to the date.

He gets up. 'I'm just going to the toilet. Don't worry, I will come back. Ha ha!'

Now was my chance. To do it for my sisters. To leave him, like he left those girls...

I'm sorry. I just couldn't.

I had to do something though...something to make him feel even a little, like they must have felt...

I shout at him across the restaurant, 'Actually now you've paid the bill I'm not too bothered whether you come back or not.'

So he didn't.

The End.


I wish! Of course he came back. He's so thick-skinned he thought I was joking.

And then since the date there have been plenty of texts from him. Texts saying what a great time we had. Texts reminding me what a hilarious joke he played on me. And texts asking me if I want to go over to his on our second date.

I have replied to him, but I can only presume his phone is faulty cause it seems like the 'n' and the 'o' letters just aren't registering.