Last night was a bit of a disaster. Last Friday I had told Mawbs and Deaks that "next week" we'd go and talk to scary wimminz.* Unfortunately, Mawbs misunderstood me to be referring to tonight, Saturday. As it turned out, all the pretty girls who had been out for several Fridays in succession were suddenly and inexplicably absent from Newcastle last night. In short, bugger all happened except me complaining that teenagers look like teenagers. Frustrating. Anyway, tonight was a grand improvement. Mawbs, Nath, B & Laura all came over to Congleton for some drinks. Then we had a Thai and resolved to have a couple more drinks. L decided to go into this pub rather than that pub, and then had no idea where to update her telephonic-internet-a-ma-jig location to.
So I asked the two comely girls at the next table what the pub's name was, and we got to chatting after they had overcome their surprise that a native of Congleton should not know the pub's name. Mawbs was most surprised of all that I remembered, when introducing our party, to call him by his forename, which is something I almost never do. Public schools can leave one calling people by their surnames for years, and leave one baffled when Lib Dem councillors are accused of rudeness for so doing (apologies for being unable to find that story with a quick google, but the chap's name escaped me). Anyway, things were going well, and they suggested we meet up with them in the next place, as both our groups were coincidentally going to Wetherspoon's. So we arrived, and they were at a four-seat table, and there were five of us plus the two of them. My friends cheerily told me to trundle along, and so I went and continued the chat. Unfortunately for me, lacking Mawbs to engage the other girl, Angie, the conversation hit a bump, and there was a languor of about a minute, in which time the girl I was interested in, Scooby (nickname from an odd boss years ago), texted her ex. When a girl checks her 'phone every few seconds for a text from her ex, I think I can read the signs, so I politely excused myself, and wished her the best of luck (sincerely, though you are welcome to doubt my sincerity :-D ).
There then followed some commiseration from my friends, and some rather chipper analysis of the sequence of events from me: "'I don't know where I am! Help!' is a good chat up line. Mawbs, we'll try that in Revolution next week. Er, hang on." So it didn't go as well as it might have, but it went quite well, I felt, given I haven't been in that sort of situation (of chatting up a girl at a bar) for about seven years. I did feel a certain amount of anxiety, but I was never terrified. If I'd tried doing that a year ago, I would have been a nervous wreck. Given the circumstances, I'd say that was a pretty good bit of work, albeit something to build on rather than something to be proud of in itself.** I managed not to talk quite so much, too, though I did say some fairly dumb things. It was a good foundation for next week, anyway! I learned the valuable lesson that if you can't think of owt to say, it helps to have someone else there to keep the conversation going. So that's what wingmen are for!
* I should throw in an explanation here, as it's a wee bit unfair to expect anyone to be up-to-date not only with my mind but also the minds of my offline mates. Except you psychics. You doubtless know every nuance of every word I type. For the rest, the situation is as follows. I don't find the fairer sex frightening. I used to, just like I found my own (fouler?) sex frightening. Strangers scared me! I'm better now and "scary wimminz" is used in a self-consciously self-mocking fashion.
** Several friends will promptly disagree (as Nathan did a short time ago) on the reasonable ground that I haven't done anything like this in years, so even baby steps are still better than nowt!
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