38 Tales of a Real Life Romance - Chapter 7

Things weren't going well...

Firstly, I'd taken my shoes to the cobblers to see if they could be fixed.

They couldn't. The guy serving me even remarked that they must have had a lot of weight on them for the heel to have broken so badly.

While I stood looking like a shame-faced fairy elephant, Taggart told him that just half an hour before I'd managed to get myself into a teeny weeny size 8 dress so couldn't be that heavy.

It wasn't her best argument. Particularly as we'd both just been falling about the changing-rooms laughing at the fact I'd got in to the minute frock. We'd even said it must have the wrong label on it because I haven't been a size 8 since I was aged about 8. I appreciated her trying to stick up for me though.

Secondly, I hadn't heard anything from Hands.

Yes, there had been that text thanking me for a nice evening, to which I'd sent a similar reply, but nothing since. It was now three days later and his last text to me was starting to look more and more like a goodbye message.

Just in case it wasn't though (he didn't exactly have the best reputation for being a prompt texter), I spoke to the Goddess about making my next move.

'Well The Rules would say do nothing and to wait for him to get in touch.'

'Yeah I know that, but what would they say about the fact that I'm about to go and work abroad for a few weeks, and if we don't go out now it's unlikely that we'll go out again?'

I felt that as we'd only had one date, it was unlikely that we'd keep in touch with each other while I was away, and even more unlikely we'd arrange a second date when I got back, so many weeks after the first.

The Goddess agreed that in this situation it was acceptable to modify The Rules. She gave me permission to text Hands but insisted that I wasn't to ask him any questions, so at least if he replied we knew that it was because he wanted to and he wasn't just being polite.

I thought that was a good plan and sent him a message telling him what a fabulous weekend I'd had. I realised that I was running the risk of him thinking I was bad-mannered for not asking about his last few days, and that I believed everything was all about ME! ME! ME!, but it had to be done.

Seems he thought nothing of the sort because seven minutes later I received a reply. Yes, a mere seven minutes later! And it said...

Glad you had a good time! Do you fancy meeting up for Round 2 or was once enough? x

My, how things had changed! Not only had he replied quickly but he'd got straight to the point! It was like a little dating miracle. And one point for me, in the 'Rapunzel against The Rules' fight.

I replied that would be lovely and asked when he was thinking. I explained that I had a lot to schedule in over the next few days, but that it would be good to see him before I went away to work.

He replied saying that he was flexible and could fit in with me.

I replied that at this stage I could do any day except for Wednesday.

Then there was silence.

Aaargh! Normally I could have held out, but I only had a seven day window to fit everything in before heading off to sunnier climes, so the following day after I'd still had no reply from him, I sent another text...

Tuesday, Thursday or Friday? Take your pick! x

He replied that we'd go for the 'Thursday or the Friday, probably the Friday' but that he'd let me know in 'bags of time'.

Now I'm interested to know how you would define 'bags of time'? Bearing in mind that this text was sent on the Monday lunchtime? Personally I'd say that hearing from him on the Tuesday would have been acceptable, but Hands and I clearly read different dictionaries as indicated by his text to me on the Wednesday night...

Hey lets go for tomorrow if that's ok? The boys night is looking like Friday now x

What?! Did I read that right?! After me stressing to him that I had loads to do and him saying he could be flexible, and then suddenly not being very flexible but promising that he'd tell me in 'bags of time', he thought it was ok to arrange the date the night before the date.

Not only that, but I was fitting around boy's night! Don't get me wrong, I'm all for boys' night and I actually don't think that a girl you have been on one date with should come first. But he certainly shouldn't have told me that I was being shunned for bloody boys' night!!!

The Goddess was just as aghast. 'I think you should tell him that it's time for him to put some of that hand modelling experience to good use, and to wave goodbye to Rapunzel!'

Oh how we laughed and we laughed, and then we went out for cocktails and forgot all about it.

Until another text came through a few hours later that is...

No comment from the social butterfly? I'll call you tomorrow daytime to make a plan if we are still on? Food or drinks or both? x

And what do you think I replied....?

18 Textuality

Beep! Beep!

It was a text from my mum.

Hi luv. Me and your dad have been talking...

Hmm that sounds ominous...

...and we were just wondering...

Maybe not. Probably just want to know how to do something on the computer or ask when I'm going to pay them back the money I owe them.

...are you gay?...

What?!?!

We will still love you no matter what...

Oh well that's aright then! But still, what on earth? Why would they think that?

Ok, I have had my hair cut quite short. And I had been moaning to my mum about a particular guy only a few hours before. It wasn't code for 'I don't like men in general' though. I haven't started dancing on the other side of the ballroom.

There was more...

Also we've decided that your brother is our favourite child x

Ah right.

It was at this point that I knew there was definitely something suspicious going on. There is absolutely no way that they like my brother best. It's me that always calls them and sorts out their birthday presents, not him. Plus I've caused them far less trouble. It wasn't me that was brought home by the police one night because they'd caught me pissing against a wall.

No, something was occurring. I just wasn't sure what. It was actually as if my brother had sent the text from my mum's phone, but as she's in Edinburgh and he's in Southampton I couldn't fathom out how that could have happened.

