Signed, sealed, delivered…with a snog*

I woke up yesterday wanting to go immediately back to bed. Those two martinis did me in. (Even though everyone at work called me a lightweight for getting that “pissed” and feeling that hung from just two drinks. Thankfully, those who’d heard of Duke’s and knew that I had two of their classic martinis without eating anything, totally understood my brain-farting, can’t-move-my-head predicament.) But I honestly didn’t know if I’d make it out for my pre-planned Anti-Valentine’s Day singles event with a co-worker. Not to mention that I truly and honestly forgot it was Valentine’s Day until my bestie in the world emailed me at the butt-crack NYC-time with the subject line: “Guess What?????” from which I knew, “Oh yes, it’s Valentine’s Day and she just got engaged.” HOLLA AMY AND ANG!!!!!!!

By midday, I’d had two sodas, a coffee, something that resembled a bagel with butter and jelly, and then a corned-beef sandwich with pickles from Pret, and was feeling on the up. Come 7p.m., I applied some red “lippie,” changed purse and prepared to get on with it, as they say here.

We were off to a popular singles event hosted by The Meddlers. The idea is this: Gather a whole bunch of single people in a bar for the sole purpose of them all at least knowing that everyone in said bar is single, and therefore eliminating one of the annoyances of wanting to meet someone in a bar, but being unsure if a) they play for your team b) they do, but have another team member waiting for them in a teddy at home. In addition, there are also several people walking around wearing a big “M” around their necks. Their sole purpose is to “meddle” and help those who are maybe a bit shy to get the introduction off to a proper start.


The idea is actually brilliant in theory. But then you get there and it’s just a ton of people craning their necks around like giraffes, looking among the crowd for a girl/guy who suits them. It’s just…a bit obvious. Also, didn’t really find that the meddlers were being of much service. Most people were just boldly heading up for chats on their own, myself included. After doing some neck-craning, it seemed that I (and about 10 other women) were all clearly huddled around this one guy. My friend Hannah insisted I get in there, and since I have something the rest of these girls don’t — an American accent — I decided to go for it. He was talking to a guy friend at the time and I went with the line, “I’m not from here, but I’m pretty sure you’re meant to be chatting to me right about now.” Cheeky. He totally took the bait, asked me where I’m from, yadda, yadda… Turns out, he was a bit…dull. Also, if I tell you the looks I was getting from the girls who had previously talked to him — LASER BEAMS. Eventually, the conversation came to a halt, and I politely excused myself. I headed to the bar (because where else do you go, really?), and just as I was about to consider the evening a Total Fail, I looked to my right and noticed an adorable guy. I honestly can’t remember what he said, but for the rest of the night it was on. First came a Jäger-bomb, (hello 1998!), followed by us trying to hear each other over the loud music on a velvet sofa, followed by a beer, followed by a dance to Stevie Wonder — proper swing-style; dude had moves — followed by The Snog.* (For those who don’t know what a “snog” is, it’s a kiss, which means that right now, I’m kissing and telling. Or, really, snogging and blogging!)

But then, just like Cinderella, I realized it was nearly midnight and I had to get the last tube before my wallet turned into a pumpkin and blew up because of the ridiculously expensive cab ride home. (I was somewhere in north west London.)

bibbity bobbity boo!

bibbity bobbity boo — you’re broke!

He helped me get my coat, gave me another peck, took my number and I was off! (Thankfully, no shoes were lost on the way.) Sadly, though, I did not make the last tube and was relegated to a long bus ride back to south east London, during which I met a so-adorkably-cute-you-could-pinch-him student from South Carolina — braces, drawl and all — who was convinced I was 26. Bless him! Then I took a 10-pound,  5-minute cab ride from the closest bus stop to my house and arrived home to a text from The Jäger-Snogger. (Who, by the way, has taken to calling me New Yawk in his version of a New York accent, which I promptly told him would not fly for very long.)

I was all smiles and once again drunk…this time on lurvvvv. Or at least the possibility of it.

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