You can follow me on Twitter but not around London

    It doesn't always pay to be nice.  Fact!  Sometimes people (especially guys) get the wrong idea and interpret a friendly smile as a devilish flirt and immediately you find yourself tangled in a 1-way relationship.  1-way in the sense that they seem to think they're in a relationship, whilst you're completely oblivious to this fact.  

    Last July I put on my wellies and made my way to a local festival.  The weather was horrid - rain kept persisting with no view to clear at all.  
    My friends and I trailed from tent to tent to see which bands were playing and took shelter in the tent where a local rock band were trying to entertain the crowd.  We stood at the back, nodding our heads occasionally to the music, chatting to each other and sticking our heads out of the tent to see if the rain had cleared a little.  (I was more worried about the candy floss I was carrying, rather than my hair). 

    The band decided to take a break and started to mingle with the audience.  A couple of the members came over in our direction and introduced themselves.

    "I hope you liked the music,"  one of them added to my friend, Josie.  My attention was still outside at the pouring rain.  But this avoidance was on purpose.  There's always a reason why guys immediately come and talk to girls - and I wasn't interested.

    "Yes, we really enjoyed it," she smiled.  
    Even with my back turned I could just tell she was twiddling her hair.  It's one of those Josie trademark moves, along with skipping a little after a bit of running, or mixing ketchup with her spaghetti.
    There was a long pause, then Josie said, "Oh, this is Ella...I'm not too sure what she's doing," and she prodded me on the arm.  I guess that was my queue to turn around.  

    "Hi," I beamed a smile.  "Loved the music."  

    "Well, I'm really glad," the taller one said.  "There's an after-party in town later on if you want to join us,"

    Josie looked at me, "I suppose we could," her eyes scanned mine for an answer. 

    "We're not too sure yet," I inputed.  "Our friend's band is due to perform quite late, so we might be here for a while," 
    "Well, I really hope you make it," the tall guy said, his blue eyes burning into mine.

    When the rain finally decided to calm down, we escaped the tent and embraced the rest of the festival.  The encounter with the two band members had completely escaped my mind and I went back home that evening falling sound asleep.  

    My BlackBerry decided to wake me angrily the next morning, deciding to go off every 10 seconds.  
    Weird amount of emails to receive on a Saturday, I thought as I picked it up.  
    I scrolled quickly through them - all of which were Twitter related.  The weird thing was that they were all from 1 person.  It turned out that one of the band guys had sought me out.  I didn't even give him my name - how on earth had he found me?  

    The first message just said a brief "Hi".  The second asked whether I was the girl he had met at the festival, and the third stated that it was nice to meet me.  It didn't just end there though.  Another message asked me what I was up to, and others very kindly informed me what he was up to that day.
    Weird!

    I ignored them all.  I was due to go on holiday in a couple of days time for a month so I'd be out of touch for a while anyway.  He'd surely forget about me.

    ...But a month later and the first thing I was greeted to when I logged on Twitter was further messages from him. 12 of them to be exact.  
    I sit down on the sofa, ignorning Jeremy Kyle's rants from the TV and ponder whether or not to reply.  Surely a brief message back indicating that I'm not interested will make him leave me alone.  So cautiously, I begin typing.
    Ok, this was a bad idea.  His 'friendly' messages soon turned into, "You're so beautiful.  We should go on a date".  

    Dear oh dear!!  
    I somehow managed to avoid him and his messages (and the fact that he got my phone number without me giving it) until November, when I stupidly informed Twitter that I would be in the make-up department of Selfridges buying lipsticks.  

    I'm casually minding my own business in the Chanel section, when I suddenly feel someone's hand on my shoulder.  I turn around and almost scream at the shock.  

    It's him!  He's here!!

    "Hello..." I say awkwardly.  His face turns into a huge grin. 

    "Hi,"

    "Well, this is really bizarre," I say to him casually edging away.  I knock over a perfume tester and apologise profusely at the make-up assistant.  She nods to say it's fine, but I can tell that beneath her six inches of foundation she is scowling at me.

    "I suppose it is, yes," he says still smiling at me.  

    I'm rather confused and am unsure of what to do.  All I know is that I don't want to be here.  With him.  

    "Well, I better get home," I tell him and start to walk away.  I hear his footsteps trail behind me.

    "Maybe we can go for a drink.  You're a hard girl to pin down," he says, that freakishly benign smile still plastered on his face.  
    I want to scream at him and say I've been hard to pin down because I've been avoiding you like the plague!!  But I hold my tongue.