I phoned my mum. As I waited for her to answer I realised how ridiculous it was going to sound that I was phoning to ask if she'd texted me enquiring whether I'm a lesbian. This resulted in me laughing after saying hi. One of those laughs where no sound comes out so my poor mum thought I was crying.

I finally managed to pull myself together and ask if she had texted me. She hadn't.

Curiouser and curiouser.

"So you don't think I'm a lesbian then?"

"Er, no."

"Good cause I'm not. I need to find out who thinks I am though..." and off I went, leaving my mum to panic about being a victim of identity fraud.

Next call was to my brother. "So how did you do it?"

After ten minutes of him saying he had no idea what I was going on about, and how he was 'far too busy' to be sending texts, I managed to get a confession out of him.

I'm afraid dear reader that I have to inform you that you can no longer believe any text you receive.

Your friend suggests meeting for lunch. Really?

Your local salon confirms your hair appointment. Pfff!

Your boyfriend thinks you should both have an early night. Whatever.

From now on you'll have to take everything with a pinch of salt because the worst phone application ever has been invented. One that lets you type in a 'to' number and a 'from' number and then whatever message you choose and off it pops to the recipient to appear in their inbox...

How evil is that?!

So be warned. I was lucky and there were no real consequences but you might not be so fortunate.

Of course there is the odd occasion when knowing that such an application exists could come in handy. When you wish you weren't the sender of a text.

Like when Taggart sent me a text after her third date with a nice man...

Loved up, loved up, loved up - that's what I am!x

Except she sent it to him instead...

26 Dealing with the Dutch

'I think you should buy the book anyway so you're prepared when another guy comes into your life,' the shop assistant advised me, before adding, 'One that will stick around for longer.'

I could have kissed her.

I might even have done so, except for the fact that Mr Lekker probably would have liked witnessing that, and he wasn't exactly my favourite person at that very moment.

This was about an hour into our 'reunion'. I'd been a nervous wreck all morning. Understandably really as I'd never felt about anyone else the way I did about him. So much so, that I even uttered some of the most ridiculous words that have ever come out of my mouth when I said to Taggart that if he proposed to me I would say yes. I was that infatuated. Well, I'd known him for five hours after all. Why waste time?

Obviously I'd made that remark in the beginning when he'd first entered my life and turned it all upside down. I wasn't so keen now that I knew he had a girlfriend. Plus there was the small issue that we hadn't actually spoken in months until he'd called out of the blue to ask if we could see each other.

What did he want? Was he going to explain things? Apologise? Maybe he'd split up with his girlfriend? I had no idea.

All the not knowing was making things very difficult when it came to choosing what to wear. Did I need a 'look at what you are missing out on' outfit? And if I did, what does one of them look like exactly? Or should I just look good, but not too good suggesting that I wasn't that bothered about him? And where is the line drawn between the two looks?

I was happy to see that he'd put as much thought into his outfit as he rounded the corner to our meeting point. He was wearing the exact same thing he'd worn the year before. Sometimes I really wish I was a guy.

I'd felt physically sick until I saw him but as soon as I did my nerves dissipated. I just couldn't believe that Mr Lekker was actually standing in front of me.

We found a quiet cafe and settled down with some coffees. He kept looking at me. Approvingly I hoped. Seems not because he then informed me that I was the same as he remembered, except that I now had purple in my hair and I didn't have it before.

Really Mr Lekker? In actual fact the purple hair was the result of going to a hairdresser in Holland that didn't speak the best English, a few years before. It had been an accident but I'd loved it and had had it ever since. It had become part of my identity and some people even referred to me as 'Purple Heid' (drunk Scottish guys mainly mind you.)

Yes, I was feeling a bit annoyed that he hadn't noticed something so important about me. What on earth had he been looking at that night?

Mind you, I couldn't have been paying that much attention either because I'm sure his teeth were nicer in my memory. As was his attitude for that matter.

The conversation flowed surprisingly easily, considering we were two strangers and one of us was pissed off with the other one.

I finally plucked up the courage to ask him what had happened and why he had stopped contacting me. I wasn't in the slightest bit impressed with his answer and told him so.

'Bloody men. Bloody Dutch men in fact. It's no wonder there is a whole book explaining how to deal with the Dutch.'

Yep, I know that as come-backs go it was extremely weak, but I was in shock. All Mr Lekker cared about on the other hand was the book I'd just mentioned.

'There is really a book about that?'

I told him there was and I'd been given a copy as I arrived to live in Holland. He didn't believe me and suggested that we go to the nearest bookshop. I wasn't really in the mood but was keen to be proved right so agreed.

After failing to find anything on the shelves, Mr Lekker approached a girl at the till. He explained that he had just met a 'lovely' girl, pointing at me, and we needed a particular book so that I could understand how to deal with him (er, that's sooo not why we are here Mr Lekker...)

She checked her computer and said she'd need to order it in which would take a couple of weeks. He replied that would be too late and he'd have gone back to Holland by then. He then turned to me and said he was sorry but he saw no point in continuing our relationship. (Never a truer word said.)

Thank God for female intuition as it was at this point the sales girl suggested I get it for the next man I met. I loved her.

Can't say I felt the same about Mr Lekker. And the reason I didn't was because when I'd asked him earlier to explain his lack of contact, his reply was that he was falling for me and he couldn't be doing that as he'd just got married.

Yep you did read that right. Married with a big, fat capital M!

