The saga with #193 was still underway come Eurovision time. Which is when I should have twigged that we were going nowhere, because he was adamant that it was the worst thing in the world ever, and refused to watch so much as a three-minute performance on YouTube. Clearly I could never have a meaningful relationship with someone who was so misled: I realise this now.
His aversion meant that he missed out on the joy that is Laka. Who, incidentally, is welcome to make a guest appearance in my blog, if anyone can sort me out with an introduction. Thanks.
Anyway, #193 was out of town that weekend, and after subjecting my bemused non-European couchsurfers to the spectacle, I got drunk in a bar on Leith Walk, then wound up at a party in Morningside. The party turned out to be weird. It was in an impressive poncey sort of new-build house and there were all ages there. It wasn’t a studenty/twentysomething party, the sort that I usually went to – it was clearly someone’s family do, with retired people, and twelve-year-olds playing the drums, and middle-aged couples with charming laughs. Alice and #184 took one look and headed straight back to Leith. I found myself some wine, a woman told me I had just insulted the host, I found the host and apologised and she didn’t know what I was talking about, everything was fine. I met a boy who was related to whoever was holding the party. He was cute and he demonstrated an interest in me from the moment we met, but that got weird. WEIRD. He was telling me I was cool, but I wasn’t sure why he thought so, because we didn’t find out all that much about each other. Eventually I kissed him because I am suggestible and opportunistic; by this point, I had the sense that his aunts and uncles were delighted to see we’d hit it off. And then he wanted me to spend the night with him: no sex, he said, he just wanted to be with me. I started to say no, to make polite excuses. Why? he asked. But I love you! he exclaimed. I AM SERIOUS HE FUCKING SAID THAT. Alarm bells started to deafen me and I excused myself, told him sorry but he was being too full-on, found the acquaintance who’d brought me to the party and held a quick conference in Spanish. Someone poured me some more wine, weird wine. My acquaintance and I found ourselves doing a performance of 500 Miles, me singing the same verse over and over again because I’d forgotten the rest of it, and then I wandered into the living-room, nobody else there, karaoke all set up with Alice Cooper’s Poison all ready to go, so I performed it with possibly no witnesses. #195 was leaving. I think I kissed him and I think #194 came over and got territorial and I said, actually you know what, I’m going to go home. The next week I thought I saw him in the centre of town and I avoided like hell.