1. So, having spent a significant part of the last two weeks thinking “I quite like Twinkly-Eyed Guy, but I don’t really think we’re compatible so maybe we should just be friends, even though I’m fairly fed up of not having a sexual partner and I do find him attractive so maybe we could have sex a few times without it getting all serious, but I don’t want to mess him about, especially since he’s a friend of a friend and all…”, it turns out I needn’t have worried.
We met for a quick drink last night and before I could blurt out any of the above, he told me that while I was away he had become involved with ‘an old flame’.
I wished him well, and we’re going to stay in touch as friends.
I confess to a slight feeling of injured self-esteem – the usual “What’s wrong with me? How come he likes someone else better?” – which is completely ridiculous, I know, given that I wasn’t that into him, either. But I’m only 90% rational; the other 10% is a giddy vortex of emotional nonsense.
However, the only real downside to this development is that now I am even more hopeful (and thus, more likely to be disappointed) that Tall Pilot Guy will actually get in touch to arrange a date and time for our Avatar viewing pleasure.
I think maybe I’ll text him with the nights I’m free this week – a gentle reminder and some encouragement can only be good, right??
2. I try not to mind apologising when the fault is mine. But it really does grate when I have to apologise for something that was not my fault.
I’ve just had to write a grovelling apology email to one of our freelance artists who spotted one of his illustrations on the cover of the italian edition of a book (he’s Italian), only to discover that it was incorrectly credited to another artist. The cause of this error? My boss supplied the italian publisher with some images from our archive for them to create their own cover, without letting them know that they’d need to change the credits as the artist was different.
3. I have a stomach ache, no doubt due to the lunch I was treated to by one of our photo agency reps. Chicken Caesar salad with enough dressing to swim several olympic-distance lengths in and positively sinking under the weight of parmesan ‘shavings’.
I always mean to order it with the dressing on the side, no croutons, only a little parmesan and no anchovies… but then I chicken out (see what I did there?) when I imagine the waitress rolling her eyes over the picky customer. I mean, I basically want some green salad leaves, some grilled chicken, a little crispy bacon and a boiled egg. Nothing fancy. Why do they have to muck about with it?