    "Look, I really have to go," I smile politely and start my way again.  
    But he's persistent.  Like a shadow he's now following me out of the store.  "I'll give you a call later," he says.  

    I'm pretty sure I started running at this point.  

    As soon as I was back at home, my phone alerts me of a new text.  Surprise, surprise, it's from him!  

    -"It was really good to see you" - it states and I cringe at the thought of it.  

    I immediately sent a text back:

    "I'm not really looking to date anyone" - I write and almost feel myself calm down as soon as it's sent.  It's not like he can argue with that.  

    But apparently he can.

    "We've been getting on so well.  I really think we should go on a date."  His text sends a shiver down my spine.  Just leave me alone.  How on earth did you worm your way into my life?

   Angrily, I punch in the buttons to form a text:  "I'm really not interested" - Surely he would get the message with that.  

    A few seconds later, my phone buzzes.

    "I can't believe you've just dumped me like that.  I don't want to waste my time with someone who makes it her life mission to treat men like this"

    I'm in shock.  Dumped??  I've seen him twice - collectively a total of 6 minutes.  And considering I've barely replied to his obsessive messages, I really don't see how I was leading him on.  

    But I decide to look on the bright side.  At least now he's a problem of the past and I won't be hassled any longer.  So I don't reply and get on with my day.  In the evening, however, I get another text from him.  

    "I don't like it when we argue.  Let's make up" it reads. 

    WHAT???  I want to reply with an incredibly rude message, but I stop myself.  Clearly, he's doesn't have the right frame of mind when calm, let alone when angry.  I don't particularly want to cause more problems for myself.
    So I ignore it.
    But the texts keep on coming.  
    He's saying that he really likes me, and that we're so good together.  The next text asks if I'm free to see him for a drink.  The next one informs me that he's getting ready to go out with his friends and that I should join them.  One by one they invade my phone, but I refrain and ignore them all. 

    4 months later the texts stopped.

    Who knew technology would be so inconvenient.  

Why a Lady Should Stay in Her Own Hotel Room

A holiday isn't technically a holiday if the whole time you are wishing you are back home.  This happened to me when I was dragged to Italy with my family.  You see, saying no is not an option and even though I had a job lined up for the Summer and had made grand plans, I still found myself on the plane heading out to the Mediterranean.  Against my will.

My expectations for the holiday were incredibly low and I'd mope around the hotel feeling sorry for myself, counting down the days until I was on the plane back to England. 

It's an unbearably hot night and I can't sleep, so I slip out of my hotel room for some fresh air.  I go out into the patio area outside and get a little startled when I see there's someone else there also. 
    "Hello," says the voice.  It's still a little dark so I can't make out who that voice belongs to, but it's definitely a man's. 
    "Hi," I casually say back trying to edge closer.  A light comes on from across the road shining brightly on us and I see that the man is actually the hotel manager.  A young guy in his mid-twenties.  He's casually leaning over the railings smoking a cigarette. 
    "Can't sleep?" he asks and I'm astounded at his perfect English accent. 
    "No.  Thought I'd get some fresh air,"
    "Well if it's fresh air you want you shouldn't have come to this part of Italy," he smiles.  I can't describe it but his smile suddenly makes my stomach flip - like a nervous pain.  "I'm Oliver," he introduces himself and we stay out talking for about an hour.  I go back to my room feeling happy, replaying the conversation in my head. 

Suddenly, being in Italy isn't so bad.  I wake up the next day and tell myself that I'm in a gorgeous hotel, spending precious time with the family, getting a very flattering tan, and to top things off, have met a lovely guy.  That smile on my face doesn't seem to be so forced anymore. 

