Swords and Sandhurst

Miss Fifi has turned into a walking solider seller – if you’re thinking about going on a date, the one piece of advice that you can be sure of being offered by her is “make sure he has a hot uniform and a sword to his name”.

            Don’t get me wrong, it’s fairly solid advice, and thanks to a couple of ‘recommendations’ she’s made for me on MSF, I’ve got my eye on a couple of Captain potentials already. However, it looks like I might not be needed her online help after all. Surely one solider is more than enough to be getting along with.

Miss Fifi Update 5

After a very dreary Monday, which I lived through in a haze nearing full-on coma, came today, the not so joyous day of love! As much as my dark and murderous mood today can be blamed on schmultzy card manufacturers and Fitness First (who insist of covering the gym of all places, in red heart decorations, why?!?) yesterday's torturous state was most definitely self-inflicted. More specifically, from repeatedly getting rather too tipsy over the weekend...

Amongst the sea of 'booze blues' that I'm still recovering from, I have a story of fun to report. On Friday, with my work buddy and new found partner in crime,  I finally sampled Maddisons Bar, located up in the rafters of One New Change. In summary: lovely bar, stunning view, lots of suits. Unfortunately, the partner in crime and I were soon cornered by two of the most tedious and racist men I have ever met (racist against English people- surely the first rule of flirting is to know your audience?!)

Thankfully, we were soon rescued and whisked to the dance floor by our knights in shining armour...or the modern day equivalent, men in well cut suits. I'm yet to hear the partner in crime's debrief of her rescuer, but mine from bleary memory appeared friendly, humorous (possibly) and an enthusiastic dancer. He was also 35. A real, certified grown-up!

Age is something we've been discussing numerous time at The Slutty Suppers Club - just how old (or young, in SugarM's case!) would you go? But, as The Grown-Up had already texted me by the time I'd stumbled home, treasured chicken McSandwich in hand, it struck me that meeting an older bloke may offer pleasant novelties. Perhaps in his world there's less game playing, with minimal concern to the silly politics of who texts who first, how long to wait before sending a reply etc. An enticing possibility indeed that this crap ceases to exist when you're over 30...

We texted quite a few times on Saturday, and he wasn't even perturbed by my texting-misspelt rubbish to him at 4am on Sunday morning, when he was sensibly fast asleep after a night of Ovaltine and Top Gear (or so he said!). Communications have gone rather quiet today, possibly in part due to the evil V Day throwing an elephant into the room, but we'll see!