Mouton and her Male Sheep Friends

24 Jun

Dating. A word that strikes fear into many a heart and gives me personally the impulse to run as fast as I can in the opposite direction, buy a horsehair tunic, grow a beard somehow and set up a whole new existence as a hermit monk in the Scottish highlands. But as someone who refuses to be beaten by anything (hence the decision to come and study in Paris of all places), I have attempted, admittedly whilst I’m meant to be revising, to rise to this particular challenge. And what a challenge it has been.

As you may have guessed, I am quite new to the dating scene and also suffer from the bus syndrome: you wait forever for a bus and three come along at the same time. Well, it’s the same thing with guys and the problem is I am quite a picky person at the best of times. So this leaves me making an insane amount of pros and cons lists.

Punctuality does not bother me; the shortest time I’ve waited for a date is probably 20mins. Funny how when it comes to conferences or “tutorials”, arriving two minutes late is an offense equivalent to publically declaring yourself a Sarkozy supporter. But when it comes to meeting for drinks, a half hour delay is perfectly acceptable. Logic level: French men.

But despite being on edge during most of any date there are certain little things that I find extremely difficult to let slide. For example, violation of the “the one you touch is the one you take” rule while eating the café’s provided bowl of chips.  Answering the phone when in the cinema: unforgivable. I don’t care if it’s Barack Obama, the Pope or Michael Jackson calling from beyond the grave, you just don’t do it! Oh and ordering for me, which is only allowed if you’re paying! Trivial issues yes, but annoying nonetheless.

I’m getting better at chit chat en français, although it still seems a little odd and artificial to me. I keep thinking “I barely know you! Why am I telling you all this random stuff?”. There are those unforgettable moments though, when a certain question provokes an unexpected response. For example half way through one date’s explanation of his role as director of a real estate firm I stopped him with “Wait… how old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?” and he replied “Thirty one”. CHICKA-ZOOONT-ZOONT-ZOONT!!

Shame really. He had an unbelievable car.

So not much luck in Paris, the city of love, so far. I still walk past that bridge near the Louvre, the one with all the lovers padlocks attached to it, and picture myself breaking them all with a wrench and chucking them into the Seine. But no matter, I’m sure there’s a ram out there somewhere waiting to sweep this mouton of her feet. Eww… that sounded wrong. Or perhaps I’ll just spend a few more years happily grazing and frolicking around on my metaphorical Scottish hillside!


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