A few days later I'm feeling down again. I can’t get hold of any of my friends and feel so out of touch with my daily life. I’m missing it and want to go back.  I'm standing just outside the hotel doors for some fresh air, breathing in the view of the setting sun.  It's soothing and for a moment I don't feel so homesick.
    “Oh, you scared me,” I say startled as I see Oliver outside trying to ring someone.
    “I scared you?” he laughs and I nod.  He’s now leaning against the window of the bar looking at his phone. I breathe in the evening view; of peace and quiet. Not long till I get back to my precious life, I tell myself.
Oliver is still there and I'm not sure whether I should be making conversation, so wearily I say, “Don’t these dogs have owners?” as I see a few strays roaming the streets. He laughs and shakes his head.
    “They’re homeless,” he tells me.
    Silence overwhelms us once again for a few seconds, but he breaks it. “Are you leaving tomorrow?” he asks.
    “No. I’m here till Sunday,”
    “Oh right,” and his phone rings and he answers.  He talks on the phone for about five minutes.  When he hangs up he turns to me and says, “You’re always outside,”
    “I like being out here,” 
    “So you’re leaving on Sunday,” his eyes are burning down at me and I almost feel a little uncomfortable.
    “Yes,”
    “Do you want to go out tomorrow night?” he smiles and I almost melt.  He's just so amazingly attractive.
    “Go out where?” I ask.
    “Into town. Out there,” and he points towards the beach. “Wherever you want,”
    “I can’t. I’d have to wait for everyone to go to sleep,” I reply and suddenly feel like a fifteen year old all over again.
    “Well,then I’ll wait,” he’s still smiling. We look at each other for a couple of seconds.
    “And what would we do?” I say sheepishly looking at his aquamarine eyes.  We're suddenly surrounded by an incredible tension.
    He laughs. “Whatever you want. Go for a drink maybe,”
    “And what would we drink?” Gosh, I’m stupid.  Why did I ask that?
    He laughs again. “Whatever you want,”
    “How would we get there?” I ask him.
    “I have a car,” he smiles that unbearable smile again.  I'm seconds away from saying yes.
    “I don’t think I can,”
    "Think about it," he tells me and disappears back into the hotel.

It's 3am until everyone decides to go to bed and I can sneak back downstairs.  It's going to be harder than I thought, however, because all the waiters and the receptionist are still up.
    Oliver signals for me to meet him outside so I pretend my phone rings and move.  "Won't they find it suspicious that you're suddenly getting in your car with me?" I say to him.
    "Good point," he states and puts his finger to his lips.  After a couple of seconds, he begins, “Right,” he says and thinks. “OK, this is what you should do,” I listen. “Go up towards your room and meet me by the stairs at the side of the hotel,”
    I head back in and look at the group of waiters chatting away. I smile at them and do a fake yawn (which by the way was worthy of an Oscar). “Goodnight,” I say sweetly and head upstairs.
    I definitely feel like I’m fifteen again sneaking out of the hotel.
    "I'm not getting in your car," I say to him innocently and he laughs.  We settle for a walk along the beach instead as all the bars are shut now.

It’s all rather awkward as I’m not sure what to say and I don’t think he knows either. I look into the horizon of the dark night. The sea if sparkling in the moonlight and the whole view is a picturesque of romance.  My flip-flops leave footprints on the sand and I can see the path ahead is getting shorter. We stop walking and stand in the light of a shutting down bar looking around, avoiding eye contact completely. Oh gosh, I should never have come out.
    But out of nowhere I feel his hand at the back of my neck and he’s pulled me close. Our lips touch and even though I need to desperately tear away, I find I can’t.  I'm completely lost with him.  All rational thinking has escaped me and all I want is to be here.  With him.  As out lips part he smiles at me.   But reality sinks in.
    “Oh no,” I say covering my face with my palms.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Ummm…” I don’t really know what to say.  I shouldn't be out here with this stranger.  I should be back in my hotel room.  I search my brain for an excuse. 
    “Do you have a boyfriend?” he’s asking, looking at me with a faded smile.
    Bingo!  I nod and see him look at the floor, brushing the sand with his foot. “Is he in England?
    "Yes," I say.
    "So what's the problem?"  What?  How is he even asking me that? 
    “I’m a good girl,” I tell him. “I don’t do this kind of thing,”
    “Look, don’t worry about it,” his smile is back in a sympathetic way. He’s not pushing anything.
    Oh gosh, I so badly want to kiss him again.  But I can't.  I shouldn't.  OK brain, please think of another excuse.
    “But I've been with him for a year. It’s not right that I’m sneaking out with someone else,”
    “A year?” He repeats. “Well, I have four years with someone,”
    I’m gobsmacked. Looks like he’s not who I thought he was. I stare at him but he turns away. I ask him why he’s out with me.
    “I really like you,” we’re walking back towards the hotel. “And since you're out with me that must mean you like me too,” He stops and looks at me. His lips twitch. “I want to kiss you again,” and I really want to let him but I shouldn’t.
    “I can’t,” I say. “I’m not supposed to be out with you,”
    He’s nodding as if he’s accepting what I’m saying. “OK,” he starts walking again. “Let’s take you back to your room,”

