Bloody hell. The Xmas holidays are definitely over. My work diary is back with a vengeance. Points I have scored: Housework (1), Chinese school (1).
Weakly Weigh-In: I seem to have regained two pounds, great. Bah. I am so annoyed I am not even writing it on my chart. I will have to completely cut out sugar and live on vegetables. This is especially relevant in light of:
Dating. WELL. Things on the dating front are unexpectedly exciting. I am still seeing Marcel, he is still behaving himself, I can feel that he hasn’t properly formed an attachment to me yet but we are working on it and I have been taking it that it will come in time, he just needs to settle in to the cosy, British, tea-drinking, mildly disciplinary moral and erotic regime that I am very kindly providing for him.
I took down my dating site profile as I did not require any more new dates for the time being and wanted to concentrate on Marcel, who I enjoy and find attractive. I did, however, have a couple of people in my diary who had already made dates with me which I felt I should honour. In fact, if we want to look at it from a 12 Dates of Xmas perspective, I guess these would be contestants 7 and 8.
Contestant 7 was a very nice, intelligent man who I could easily be friends with but there wasn’t quite enough chemistry for much more than that. So that left just one person for me to meet: Contestant 8. All I knew about him prior to meeting him is that he’s very direct and straightforward (this I like), he seems quite laid-back and he can talk. Dude knows his own mind and has plenty to say. You obviously never can tell about the chemistry until you meet someone. So I went to meet him with no particular expectations, in fact I regarded the appointment as probably the last time I’d date anyone but Marcel for a while and I was glad to have cleared my diary. I also wasn’t even looking all that fabulous as I was tired. (Wardrobe notes: knee high black leather boots because snow, long purple skirt by Joe Brown, soft wrapover black top by Betty Jackson, nice garnet ring that I bought about 10 years ago from the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York).
Readers, this guy. Let’s call him Brad. He was great. He was a big, sturdy, vivacious, confident, smiling American. As semiotic signs go, he was a strong contrast to Marcel who is delicate, elusive, shy, light-of-touch. They are the same age: 36, 37.
Brad and I spent the whole evening together talking on a sofa in a rather luxurious hotel bar and there was all the chemistry you could wish for between us, fizzing away like freshly-poured champagne. I told him all about Marcel. Eventually we didn’t care so much about talking and I ended up comfortably wedged in next to him on this sofa, with his arm around me and my head resting on his big American shoulder. It was really relaxing and therapeutic. Man oh man. We like each other. Where this goes from here, I don’t know.
Dating. It doesn’t get any less complicated over time, does it. Brad and I are comparing diaries and trying to make a date for this week. And now I need to stop enjoying myself and DO SOME HOMEWORK. Get on with it, Gloria.
Let’s have some music. This is a beautiful song, listen to Big Youth preaching respect for women. This for me is one of the essential differences between rap and reggae. Rap is hard on women but reggae embraces them because we are all Jah’s children.
Big Youth: African Daughter (1982)