And don't think for one moment that he was doing the honourable thing and meeting me to tell me all about it and apologise. Was he heck! I'm not sure he would even have mentioned it if I hadn't asked (and as his wedding ring wasn't on the normal finger I wouldn't have realised.)

His reason for meeting me was purely to try his luck again. Which became apparent as soon as he said flirtily to me that he'd never kissed anyone in a bookshop before...then winked at me!

Don't worry readers. I'd learnt my lesson - once a player, always a player. I informed him that he also wouldn't be kissing anyone in a bookshop that day either. I bade him farewell and off I went.

And that was the end of the love story Mr Lekker and Me.

--------------------------

Lessons learned? Turns out I'm quite fickle and need longer than five hours to decide if someone is the perfect man for me.

Morale of the tale? If you do unwittingly find yourself as the third wheel in a relationship involving a famous man, try and ensure that he is not known in the UK so you never have to endure seeing his lying, cheating face on the cover of Heat magazine!

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!

20 Mum's the Word

It's an important day for two special ladies in my life.

The first is Taggart. It's her 34th birthday today!

We have already celebrated this occasion while in Gran Canaria together. Partly because I wasn't going to be with her today, and partly because we thought it would be a good opportunity to try and get some free drinks if we said it was her birthday. It was working a treat until someone queried the date that day and we had no idea what it was!

So I want to say happy birthday to my fabulous friend and I hope you enjoy your day despite having to work. Just remember not to be too lenient just because you are in a good mood - a criminal is a criminal, even on birthdays!

The other lady I want to talk about is my mum because it is Mother's Day in the UK today.

Some other bloggers have implied that it is going to be a bit of a chore for them having to go and see their mums. This is when I realise just how incredibly lucky I am, cause it appears I managed to get to the front of the queue when it came to mums being doled out. My mum is ace!

I actually class my mum as one of my good friends. In that we like to hang out together, 'do' lunch, go shopping, go for cocktails etc and I also have the same conversations with her as I do with my friends. I just tone it down a bit as if she is a bit prudish, because she's still my mum and there are some things I'm sure she would rather not know. As she has always said to me, 'You pretend to be a good girl, and me and your dad pretend to believe you!'

She is very often the first port of call when I have a drama in my life and need some advice. I know it can be off-putting for guys when a girl is always on the phone to her mum, (especially when even our 'quick' calls can last at least an hour) but my ex boyfriends soon realised it wasn't actually a problem and often worked in their favour. This is down to the fact that my mum is not in the least bit biased. Many a time I've recounted an argument I've had with a boyfriend and instead of being on my side she's told me if she thinks I've been a little madam and it's actually me in the wrong and that I should apologise.

It explains why all my exes have thought she is great and I'm sure they've also been glad that she looks so good. Just in case it is true that that girls always do end up looking like their mums.

It's been said already that I'm her double. I'm not. Many a time we've stood in front of the mirror together and compared all our features.

'Are our eyes the same? Nope. Noses? Nope. Mouths? Nope!'

I actually wonder sometimes if I was adopted. In saying that, if I look even nearly as good as she does when I'm approaching 60, I'll be happy.

She does have a lot to answer for though. She encouraged me to be an individual when it came to the clothes I wore. Therefore I really feel that she has to take some responsibility for things like the turqoise and black checked, knitted, hot-pants. It wasn't all my fault.

And if any of my teachers thought I was a bit bolshy, they should be looking to my mum to blame for that as well. She told me that if I didn't understand something at school then it was the teacher's fault for not explaining it properly.

'Excuse me Miss, you really need to work on your lessons about long division.'

Obviously I am exaggerating slightly, but it was good because it gave me the confidence to believe that I could learn anything if I put my mind to it. It's only as I got older that I accepted that this isn't the case and there are some things I'm never going to understand, like brain surgery, temperature and men.

I'd say that it is probably down to my mum that I developed my love of travelling. She told me stories of the time she worked as an au-pair in Rome looking after the kids of a Countess and plastic surgeon and when it sounded like her only regret was not taking up the offer of a free boob job, it just made me want to experience it for myself (working abroad, not plastic surgery!) So fortunately, when I decided aged 18 to go and work in Portugal she gave me her full blessing. And again when I worked in Gran Canaria. And Holland. And Canada. And Australia...Sorry mum but you started it!

Me and my brother are often telling mum that she had it easy with us. We never really went through the rebellious teen stage. She would probably reply that is because she was clever and gave us a lot of freedom. It was my mum that bought me my first tickets to a concert, and even better, let me and my friend go on our own with no adults cramping our style! Okay, it was to see Five Star, so there wasn't much chance of danger but still I was only 11 and it made me the envy of all my friends.

Similarly, when she bought me a phone for my own room. It was probably because she was fed up with me lounging around her bedroom floor talking to whatever boy was flavour of the month. It didn't matter what her reasons were though, I just thought she was an amazing mum for doing that.

Likewise when I started wanting to go out to nightclubs aged 16, there weren't any arguments. We just agreed that she'd set her alarm and I'd switch if off when I got home in the wee small hours. Otherwise, it would have gone off at 3am and it would be her cue to panic because I really should have been back by then. Not that this ever happened. Like I said, she was fine about me doing so many things as long as she knew about them, that I never wanted to push the boat.

