The Email Diaries: Londoners 2005. PART II: PlainJane@comeagain.co.uk. By Bee Hahne-Enevoldsen

My father thought this was the most hilarious thing ever, and of course it caused me endless trauma and agony at home as he would tease me about this much to my dismay. I never really took to modelling anyway, my mother was a model in Paris and New York in the 70s – she always made out she was far too clever to be one, and that all she really wanted to do was look after people’s teeth, so she became a dentist instead. She said my father used to sit in on fashion shows and it would bore him to tears. He used to think she was moody all the time when she was dieting. So, I never really thought of being stick thin as being a good thing. I don’t mind it, but I just don’t really think that way. You could say I am a bit of a Plain Jane, for sure. But then again not really… I was always popular you know, I am not just making this up and I find it so peculiar when some boys don’t see it instantly, just because I cannot be arsed trying so hard. I mean, who needs to do that? But hey. If he thinks I am plain, that’s fair enough, he ain’t no oil painting himself if you know what I mean.

I went to university with a fellow who used to tell me that it’s “all about communication”. One thing I found funny about Jack is his outlook on how women want to control men, in my whole history of dating the whole issue of ownership over others and the need to control has always been one I never bought into, maybe it is because I am Danish and my parents were healthy independent individuals, but I certainly have never wanted to control anyone and cannot think of anything worse to base a relationship on. Anyway, misunderstandings are miscommunications, and I believe that essentially everyone would get along in the world, well at least better, if they took the time not to misread each other and communicate better. But that is my point of view, it might be wrong. As – I think it was - Shakespeare said: “Nothing is neither good or bad, only thinking makes it so.” I try to live by that. Most of the time. That is when I am not acting on impulse, which I sometimes do.

Jack and I have had this emailing banter over time, which, somehow build up to us arranging to meet up. Yes, it is true; I did walk off in the nightclub. But I was having a really bad evening, because we were in a super Sloaney club (which I hate) and everyone was drunk, and I of course wasn’t. So, the next week he emails me a little over a hundred times. Every day I get all these emails from him, and I actually find him very endearing and rather sweet, you see. He seems very nice and funny and very persistent, and I love it when a man is persistent. That’s the trick to cracking me, I suppose. We arrange to meet up the following Thursday. Then something very bad happens. On the walk from the tube station to my house I trip over and fall flat on my face. I hit my head really badly, and strangely Mrs Dorset is walking past me as I fall, and somehow she manages to pop two pills in my mouth, which in my confusion and dizzy state I swallow. Later in the week she tells me these were Valium, and explains a lot of what happens thereafter.

I go home, feeling very sleepy and very confused and a bit numb. I fall asleep and wake up ten minutes before I am supposed to meet Jack. I call him to say I will be a bit late, something doesn’t feel right. When I get there, the pub he has chosen is terrible, it is like a super busy cafeteria with horrible people and our seats are uncomfortable, the lighting is bad and I hate it. He also looks quite bad in the harsh lighting, and I feel increasingly sleepy and a bit emotionless.
Jack is right about the conversation not flowing, but I can easily tell he is nervous, and so am I, I am also a bit disappointed that he is so not my type and a lot less attractive than I had thought….la de da… So, I am nervous, yes, I mean why else would I come out with such remarks as those about drinking? Bloody ridiculous. I say very stupid things when I am nervous, but so does he. The whole story about Rome, now seriously? He talks to me like I am a small child and as if he knows all about the big wide world, although it is obvious he hasn’t seen so very much of it. This really irritates me and my ego is in a huff with him. He also spends a hell of a lot of time bragging about girls, the models he knows etc and I am finding him rather tiresome by now, but I can also see how insecure he is and how he is just nervous, so I give him a chance. But by now we have totally mis-communicated and the date is not going well. Somehow I have already decided I am going to sleep with him, come rain or shine. It has been too long since I last saw some action in the underwear department, and I am very much in a situation where I have promised myself to go for it. So when we end up in his flat I am on a mission to get laid. He has a very white apartment, and he tells me to take my shoes off before I walk in. I think this is hysterical that he is so house-proud. He is totally freaked out that I don’t drink. I shouldn’t have told him that, and then the whole story about rehab just makes me come across as some dizzy blonde, which I am not. I feel I have let the side down a bit. But it is too late to repair now.

We quickly proceed to having sex and he is all right. Well, in a way that people are when they possess a lot of skill and are very activity loving (well, the one time he can actually do it, I am rather surprised when I am ready for round two and three and he says he is beat already, why the hell have I come all the way here if this is what he can deliver?). He is totally without any emotion though, and I feel a bit like having sex with a horny robot, if that makes sense. Afterwards he starts talking to me about his issues. I find it patronising, and like he is talking to me as if I am some kind of daft idiot. I cannot help being offended, and make rude hand gestures behind his back as he talks and talks and talks. Then he actually does something quite funny. He insists on proving to me that fish has more than a two-second memory. He gets out of bed and goes up to that naff aquarium in his wall, and turns to look at me, pretending to be drunk and goes “Janey, I will show you this now, and you will learn about the science of fish. Shhh…” and then heclicks on the glass and all the fish swim over to his hands. He then turns and says, “They know that when I do this I will feed them that’s why they come over, they know me, you see.” I laugh and explain to him about instinct, but he is adamant on his discovery and obviously not the inventor of the wheel...But I kind of like that. The next day he is impossibly rude to me – I leave thinking I never ever want to see him again. I make a whole comedy sketch about it in my head and feel ok. I am laughing at least. The next day I don’t feel so good, I have now worked out I am not good at doing one-night stands. They don’t seem to suit my constitution very well, but this doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want a repeat.

The END.

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