The Habit.

So there’s no smoke without fire.

But is there fire without smoke? The designated area that you’ll find in pubs, clubs and bars across the country is undoubtedly the source of friendships, bonds and sometimes life time love affairs with the flick of a lighter.

But does that give us enough reason to smoke?

In these health conscious times, knowing the effects of nicotine and us being more than a fag ash away from the glamorous chuffing of the 1920s, why does our generation still partake in this past time? To spark conversation of course. But do we need to suck on a small white stick behind a rope, on the street, in order to bond? Surely all that puffing just gets in the way of conversation?

There are some social circles where smoking is a given. Arts students will do it with a coffee in hand, gap year travellers do it while tying on their anklets and businessmen do it on their lunch breaks, huddled in doorways. There’s definitely something about doing this, huddling in doorways thing, which feels almost primitive. It’s like a bonding technique to discuss how stressed they are and how much money they earn. And much like Rachel in Friends, when the office smokers go out for a fag break, you’ll always wonder what exactly it is they speak of whilst pirouetting on a fire exit stairwell.

Far from these veteran smokers, are the seasonal smokers. Come their second or third pint of the night, they will steal one’s cigarettes thereafter. Some do it because their drunken minds tell them they look cool doing so, some are craving that first drag head rush and then there are those who are simply trying to chat someone up who puts away twenty a day. They will light the wrong end, hold it with their pinkie and normally drop it at some stage. Or worst of all, choke. You’d think that taking up smoking for one night only wouldn’t bag you a bird but, somehow, sometimes it does. There is however, definitely something in sharing a cigarette. Especially with someone you don’t know. It brings you closer than swapping numbers or sitting side by side. Unless it’s post-coital of course. In which case, I’m pretty sure you probably know each other well enough.

Despite how it may appear, I am not here trying to tempt you into smoking. Far from it. There are the obvious downsides. The first being inevitable illness, as well as ash going in the eye which will always equate to an awkward moment which cannot be styled out due to temporary blindness, and finally, spending masses of money with very little to show for it.

However, and I think most of you will agree, that the scene in Alfie, the one where Sienna Miller strips off, would not be complete without that cigarette perched on her lower lip. And the same can be said for real life love scenes. Or any sort of scene for that matter. Look at Danny Zucko for Christ’s sake.

But as cancer rarely exists in Hollywood movies, perhaps we should leave it to the professionals who are probably puffing on tea leaves rather than tobacco on set. So although it has, and will always, looking effing cool, try and kick that habit. Or at least cut it down to one-a-chat-up-line.

After all, smoking kills. Kissing doesn’t. You do the math.

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The Cinema.

Not being able to concentrate for longer than an episode of Eastenders means that the cinema is most certainly not my first choice of date location. But it isn’t solely down to my short attention span that I opt for sushi over screenplay. The cinema is a scary place. A place of awkward shuffles and popcorn crunching. A realm of uncertainty and self-doubt. And sometimes I think it’s best to go it alone.

Take my first ever date for example. It was indeed, a trip to the cinema. I was thirteen; ridiculously self-conscious and for some reason finding it appropriate to rock denim on denim (including a fetching cap which read “babe” in pink). It was a time when I thought the film wasn’t the main attraction and the cinema was a magical place. Instead, this disastrous “double date” showed me just how bad it could be. My best friend and her boyfriend snogged the whole way through, whilst me and some boy sat on either side, unsure of where to look. This is not how I thought cinema dates were supposed to go. I thought I was supposed to sit next to my date? Maybe even hold hands? Instead, I actually watched the film.

Over the next few years came a flurry of lateness, munching, lost tickets, mice ridden theatres, popcorn throwing, bust ups and tears so I took a little sabbatical from movie dates until I left school and a guy insisted on taking me back to that dark place. He bought Nachos and he eats like a rhino. Enough said.

I thought my movie days were over until I went on a sort of date with a sort of friend who perched his hand comfortably on my knee. This all felt pretty ideal until I realised my leg was basically numb from sitting in the same position for about forty-five minutes. I remained in this position until I thought I would never walk again and then made an excuse about getting some water. As I stood up, I realized that in actual fact, I couldn’t walk. So with every step I took, I stumbled. The whole way down the stairs.  And to make matters worse, we haven’t mentioned it since. Until now, obviously.

So although it’s taken me around ten years, what I’ve realised, much like sitting on the loo, is that the cinema seat is made for one person, popcorn is the poorest choice of silent snack and lateness is a buzz killer to those who enjoy watching the trailers. But a picture perfect date is boring and sometimes it’s worth taking that risk.

Anything can happen in those 90 minutes, and most of the action happens in your seat, so hold on tight and enjoy the ride.

Seatbelt anyone?

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The Something.

So I seem to fancy absolutely everybody, but thankfully don’t act upon my every thought. And I guess this makes me, what I call, a Silent Slut.

Although I do find most men (and women) handsome in one way or another, I am no hippy. I judge Olivia Palermo when she puts a rare foot wrong in the fashion stakes and am the first to question why on earth anyone would fancy “the hoff”, but I really do believe that everyone is attractive in their own right. And I think I first realised this when I clapped eyes on Phillip Schofield and automatically wanted to drop my pants.

From this point forward, I’ve never gone for someone because of their veneer smile or perfectly preened facial hair. Instead, I’ve always dated the unconventionally gorgeous rather than the Brad Pitts of the world. Perhaps that’s because I’m not one of the gobsmackingly beautiful Angelina’s of the world, or perhaps because I think with my lugs rather than my lust. If someone can quite literally stop me breathing from laughter, they’ll always win over those who catch my breath because they’re tonker than Thomas the Tank.