Don't get me wrong, she isn't so liberal about everything. She hates swearing for example. The 'f' word in particular. In fact she claims that she has never even said it! I'm just not sure I believe that. I bet there has times that she has been effing and blinding all over the place.

Perhaps when I had a life-threatening lung disease at 17? I don't mean because of the obvious upset it would cause seeing your child so ill. No, I mean because of the difficulties it caused. The fact that she had to put up with me crying constantly because I couldn't find any sunglasses for my holiday with the girls, that I felt looked okay on my steroid-induced fat face! And the way that I milked having an illness for all it was worth.

'You want me to do the dishes? I can't. I just feel too weak. I have a disease don't you know?'

I still do it now.

'I jacked in that job because it was boring. I almost died don't you know? Life's too short for me to be doing crap jobs. Anyway can you lend me some money for my rent?!'

I was in Scotland last week and as my mum saw me off at the train station I thanked her. She asked what for. I said just for being my mum. I want her to know that I really meant it.

Happy Mother's Day! Not just to mine but all the others out there and especially to my friends who are mums - you are all doing a fabulous job!

Rapunzel x

15 The Disclaimer

There are a few things afoot for this girl at the moment, which is all very good but has meant that my blog has taken a back-seat. I haven't abandoned it, nor is it the case that I've just nothing to talk about. Quite the contrary actually. It is just down to time constraints and I hope that normal service will be resumed by next week.

Unfortunately I couldn't wait until then to inform you that the sad day has come and that I've had to put a disclaimer on this blog. I was worried that if I left it any longer I might get sued in the meantime.

It started when a guy I know got in touch to say that he'd read one of my earlier posts, The Headmaster about a disastrous haircut I'd had. He'd taken note of my comment that you wear your hair every day and shouldn't scrimp when getting a new 'do'. He decided to forgo his usual trip to the barbers and instead splash out on a trip to a proper salon.

The problem was that as well as being £40 poorer, he also hated his new look and wondered 'what I was going to do about it.'

Er..?

The next thing was that when planning a night out with a friend she insisted I confirm by text that I will not write about any of our antics.

Now I can't win with this one. Some people worry that I will blog about them, whereas others are upset when I don't!

Some even inform me how they want to be described in the posts, which is all very well, but if I did as they asked you could be mistaken for thinking that I hang around with supermodels.

Recently, I've had many people tell me that they read about my money pot riches and they too are going to do that too.

Now I'm really sorry to be the bearer of bad news but the pots are not magic. You can do all the wishing and rubbing you want, but if you've only put £6.47 in, £6.47 is what you will get out. The money does not procreate and have little money babies. The trick is to have it for years like I did and lose track of what it has got in it. (See picture above for reference purposes)

So, in conclusion this blog will now bear the footnote that everything you read here is purely the opinion of the author and you should not take any of her advice unless you are mental. It is also recommended that you do not try anything at home unless supervised by a responsible adult. And you also need not worry that I will write about anything you say or do on nights out with me. I mean I have not mentioned anything about Taggart getting us barred from a bar after she was sick on the dance floor now have I? No, I haven't because I am extremely discreet*.

*Note that this rule does not apply to any men that have treated me badly. Rest assured that you will at some point definitely feature in here. And I won't even change your name. That means you Alan, Gerry, Robert, Jamie...

20 Bum Deal

Taggart was slightly peeved when she called me yesterday. Turned out that her work colleagues had been asking her if she'd 'pulled' on holiday.

'What kind of holiday do they think we were going on?!' she exclaimed. 'Don't they realise that we are mature thirty-three year olds and not teenagers now?'

It was pretty rude of them. I mean we'd told everyone that we were going to be purely relaxing and we'd chosen a hotel accordingly. One with a nice spa, rather than a nice bar. And as for men, we weren't going anywhere near the male species. We probably wouldn't even look.

Okay, Taggart did text me as she boarded her flight from Glasgow Airport to say that she was checking out whether there was any talent, but that's normal isn't it? Everyone knows that you have a nosey to see who you will be sharing a plane with. Plus even if there was some hottie it is highly unlikely that he would be sitting next to Taggart. I've flown more times than I can even remember and I've never had any good-looking strangers sitting beside me. Never. It just doesn't happen. It's a flying law. Like gravity.

There also seems to be a new rule that goes hand in hand with going on a plane trip. At least with me anyway. The fact that it is now customary for me to be on the receiving end of airport security banter. The first time was on my date with Fishy when I was told I couldn't board wearing knife and fork earrings. This time was going well initially, I didn't even beep as I went through the mental detector. As I went to collect my bag though I was stopped by one of the security guys who said he needed to search it. Fine. Just a bit inconvenient but I had nothing to hide.

'Er, what's this then?' he asked pulling out something from my bag.

Bugger.

'This looks a bit suspicious to me. What do you think guys?' he asked some of his colleagues holding up the object to show them. 'Do you think we should let her take this through?'

'Why don't you scan it through again on its own?' one of them suggested. 'I agree that it looks dodgy though.'

They discussed it for a bit longer, generating interest with the rest of the people in the queue. What on earth was this girl trying to take on the plane? Fireworks? A pet iguana? A pair of tweezers?

I wish. This was something far, far worse.

Everyone stared as the offending article was placed in a tray to go through the scanners. They looked puzzled when they saw what it was.

A book? Is that it? How could a novel cause such a fuss?