But I don't want to go back to my room.  I don't have a boyfriend.  There's no real reason why I shouldn't be out with Oliver.  Well, apart from the fact that he seems to be in a four year relationship.  And the fact that he's the hotel manager and perhaps being out with a paying customer is breaking some sort of rule. 
    We're inches away from the hotel and he stops, taking my hand.  With the other he sweeps back his short, brown hair.  "You want to go back to your room, or would you like to come back to mine?" he asks, his thumb rubbing my hand in a circular motion.
    What on earth have I got myself into?  I'm to shy to say yes, but also too shy to say no. 
    "I can't leave the hotel," I tell him.
    "I have a room here as well," he says edging himself nearer to me.  His lips land on mine again and I find myself saying, "OK, we'll go to your room,"

I'm sitting on the bed in his hotel room, asking myself why on earth I'm here.  Oliver sits down next to me getting closer and closer.  "I'm so glad you're here," he whispers as he leans in to kiss me again and suddenly I feel relaxed.  He must have some sort of potion in his mouth because every time he kisses me I'm utterly lost and can't think straight. 
    You shouldn't be here, my head is telling me.  But somehow I can't hear my own thoughts when he's near me. 
    "Should we get a bit more...comfortable," he says pointing to my top. 
    I freeze a little.  No, this is definitely not right.  He said something...at the beach.  Something that seemed to have escaped my notice. 
    "Why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself?" I ask crossing my arms.  He looks at me bewildered.  This is probably the reason why I've never been able to have a one night stand. 
    He clearly doesn't want to answer the question because his hand is sliding up my arm and that amazing smile is back on his face.  "I'd rather get to know you better," he whispers trying to kiss me again. 
    "Well, in that case," I say, "I'm twenty.  Still at university.  I have a little flat that I share with my best friend.  She's a nightmare though.  Sooo messy.  I adore Doctor Who, oh and I also like Eastenders..." he cuts me off. 
    "As interesting as that is, that's not really what I had in mind,"  he continues, trying to lift my top up, but instinctively my hand stops him.  Something's not quite right.  He said something that wasn't right, but I can't quite recall it.  Oh, what on earth was it???
    "So what do you do?" I ask him with a straight face. 
    He stares at me and says,  "I'm the hotel manager!"
    Oh yeah.  Of course.  Perhaps that was a rather stupid question. 
    "Do you like your job?" I continue.
    He appears to be grumpy now.  "Look, I didn't wait until 3am just to talk to you about my job.  I could have gone home and slept," he leans in closer.
    I try to picture what his home looks like.  And then it hits me - his girlfriend.  He said he had a girlfriend!  How on earth did that escape my notice?
    I quickly rise from the bed.
    "What's wrong now?" he snaps. 
    "You said you've been with someone for 4 years," I snap back.  "So I've decided to leave," and with that I walk out, tip-toeing to my room.
     Please don't be so stupid as to find entertainment in a guy just because you're bored, I tell myself.  Never again!

The Delightful Cockney Snob

    "Why don't you just take this back and bring me one that has been cooked on the premises,"
These are the words that are coming out of my date's mouth.  I am sitting in a Pizza Express furiously twiddling with my hair as I'm watching my date argue with the waitress.  Already he has fussed around how this restaurant is filled with too many children (it's a Saturday night and it's Pizza Express - what do you expect?), has fussed about the fact that he had to park too far away from the restaurant, which resulted in the scrapings of his shoes, AND ordered the house wine, asked to taste it, pulled a horrified face and then sent it back.  It's official - I have hit a new low with this one. 

I didn't necessarily want to go on a date with Grant, but somehow I found myself sitting in front of him, staring at his receeding hairline, the stuffed napkin hanging from his collar, and his not so pleasant manarisms.  This was my only free Saturday night in a long time, but my friend asked me to entertain her out-of-town cousin and me, not being able to say no, happily obliged.  I just didn't realise that her cousin would be this specimen sitting in front of me. 

    "I've been to the finest restaurants in Paris," he pronounces 'Paris' like he's French, "Food just has to pleasure my palette just so," he continues to slur with his cockney accent.  "I've been to many wine tasting courses.  The proper ones!  You know, in France," he continues but I'm quickly losing interest.  "It just doesn't compare with the piss poor stuff served here in England," he takes a sip of water and snorts.  "Even the water has a better taste there," and lets out a huge chuckle. 
    "I'm sure living in France for so long has given you the manners and etiquette you so clearly display," I said sarcastically.  If he caught what I meant he certainly didn't show it.  He clicked his fingers at the approaching waitress and shouted, "Where's that cannelloni, love?"