Although undoubtedly a horrible generalisation, I’m not too sure I could trust the hottest of totties for longer than a snog in a club. Perhaps that comes down to my own insecurities, or maybe it comes down to watching my friends fall in the face of fitties. Either way, I think many are missing out on the good stuff because they quite simply, judge a book by its cover.

Take the new romance that has sprung off the back of being a celebrity between the talented Pro Green and MIC’s Millie Mackintosh. I judged them when I first spotted them in a glossy magazine. One, because I “knew” that if she’d met him growing up in Hackney as opposed to now, a UK rapper hanging out in Mahiki, she’d wouldn’t have gone near him with a polo stick. Thinking back, I might’ve judged too quickly. Perhaps Stephen Manderson enjoys jam and crumpets? Perhaps Camilla enjoys a fag and a bottle of voddy behind the bike sheds? Who really knows? And who on earth am I to judge? They’ve obviously found a common ground and have decided to take a stroll.

So give that person who might not “fit the bill” a shot. After all, you never know what lies beneath. I always thought my “type” was a rather large, well spoken, rugby player. How wrong was I?

So although I’ve worked out that everyone on the planet is a catch, why do I still grapple with the issue of working out my own strengths? All I seem to see when I look in the mirror is a slightly dodgy nose, a spattering of freckles and an awkward walk. What I should see is another catch of the day. Someone smack me in the face please and remind me that I, like everyone else, has that something that someone’s looking for.

The only thing that doesn’t have that special something?

Marmite.

But that’s just common sense.

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The Friendship.

Is it possible that mixed- sex- friendships are restricted to being made during our school or university days? Post-education, it seems to me that it has become increasingly hard to meet someone with a view to pursue a friendship, rather than a love affair. And I’ve learnt recently (the hard way) that male/female friendships made in your twenties are actually rather few and far between-something I’ve grown to resent.

I understand that when socialising, most are on the hunt for a sexual partner. I get it, balls and boobs are heading south and you’re panicking. But shouldn’t we just slow down when we meet someone and get to know whether they prefer jam or marmalade on their toast first? After all, some of the best sexual relationships are based upon friendship. And some of the best relationships are simply just friendship. I’m always up for meeting new people but I’m also very aware that when my company for the night is a member of the male variety, sex is always on someone’s mind.

Maybe I’m too presumptuous and assume that guys are always after one thing? But as of late, it has been proved that, in fact, the majority of the time, they are: and my assumptions have been confirmed. When asking my guy mates about this issue, I’ve been labelled “naive” to think that an invitation to have coffee could be strictly platonic. They themselves also suggested that men don’t tend to read signals; instead they read your chest. So when it comes to finding friends of the opposite sex, I must hold my hands up and admit that I’m hopeless at it. Maybe I’ll just leave it and stick to the guy mates I already have who pick their noses and tell me I look like shit, when I really do, look like shit. But even with my male mates from way-back-when, there’s normally a point in our friendship where we’ve asked ourselves whether we fancy one another, or whether something could potentially happen… and have even enjoyed the odd vodka-induced-snog. It seems as though it’s quite difficult to remain platonic rather than playmates.

Personally I’m not shy and don’t mind letting someone know that the most they’re getting is a pint bought for them but why is it that “I only like you as a friend” is such an insult? It seems as though spitting in one’s face is likely to be far more pleasant-being fancied is apparently more important than being funny, charismatic or interesting these days. People search for ‘the one’ for years, by-passing potential friendships and pushing them to one side because they don’t pass the marriage test. Think about how many people you’ve got along with and disposed of because you didn’t fancy them-you’ve missed out on having both a wingman, another insight into the male/female mind and someone new to quite simply have a laugh with.

I’m starting to think that maybe it’s impossible to be friends with the opposite sex. Take the world’s favourite TV show. It might be entitled ‘Friends’, but how many of them actually are just friends? It might be fiction but take a look at your own “friendship group” and count how many people around you have dated, fumbled or dabbled.

I rest my case.

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The Rules of Attraction.

As soon as you share a glance across a room, you’re in the game. As soon as you’re introduced to each other at a friends bbq, you’re in the game. As soon as you fall for someone, you are most certainly in the game. And by game, I don’t mean The Gold Rush (which, by the way, no longer seems quite so bad). Instead, I am quite simply talking about The Dating Game.

Now, because there is no instruction manual, we all have to scuffle our way through those awkward teenage years in order to try to work out how to play. You have to side step braces, fumble with bra straps and attempt to act cool. All at the same time. I thought things could only get better, but now that I’m in my twenties and things are a little more serious, I’ve noticed that everyone adheres to different rules, making it all very complicated indeed. However I have noticed that when talking tactics, everyone follows the same method. We must always play hard to get.

I must say though, I have never really fully understood this approach. Yes it’s fun but it’s also a waste of time to be perfectly honest. If you fancy them, you know you’re going to let them have their cake and eat it anyway and if you don’t, you know they’ll be going home with a doggy bag, so why delay? Life is far too short in my opinion. I am not saying, under any circumstances, that one should sleep around, but I do recommend a little shop around. Let him (or her) take you out for that drink, have that conversation over dinner and I can guarantee that by the end of it, you will know whether it is a yay, or a nay. But do me a favour; once you have decided how you’re feeling, for god’s sake just say it!!! You are both clogging up opportunities for other singletons who might think that your date is The-arguably-Non-Existent-One and you’re wasting your own time acting coy and mysterious. So quit the quite exciting but completely pointless funny business and be honest with yourself. There are other players in this game don’t you know, and you wouldn’t want us pipping you to the finishing post now would you?

Don’t be afraid to be knocked back by telling someone you like them. Just keep it in the back of your mind that it is always their loss.

Happy dating!

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