Yep. Just a paperback that I had picked up in the charity shop a few days before. It shouldn't be a big deal at all. Certainly not worthy of the laughter that erupted from everyone as it trundled past them and they got a closer look at it. Or to be more specific, after they had read the title...

'Does My Bum Look Big In This?'

I was mortified. I might have seen the humour in the situation were it not for the fact that I'm sure I saw some people staring at my ass. Which may also have been okay were it not that I'd dressed in leggings, making the answer to that question a resounding yes! I vowed never to dress for comfort again.

Was still slightly smarting as I got on the plane and made my way to my seat. I could see that the two next to mine were already taken. By two young, good-looking guys...

There is a God!!

I couldn't believe it. This had never happened before. Clearly the universe was trying to make up for the ordeal I had just had. I smiled at them as I sat down and said 'Hi'.

It just took a few minutes for the grin to be wiped off my face as I took in the clothes they were wearing, their voices and their relative disinterest in me.

Gay.

How bloody unfair.

The journey passed in silence. It was fine though. I was pretty busy with my book anyway. Then as we were about to land the guy sitting next to me started a conversation with me. We talked about all sorts - how old we are, where we are from, what jobs we do etc. At times, weirdly, it felt as though he was flirting with me but I'd obviously got that wrong. Or so I thought until we started discussing where we were staying in Gran Canaria. Turns out he'd read the reviews of his hotel after he'd booked it and had discovered that it was popular with gay clientele and that him being a straight guy he hoped that wasn't true.

Yep a flipping STRAIGHT guy. A single, straight and hot guy for that matter and I'd sat next to him for almost five hours and not made the most of the opportunity because I thought he danced on the other side of the ballroom. It's just lucky that Taggart and I weren't looking for that kind of holiday or I would really have been annoyed with myself.

Morale of the tale? - It's obvious isn't it? Never judge a book by it's cover.

23 Giddy Kipper

You would think I'd never been on holiday before. Excited is not the word! I can't even concentrate properly, my head is already on the beach.

It probably explains why it took me so long to work out what the dodgy smell was in my fridge earlier. It was a real puzzle because there isn't even that much in there. I picked everything up one by one to sniff them. The mayonnaise, the milk, the wine, the yoghurts, the chocolate. All fine. Nothing out of date. Weird.

I felt pretty stupid when I realised that the aroma was that of fake-tan. From my own out-stretched arm.

I'm probably extra-excited because when Taggart and I first talked about going away, my bank account was screaming 'No!' and it wasn't looking like I could go anywhere.

I was in the middle of thinking up hair-brained schemes to get some cash when I spotted my money pot. I've been putting money in it for a few years, a pound coin here, a fiver there and was only going to break it when it was full which it wasn't quite yet. I was saving for a rainy day though and it has been pissing down recently and I really want to go on holiday, so I decided it was time to smash the pot.

After a quick google to find out the best way to do it (put a chisel in the money slot and just 'lift' the top off) I sat and counted my money...

I only flipping well had seven hundred and fifty-four pounds and twenty pence!!!!

Yep, £754.20!!!

I know - I couldn't believe it either! You wouldn't even imagine that much would fit in the pot. I felt like a lottery winner.

So after a quick call to Taggart to inform her that I'm actually rich and just hadn't realised it, we had a quick search on the internet and a few hours later had booked our respective flights (her from Glasgow, me from Manchester) to meet up in the Canaries.

We've both been giddy kippers since. Well I know I have and the fact that Taggart keeps sending me texts saying things like 'Do you fancy meeting up on Monday? What about meeting half-way? In Gran Canaria say? Woo hoo!' suggests that she is too.

It has an extra special place in our hearts as well, because both Taggart and I used to work there. We knew each other from school but it was the 'Summer of 97' while working in the sunshine, miles away from home that we became proper friends.

Of course it is irrelevant really. We were whippersnappers then, while now we are mature adults. It doesn't really matter where we are going because all we intend to do is sunbathe and relax. We aren't even going to go out. So while I will in theory have plenty of time to blog, I just won't have anything to write about. I mean I know that Taggart and I seem to attract drama to us wherever we go...but not this time. Nope, 'Rapunzel and Taggart do Gran Canaria' is going to make for a very boring read so I won't inflict it on you.

(Note to any men - you realise if you ask me out on a date now, I'll think that you only want me for my money?! And on the same theme, note to everyone - I do not want to return from my holiday to lots of begging letters. Get your own money pot!)

57 The Craic

This isn't how I imagined our first meeting to be at all.

Shouldn't we be hugging and saying we are so glad that we are finally seeing each other in the flesh? Instead, Fishy is standing there telling me he won't kiss me because his lip is bleeding, and I'm rummaging through the world's biggest bag trying to find some vaseline for him.

No, not even nearly like I'd envisaged.

He, on the other hand, is exactly like I'd expected. Or should I say that he's like all the photos I'd seen of him. He insisted on emailing me 10 before we met up. From all different angles.

He's nicely dressed. Probably cause he's wearing the same as me. Grey top and jeans. We're like twins. His jumper isn't off the shoulder though, thankfully.

Head through to baggage control. Fishy is talking to me but I'm unable to concentrate. I'm too busy wondering where I get one of the little plastic bags to put my make-up in. Can't ask Fishy, cause then he'll realise my look isn't natural.