When the waitress told him his food would be there in a few minutes, I knew we'd have problems.  Five minutes later and Grant is getting restless and keeps repeating, "You just wouldn't find this sort of behaviour in Pareeee,"
    That STUPID accent.  I want to yell, You're from Islington.  You only lived in Paris for three weeks!    But miraculously I refrain.
    We've been here two hours now.  My food came and I ate it without a complaint - that was an hour and a half ago now.  In that one hour and a half, Grant has been presented with an array of different options, all of which he has turned up his nose at and dismissed. 
    "Finally!" he states when the waitress presents his food.  "Now that wasn't so hard, was it?"
    She's about to walk away but Grant cuts her step by saying, "Hang on, let me try it first,"
The waitess and I are transfixed in awe hoping this mouthful with agree with him and there will be an end to his idiotic tantrums.  We stare as he chews (with his mouth open), and wait until he swallows.
    "Better," he says, digging in.  "You can go now," he orders the waitress when he notices she's still standing there. 
    "Well, aren't you a charmer with the ladies," I joke but he appears to not have heard me over his canelloni chews.  He really does look ridiculous when he's eating.  It's like all his face muscles are twitching in unison making sure he devours the food fully. 
    "Want some?" he offers a forkful which splatters a little on my dress.
    "No!" I snap a little harsher than I had meant to.  I wipe the splutters off my new Karen Millen dress and curse under my breath.  Why am I here?  Why am I not at home watching Strictly Come Dancing?

A couple of minutes later and his plate has been (literally) licked clean.  He's sitting back huffing at his fullness, pot belly proudly poking out.
    There is nothing attractive about this man.  Physically...well...let's just say he's an acquired taste, and as for mentally he's the most unattractive man I have ever encountered.
    There is nothing chivalrous about him.  An old lady asked him to scooch his chair forward so that she could get past and he pretended not to listen to her.  When she gave up trying he turned to me and said, "Bloody coffin dodgers!"

The desert menus are thrusted in front of us by a waiter with a beaming smile.  I have a feeling that smile will soon fade once he realises the sort of customer that's in front of him. 
    "I'll have the cheescake," I tell the waiter.
Grant is still perusing.  "Ummm, I'll have a tarte au citron," he shoves the menu at the waiter. 
    Oh no!
    "Sorry, what was that, Sir?" the waiter asks politely. 
    "A tarte au citron!" Grant enunciates every letter, then rolls his eyes at me. 
    The waiter is beginning to look uncomfortable.  "...Umm, I don't believe we do that, Sir.  We do a delicious lemon cheesecake.  Would you like to try that?"
    "Oh, please tell me you have a tarte au citron?" he asks, then looks back at me as if the waiter is being a moron.  "Every fine restaurant in Pareeee serves a tarte au citron,"
    "They don't serve that here!" I snap at him.  "Just order something from the menu!"  I'm getting rather impatient.  With any luck he won't order any desert at all and I might make it back in time for the Strictly Come Dancing results. 
    The waiter hands the menu back, and like a bad tempered child, Grant yanks it from him and starts browsing again.  "I don't want anything form the menu," he stomps his foot on the floor and crosses his arms. 
    Child!  Petty little child!
    "Fine, can we just get the bill please?" I kindly smile at the waiter who quickly leaves us. 
    Five minutes later he returns and puts a tray down on the table. 
    I dig my bag for my purse.  From the corner of my eye I notice that Grant isn't even bothered about looking at the bill.  He's still sitting there arms crossed looking around the restaurant. 
    "This is on you, yeah?" he asks as if it's general knowledge. 
    OK, I know it's wrong but I'm a little shocked.  Almost always when I go on a date I offer to pay, but the guy always fights back and doesn't let me.  But this one is actually blurting it out, not even offering to pay half for all the delays he caused. 
    "I guess so," I grunt and put the money on the table.  The water soon swoops past and takes it, handing back a tray of change mere seconds later.  "I'll leave a £5 tip," I say picking up the stray coins. 
    But Grant jumps in.  "Nah, nah!  Don't do that. They didn't do their job properly," and to my surprise he picks up the remaining coins and shoves them in his pocket!  "Now, let's go.  Dying for a shit,"
    Wonderful! We must do this again sometime!