When I’m not busy writing for RiverOnline, most of my free time is taken up with uni work, eating and going on dates.  The latter may sound Carrie Bradshaw-esque and smug, but more often than not involves being pestered by undesirables and rejected by hotties. 

Over the next few weeks I’m going to share what I’ve been up to romantically.  Everything you’ll read is true, although I’ve changed most of the names to spare the odd blush [and quite possibly my testicles, if the temperament of some gentlemen is anything to go by]. 

The last week was a pretty heavy one, so an evening spent in the company of my latest squeeze [duration to date, 1 week] seemed worthy of excitement and anticipation.  Jean was French, ginger and had a great line in attractively broken English. 

We met at Liverpool Street, under the departures board.  I smiled at him, he gave me a tight, Gallic hug.  Back at his flat, we chatted, cuddled and made various appreciative noises about the fact that Friday had finally arrived. 

Things began to sour when tiredness got the better of me and I fell asleep.  Half an hour later, I was woken up by the deliberately loud scraping of a spoon off a soup bowl, and one-word answers to any attempted conversation starters. 

Jean maintained the froideur all night – his under duvet posture was rigid and angular.  Things thawed the next morning; I woke up to find him grinning inanely at me and we reconciled in time-honoured fashion. 

Catching sight of an old SLR film camera on his shelves afterwards, I asked to see the pictures he had taken on it, unaware of the horror I was about to unleash.  Out came the photos – various arty shots of paint peeling off window frames and sullen-looking pals. 

“And what about this one?”  Jean said, holding it to his chest for a second.  He turned it around, confronting me with the sight of a suspiciously masculine looking arse and legs encased in wet-look leggings.  I squeaked nervously, hoping to see further pictures of him at a fancy dress party.

“They are so comfortable for around the house.”  He went on, “And when I wear them out, well, let’s just say the London boys get very friendly.”

My facial expression was far from receptive, but it didn’t stop Jean pulling out the offending leggings from a bedside drawer.  He turned them inside out and invited me to examine their softness, totally unaware that a strange sartorial choice had killed any desire for him.  I’m not closed-minded, or boring, but it was too weird, too soon. 

We spent the rest of the afternoon at the Design Museum.  Listening to Jean’s cooing over the various crappy exhibits [all two of them], I forced the odd watery grin and counted the minutes until it was time to go home.  Saying goodbye was a relief – I spent the bus journey back home trying to erase the sight of him in leggings from my head.  Unsuccessfully.  It still hasn’t gone away.