Whisper the question to one of the security guards. He directs me to a vending machine back the direction I've come. His voice booms at me that I'm going the wrong way. The hundred or so people in the queue look at me. Fishy pretends not to know who I am.

Get my wee placcie bag, but then do you think I can find the things in my humongous bag that need to be transferred into it? No, I cannot.

Fishy has already gone through the metal detector and is standing waiting patiently for me. I'm getting flustered. The baggage handler tells me I'm going red which of course only serves to make my face flame even more. I start trying to multi-task and take off my belt and boots at the same time. Baggage handler tells me to relax. Then adds that everyone behind is giving me dirty looks.

I'm finally ready to prepare my innocent face and walk through the metal detector when baggage man stops me again.

'I can't let you go though with those earrings on...no knives are allowed on board... or forks either.'

I'm about to protest then I realise he's joking. Think I must have put my bantering gene in the bag alongside my make-up.

Fishy sighs as I finally meet up with him. Think he's questioning whether I really have ever been on a plane before. Or even out the house.

We grab a drink before boarding. Fishy wants to taste my mocha. I surreptitiously wipe the cup after. (Well he did say his lip was bleeding...)

I'm fannying about with my ginormous bag as we get seated on the plane and end up jerking my cup with the result that a bit of liquid jumps out and lands on my jumper. In the nipple region.

I pray he won't notice.

He notices. And remarks on it. I make a crap joke about lactating. Great, now he's going to be thinking about my nipples leaking. I decide to stop talking.

A man sits between us making it hard to chat anyway. He also blocks my view of Fishy's crotch, so I don't have to worry about catching sight of his little problem during the descent.

Short time later we are in Belfast and sitting down for lunch. The waitress comes over to see if we are ready to order. I'm still dithering. Fishy tells her I'm always like this.

It all feels strangely normal, which is weird considering that I'm in a place I've never been, with a guy I've never met. Can't tell if that is just the Fishy effect or whether I just feel I know him through his blog.

I notice his trainers. 'Are they the ones you bought to go on the date with the hairdresser?'

'Yeah.'

'What did you buy for your date with me?'

'A plane ticket.'

Fair point.

Fed and watered we go in search of a bus tour round Belfast. We want a bit of 'cultcha'. Fishy suggests we link arms. Ah ha! I realise what he's doing. This is one of his tricks to try and steal a kiss. I link anyway. It's pissing down and we're sharing my umbrella so it seems sensible.

We clamber to the top deck of the bus and go to sit in the one remaining seat under the roof canopy. A man stops us and says he's saving that for a friend. Fishy and I talk to each other telepathically and decide to ignore him and sit there anyway. Teamwork!

I can feel Fishy shivering beside me. I, of course, am roasty toasty as I have packed with the Antarctic in mind. I feel sorry for him and give him my cardigan which he places on his lap. I suddenly feel like I'm participating in Help the Aged day. That's until he starts asking the tour guide various questions, then it's like I'm out with the school swot.

An hour and a half and two numb bums later, we head to the Crown, one of Belfast's landmark pubs. Fishy goes to order us some Guinness while I go to the toilet. When I come out he is chatting to an old Irish man propping up the bar, who remarks about the fact he is surprised that Fishy is out with a female.

As we sit down in a cosy booth I ask Fishy whether he could in fact be gay and maybe hasn't realised it.

'I mean you said in your blog that your neighbour thought you were and now he did too.'

'No, I think it's that he thought you were a man at first.'

With these boobs? Unlikely.

The banter continues. He flirts with me. Tells me he likes the way I say 'world.' We take photos of each other. He deletes all the ones I like of me and keeps all the crap. He offers to read my palm (another of his snog ploys!)It's all very comfortable. We even broach subjects that you should never mention on a first date. Things like piles, death and past relationships.

Dinner time and we cross the road and go into the Europa Hotel for dinner. We are shown to a table which is so close to the one next to it that we are virtually sitting on the laps of the couple occupying it. I ask if we can sit elsewhere.

I'm hoping to re-capture the intimate atmosphere we've just had. Plus I was worried that the couple would have been put off their food if Fishy decides to talk about haemorrhoid's again. As we sit down he whispers to me that he wanted to move as well but didn't want to ask.

A lovely meal later and we realise sadly, that it is time to leave. Fishy says he'll pay for dinner (Ploy number 3- he lurves me, he wants to kiss me!)

At the airport, we travel up an escalator, chatting amiably. As we reach the top, Fishy suddenly darts off.

Er...? I just stand there. I'm really unsure what to do. I start panicking. About the blog. What on earth am I going to write? I can't say that he just disappeared and left me. How mortifying. In fact more to the point, what will he write? What have I done wrong?

My phone rings. It's him. 'I'm round the corner. The football was on in that pub and I'm recording it so don't want to know the result.'

I'm still a bit peeved as we wait for our flight to be called. He tries to make amends by challenging me to a thumb war (ploy number 4...) and then by showing me his passport photo. This doesn't help. I look like a serial killer in mine whereas he is the only person I've ever met that actually looks good in their picture. Freak.

In no time at all we are back in Liverpool. Fishy offers to drive me home. I'm his friend again so accept.

His stereo plays Lionel Richie. I'm instantly taken back to being 15 and my older boyfriend playing 'Hello' in a bid to woo me.

