...I'm an Englishman in...erm...Edinburgh.
Hola! Well, the plan to update the blog every day for 365 days didn't go very well, did it? Thanks to a combination of my phone not allowing me to post and the collective eggheads at Talk Talk b*ggering up my internet connection at home, I managed four days on this pledge - just over 1% achievement. Hope this isn't a bellwether for the whole year?!
Most of those four days have been spent working in Edinburgh. A hectic weekend of very long days which gave me precious little time to think about my challenges, let alone tick a couple off. However, something strange seemed to happen in Edinburgh. Maybe it was the sea air, maybe it was the ghost of Robbie Burns or perhaps it was simply exhaustion kicking in. Whatever it was, for some reason I felt supremely confident - in a kinda of 'I own this town' type of way. Think John Wayne as a small town sheriff (and no, that doesn't mean I wandered around Edinburgh in chaps and a stetson). It's almost as though being away from home in a strange place where no-one knew me, I could reinvent myself and become someone else. 'But who did you become?' I hear you cry, 'Bruce Forsyth? Idi Amin? H from Steps?' OK, so I didn't actually become someone else - maybe I just relaexed and allowed myself to be me - but clearly there was something in my demanour which altered, as I felt myself walking taller (at one point I swear I reached 5 ft 9) and (and this is where the relevance to the challenge comes in) I became aware that there was flirting occurring. Oooooohh!
If I'm honest, the challenge of running through a desert, travelling round the world or learning new skills don't daunt me (the challenge will be to actually do them); no, when I survey the list of my tasks the one that makes me flinch slightly is Kate's flirting. Now, before you get excited, the Edinburgh flirting wasn't serious flirting and not the kind of flirting you get in Hollywood films or porn movies - I did not develop a large moustache and begin chasing young girls in knee high socks around Arthur's Seat. However, there were definite occasions of lingering eye contact, big smiles and an awareness that 'I am actually flirting'...and it felt good. Now, before you rush out to buy a hat, nothing became of it, but that wasn;t ever the point. Instead, unlike much of the last few weeks, I felt 36 going on 21 not 36 going on 80...which is one of the things I want to get out of those whole experience. I am only 36 and may only be just over a third of the way through my life...so why have I taken to feeling so very ancient? Anyway, the random acts of flirting which took place on the plane, in a restaurant, at the Edinburgh Marathon exhibition and in a queue (how terribly British) took me back several years to my last days of being single. Saturday night after Saturday night, Iain and I would get tanked up and head out into London full of hope and expectation. He'd be wearing another new shirt, I'd be doused in so much aftershave, I killed off half the nearby Barnes Wetland Centre walking to the bus stop. Invariably we'd end up on the night bus several hours later bemoaning why we'd not had so much as a sniff (pogoing across the dancefloor probably wasn't the best pulling technique, but hey we had fun) We'd go for a fry up the following day and pick over the wreckage of the previous night like post-party pathologists and conclude that if we wanted to pull, it might be a good idea to actually make eye contact with people and maybe strike up conversations occasionally...and the following week we'd do exactly the same! Of course, somewhat ironically (but not suprisingly for those in the know) all my big relationships began in a bumbling Hugh Grant-esque fashion when I wasn't even looking e.g. asking for directions, waiting for a bus or unsuspectingly drunk at a party. Maybe there's added pressure at being older and single - a bit like being at school when teams are being picked for football and you stand there watching everyone else get picked and hoping you won't be last - maybe it's the fact that having been dumped, the fear of further rejection makes the potential benefits too much of a risk to take - or, more likely, we just look back nostalgically at how easy it was being 21 and on the pull. and in reality it's every bit as scary / nerve-wracking / exciting / daunting etc as it ever was! Either way, these past 11 weeks are the longest I've been single for 13 years, so I'm determined to seize the moment and embrace being single. I don't have to compromise, I no longer await instructions as to where I'm going and with whom in any given week and I no longer have to try to work out whether 'our dreams' are really the same as 'my dreams' or whether they're simply somebody else's and I'm merely tagging along for the ride. In short, people, this is my opportunity to find out exactly who Craig Jonathan Fordham is (if I were a betting man I'd put money on me somewhere between Ronnie Corbett and Thora Hird) and to finally learn to be comfortable with my own company...however, if I'm not going to end up as the mad old bloke in the street that everybody points to, I've clearly got to get better at this flirting lark. The weekend was a definite start! More please!
Now all of that was a bit deep (must learn not to blog after drinking Pinot). So, with that out of the way, I need to take you into a room and tell you how disappointed I am with you all. No, i'm not angry, just disappointed. In a previous post I tried to get out of running across Jordan (the country, not the model) on the basis of expense (a £1,900 entry fee) and no-one cried 'foul'. You need to understand I'm an excuse junkie - give me a sniff of a way out and like a crazed smack addict I will charge full steam to grab hold of it with the usual array of 'I couldn't possibly, it wouldn't work, it's not worth the risk, it's too expensive'. The point of this exercise is to stop saying 'no' and start saying 'yes'. Having given myself a stern talking to and a quick go with the bedny ruler, this challenge is back on - I will simply have to find the money somewhere. DO NOT LET ME GET OUT OF ANY OF THESE CHALLENGES THAT EASILY!!!
On that note, it only remains for me to wish Happy Birthdays to Shelley & Stuart. For those of you who grew up in Anglia, I actually have my hand up BC's bottom whilst typing this (as glove puppets go, he was particularly poor and always looked as though he'd just come in from a hard night).
Tomorrow, more news on further challenges. Try not to get too giddy with excitement.
5 foot 9. You wish! Love you.
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