For those of you who haven't seen my latest post over at Total Politics you can read it here.
At the weekend I made an effort to cook. And I'm not just talking about toast or reheating something my flatmate cooked, no I mean a proper dinner with starters and deserts. Why would I waste a perfectly good Saturday in my kitchen when it could be spent shopping, sleeping or catching up on Merlin? Because of a man.
I'm waiting for the Sisterhood to moan about what they will see as a man domesticating a woman but they should wait until the end.
For the purpose of this diary I will call the man in question John. I met John recently and due to his tall stature, broad shoulders and handsome, chiselled features, I decided that he needed to get his cute little behind into my bedroom pronto. Mix in that he's a Tory and a well paid nerd and we have a winning combination. Congratulation John, you have been selected for a few rounds of Felicity frolics!
I don't have a problem asking men out, life is too short to play the maiden so inviting John around to mine for dinner was pretty straight forward. “Hmm yeah, that's very interesting. You know, I think you should have dinner at mine at the weekend. That way you get to try my rather excellent cooking and I get to learn more about what you do for a living. It would make for an interesting evening don't you think?” 99% success rate with that one. Never mind the fact I can't cook nor did I find any interest in cloud computing. All I know is that my dining table is within staggering distance to my bedroom.
I should have known my plans would go awry when I woke up on my friend's sofa at 11am, Saturday morning, the karaoke machine still buzzing away and a Simon Cowell mask sellotaped to my face. John would be at mine in eight hours and in my hungover state I knew this would not be enough time to shop for ingredients, cook, clean the flat and tart myself up. Had I learned nothing from all those hours watching Come Dine With Me? Something had to be sacrificed and it was to be the shopping.
A decision I later came to regret when the can of cream of mushroom soup in the back of the cupboard turned out to be cream chicken and mushroom and rather than having cream cheese to add to my beef stroganoff, I had to substitute with Dairylea triangles. Thankfully there was more than enough alcohol in the flat to keep me lubricated while hoovering and hair curling. The stroganoff looked like baby sick, the salad starter had wine spilt on it and I'd eaten half the desert ice cream. But dear readers, I looked amazing and I felt as smug as Speaker Bercow no doubt does when he's walking past tourists in the Central Lobby so I cared not a jot.
On the night I had asked John out, I had been so concerned with trying to work out what he would look like without his clothes on that I hadn't paid all that much attention to what he'd said. After 30 minutes of his arrival at mine I was bored. He was a lovely chap with a cute smile but the personality never expanded beyond agreeing with everything David Cameron said and programming software. Did I think the Big Society would have benefited from a name change? Should Conservative Future stick with the same Chairman? Should CCHQ stick with Merlin or find another system? I perked up at that point until I realised we weren't talking about knights and wizards. With a sigh I knocked back another glass.
I'd had enough at this point and promptly told him to help me get the ice cream from the kitchen. My kitchen is tiny and it's hard for two people to move around in there. To cut a long story short I was up against the fridge quite quickly and John, thankfully, wasn't talking anymore.
Was it worth it? Yes and no. Sadly any hopes I had had of uncovering a rampant sex god under the pleasant, introverted surface were dashed when he climbed onto my bed wearing nothing but his socks, and declaring “Landslide victory!” at the end of any intimate encounter should be made illegal. I won't use this post as a platform to criticise the man's technique cough-stamina-cough but I will confirm that afterwards I told him he had 15 minutes to get his breath back and then I would be taking over. No ifs, no buts. And as predicted: he did look gooood without a stitch on.
I have a sneaking suspicion he's going to ask me out to lunch in the coming weeks so maybe there's room for potential but only if he's prepared to sit through 'Felicity's guide to doing bad things in good ways' lesson.
After all - 'If you want something said, ask a man...if you want something done, ask a woman.'