We park outside mine and chat about what a great day it has been. Suddenly Fishy tells me to kiss him. I'm a bit surprised. He starts mumbling something about kissing on the cheeks, not the lips. I'm not sure what to do. I have leant over, with the handbrake jammed into my leg and my lips are hovering about the place. I feel embarrassed. So I tell him to 'Just shut up.'

'You told him to shut up?' my best mate Taggart queries. I call her for a de-brief as soon as I get in to the Tower. 'He uses every one of his techniques to try and get a kiss. You have the upper hand and then you go and spoil it by telling him to shut up. Do you realise that when he writes his blog, that 'Shut Up,' will now become 'Will you Shut Up, cause I really want to kiss you.'?'

'I know,' I cringe.

'Did you think you were in a film or something?'

Damn. I really don't understand it. We spent 13 lovely hours together yet the date finished exactly as it began. Awkwardly.


And to read Fishy's version, click here...

30 An Open Email to Fishy

From: Rapunzel - moderndayrapunzel@googlemail.com
To: Fishy - pmfoutofwater@yahoo.co.uk
Date: Tuesday 26 January 2010

Oh Fishy,

You had to go and spoil things didn't you?

It was all going so well. Bamberio suggested we go on a date and being a reader of your blog and finding you hilarious, I thought/hoped that you were a man after my own heart and nothing could go wrong.

And nothing was going wrong. Even our first phonecall, which you were dreading, was better than we could both ever have hoped. We both got excited about our date. Everyone else got excited too. A friend even texted me to say she was going to buy a hat.

Now unfortunately my friends aren't so sure. All because of your last post.

It doesn't matter too much about the fact you've acted very blase about this date, because you and I both know that isn't true. The constant texts say otherwise. In fact I've been told that if you'd sent just another couple more I would have had reasonable grounds to take out a restraining order against you.

Yes I know that you love my accent, and that you think I look lovely in my facebook picture, but there are only so many times that a girl wants to hear it.

No, that isn't the problem though. The problem is that my friends know that I'm very fussy and they are actually questioning my sanity in agreeing to go out with you since you made your little confessions. Some are even a bit worried for my safety. They'd hoped that you would be an improvement on Mr Trafford Centre, not worse.

Despite my own concerns, I'm a woman (albeit young-looking) of my word, so I will still go on this date as planned.

You can dream on about trying your tricks in order to get a kiss though, as they won't wash with me. I've promised Taggart that I will carry a personal alarm and you really don't want to hear the noise that makes.

love Rapunzel x

22 Bye Dolly!

I have high hopes for 2010.

It has to be better than last year. I mean don't get me wrong, 2009 wasn't awful. I don't have any real complaints, but as I explained to my flatmate it was just a nothingy year.

"Nothingy?" He enquired.

"Yeah just nothing really happened. I won't really remember it for anything in particular. Bit boring actually."

Flatmate went back to watching his favourite programme Nothing to Declare while I mulled over what I'd done in 2009.

I'd shared my beautiful abode with three different people. A pilot from Ireland, an IT consultant from Mumbai and now current roomie from Oz, who does god knows what.

I did lots of different jobs. Some were emotional, like the documentary filming parents of disabled children. I had my eyes opened and met the most amazing people on that.

Some jobs were a bit more light-hearted, like the one where I was sent to Greece for three weeks with a cameraman I'd never met before. Luckily for me, he was one of the nicest guys ever and we had a ball. I just wasn't so keen on him when he filmed me jet-skiing. Or to be more specific, that he filmed the bit where I tried to get on the jet-ski. I've never looked so unladylike. And my ass looked huge. I'm sure that must have been the wide-angle lens.

There were jobs, that I'm not sure what possessed me to do them, like the night I spent working in a lap-dancing club. I could lie and pretend it was also for a documentary, but it wasn't. Just so you know, I worked behind the bar, not as a dancer. I made £32 in tips and trust me, I wouldn't have made anything close if I'd been dancing in my knickers!

I suppose I went to quite a few places last year. Taggart and I had a credit crunch holiday in Southampton and Brighton. I laughed at comedians at the Edinburgh Festival, I had a cream tea in Devon, I saw beautiful stars in Cornwall and in Cheltenham I...er...did some filming.

It was the year of catching up with friends I hadn't seen for eons. My friend that I met when I was 18 and worked in Portugal in an Indian restaurant, my friend that I met when I worked in Gran Canaria in er..an Indian restaurant and my friend that I lived with when I studied in Canada (was too busy being a student to work in a restaurant, Indian or otherwise!)

I also fell in love in 2009. A friend suggested I go to Barcelona with him when he read on Facebook that I'd bought a new bikini and had nowhere to wear it. So I did. That's when I fell in love. With Barcelona.

Of course it wasn't all good. There were a few terrible things that happened. Like when I was measured and I discovered I'm an inch shorter than I thought and I've been kidding myself for years.

And the time my dad's car was broken in to and I had two bags of clothes and nine pairs of shoes stolen. I was distraught. I even contemplated phoning Victim Support. My brother was as sympathetic as usual. He told me my clothes were shit anyway and the thieves had actually done me a favour.

That's about it. Nothing else happened in 2009.

Except I suppose for when I dressed as Dolly Parton and had a 'boob off ' with another Dolly.

And it was the year I dyed my hair blue.

It was also the year I had a wee in an £8million house that Robbie Williams considered buying.

And the year I 'performed' with a group of muscly, long-haired men wearing nothing but kilts and playing the bagpipes. I accompanied them on the maracas.

It was the year I was on TV in the audience of Don't Forget the Lyrics.

And it was the year an old man stopped me in Kwik Save because he thought I was Lisa Marie Presley.

It was also the year that a taxi driver in Greece wouldn't give me my change until I showed him my party piece (that's not a euphemism by the way, I do have a special trick I do with my double jointed arms..!)

So yeah, like I said. Not much happened.

2010 had better be better!

22 Nice Package

I really must stop opening my post in front of my concierges.

It's just that getting things in the mail really is one of my most favourite things ever. I get so excited and can't wait till I get all the way 40+ floors upstairs to see what I've got.

I feel sad that we don't send post as much now. Nothing beats getting a nice letter.

My best mate Taggart is good. She knows I love getting mail so sends me random things. Like after I had the bad hairdressing experience as detailed in The Headmaster, she sent me pictures she had cut out of magazines of other people with fringes. To make me feel better. She even sent a photo of herself with a fringe. OK, she was aged 9 in it, but it's the thought that counts.

So imagine how excited I was when I got a little padded envelope last week. The return address showed it was from my lovely Danish friend. Oooh she'd sent me a present! The concierges sensed my excitement and were urging me to open it so they could see what I'd got too.

I opened the card first. It was the photo above and had the inscription 'Some gifts are more interesting than others!'

Now I probably should have thought about the fact that despite being from Denmark, my friend lives in Holland - home of rude gifts. I also should have considered that there could be a 'theme'. I didn't though. I just carried on opening willy nilly.

Opened the first thing. A pen. A pen with a picture of a man on it and a note from my friend saying it was to inspire me when I write my blog.

Tried it out on the envelope. The man's pants disappeared as I scribbled. Ah yes, I could see how that would inspire me. Might even help me stop that bad habit I have of putting pens in my mouth...

Opened the other thing. Concierges still looking on. Still interested. As if it was their present.

It was a packet of popping candy. That stuff you used to get as a kid that would 'explode' in your mouth. Our version was called Fizz Wizz. Unfortunately this version wasn't called that.

This version was called Winkle Sprinkle...

Cut to a week later and I'm having my daily chat with the concierges. Rude present incident all forgotten I'd hoped. Opened one of my letters. It was from Santa. Awwwwww! A personalised letter to me. One of those that mums arrange to be sent to their kids...or their big kids.

I read it out to the concierges. Santa was telling me all about how busy he is over in Lapland and how Mrs Claus is wrapping up all the presents. He said how he'll make sure Mrs Claus puts my presents on the sleigh and he'll deliver them to my home in Manchester on Christmas Eve. On the condition that I've been a good girl this year that is...

The concierges burst out laughing. 'That's you buggered then!'

Ho, ho, ho.

12 Dr McDreamy

Hot doctor alert!

Only just the other week, I questioned the existence of real-life Dr McDreamys. Turns out there is at least one.

My best mate has seen him.

Unfortunately for me, he is in Scotland so absolutely no-where near my hospital.

And unfortunately for my best mate, she was hand-cuffed to a junkie when she met him.

I should add that this wasn't down to some weird hobby that she has. No, she's a cop. She was at work.

Actually I don't think she was hand-cuffed to the junkie but as I'm telling the story and it makes it seem more dramatic, that's what I'm saying.

Anyway, as I said, best mate (who we will now refer to as Taggart) was with her cop sidekick and afore-mentioned junkie waiting for the doc to come and fix the junkie's hand which was gushing with blood.

Junkie was complaining about Taggart and Sidekick arresting him and how he was probably going to get three years. Just general chit-chat.

Until, in walked....according to Taggart...the most beautiful man alive.

A real-life Dr McDreamy.

McDreamy started seeing to the junkie (so to speak) while Taggart fantasised about his bedside manner and wished she wasn't at work. Or sitting with a junkie and a sidekick? How was she meant to flirt with them in the way? And while wearing very unsexy shoes for that matter?

There wasn't actually anything about the situation that was similar to how she'd imagined meeting the future Mr Taggart.

McDreamy finally left the room and she turned to her...er...comrades. 'Ohmigod, howwwwww hot is he?!'

Except he hadn't actually left the room.

Turns out he still had a bit more doctor stuff to do.

He continued 'doctoring' while Junkie and Sidekick sniggered and Taggart wished she was somewhere else. Anywhere else.

After forever, McDreamy finished his thing and properly left the room and Junkie and Sidekick erupted into laughter.

Taggart felt embarrassed.

Junkie, perhaps thinking Taggart would let him go if he was nice to her, started questioning Sidekick's ability as a sidekick. He reckoned that a proper, supportive sidekick would have helped Taggart get McDreamys phone number.

He asked Taggart if he should get it for her when he gets out of prison. Though in his Glasgow accent, it was a bit more like...

'Hen, di yae waaant mi tae fun oot his numburrrr fur yae whin ahm oot tha jail?'

Taggart was not impressed.

No, not because a junkie was offering to be her Cilla.

It was more to do with the time-frame..

'You'll get me his number when you get out of jail?! In three years?! I'd better be blimming married to him by then!!'