Guys and Dolls

"Call it sad, call it funny. But it's better than even money, that the guy's only doing it for some doll."


It is a well known fact that most men are just on the pink caribou side of crazy - not quite entirely sane but quite amiable and capable of holding down jobs, mortgages/rent and suchlike.

They generally manage to hide their freakish and mad behaviour- which usually manifests itself in forms such as possessing freakish numbers of childish collectables (whether it be comic books, football programmes or pot pigs - believe me I met that guy) or being able to speak fluent Klingon - and can wear a respectable mask of normality.

But throw women into the mix, or rather women they fancy, and you find yourself dealing with a horse of a different colour...

I only mention this because I saw a guy I've known a while this weekend, for the first time since the new hair, at a Christmas party back in the area in which I used to live.

Now Jonny is a strapping 6-plus footer, cute with a slightly wonky smile, who didn't show much interest in me the last few times I met him.

So come last Friday I was surprised - nay stunned - to see him demonstrating line dancing worthy of Nashville to the strains of 1990s horror hit Cotton Eye Joe, mere seconds after revealing the embarrassing fact that his parents forced him into line dancing classes in his teens.

Now it is a well known fact you cannot make a man dance at the best of times, never mind humiliating dosie-dos, unless he is trying to impress or drunk - and dear Jonny was quite coherent...

But the episode got me thinking about all the crazy things men do to get women to like them.

I've heard all sorts of strange reports from female friends of things men have done to impress them - ranging from comedy oversize floral bouquets, to having their name tattooed on an arm in huge gothic lettering, from buying £300 books of the girl's favorite poetry, to starting boozy fights over a lady's honour and dance floor six pack demonstrations - all in the name of impressing the ladies.

My current favourite tale is from Paul who, aged 13 and in his pre-Isabelle days, tried to woo a 12-year-old girl in his class by taking part in a river-borne-raft race, despite his extra-ordinarily bad swimming capabilities (The boy risked death!!)

And as we chatted Paul revealed that in his current "Isabelle days" he also traveled (on public transport) over 150 miles to reach Issy for a surprise rendez-vous, and talked a florist into giving him a lily-of-valley plant so he would always have an out-of-season supply of France's traditional romantic flower for French Valentine's day (not February 14).

It then dawned on me that the reason men do many of the crazy things they do may not be as madly motivated as they might seem, and that - in spite of their enormous potential to say absolutely nothing in a passionate fashion - men have an innate but quirky sense of romance.

In conclusion it is clear - for men actions really do speak louder than words and sometimes you have to trust what a man does, not what he says.

Suze x

Ps I did give Jonny my number - c'mon I'm not an ice queen - the man did a tush push...

The bus theory at Christmas

It is absolutely typical. You spend several hours at the bus stop (without a shelter) in the pouring rain waiting for your number to arrive.

Just when you reach the point where the rain eases off and you're about to walk, three of the buggers show up at once.

Everyone knows that this is the sort of theory when you can apply to other areas of life and indeed it has become common metaphorical parlance vis romance - to the point of being a cliche.
Nowhere has this been more evident than my office Christmas party. I was merry and able to talk to my friend Simon (I can deal with him quite easily now as a good pal, no alarms and no surprises) as well as dancing with my ladies.

Portia and I were both on good form in new stunning dresses and the moves - kind of like the macarena in incredibly beautiful but uncomfortable shoes. We were dancing on our merry way when my chum, foppish Phil, stumbled onto the dancefloor.

"Suzesh," he slurred. "I musht buy you a drink." I agreed on the terms I would buy him one back later and he brought me a dry white wine.

Two minutes later he swayed back towards us.

"Suzesh! I musht buy you a drink!"
"Erm I'm ok Phil," I replied. But again two minutes later he returned with another glass of wine.

This process repeated a total of six times, leaving a small cache of full glasses of white wine - untouched by me and my ladies.

And with the last glass Phil tried a drunken lunge in a clumsy attempt to kiss me. Still having my wits about me I managed to side-step and avoided an embarrassing scene by dashing to the lav.

On the way there another odd thing happened. Lovely Dave, who works in a different department to me, struck up an odd conversation. Now Lovely Dave is universally known as the office tart so I wasn't seriously interested, but his success with women is largely to do with his general cuteness and the fact he smells so damn good.

I wasn't surprised that as per usual he was incredibly fragrant - but was stunned when he started making the moves on me. Usually Lovely Dave clocks up his phenomenally high strike rate with tall blonde stunnas - something I am certainly not - and I have to say I was slightly tempted by the flattery and the wonderful aftershave.

But recalling my dignity I gave him a peck on the cheek, a cheeky wink and carried along my merry way.

Now the third bus arrived as I was chatting to other colleagues. It was strange really because it was a bus I didn't even realise was in service.

Michael is a very sweet boy- I say boy because he's just out of his teens and five years my junior. He's very sporty and in his own field he is a future world champion hope (and as a result has a 6ft toned body many women would kill to get with).

Despite his youth he's very popular with the ladies in the office - but he's never shown any interest in any of them - and I always thought of him as the boy Michael - just a baby.

I can't even remember how the conversation started, but it became a one hour, one man "how great is Suze" party. Little Michael wouldn't stop with the compliments. It seems he has been watching from afar - something I'd never imagined, never mind realised.

Now it's nice to see yourself reflected in someone else's eyes in that way, but I think everyone, especially Narcissus, realises the danger of looking too long into their own reflection for too long. You can quite easily get sucked under.

So without risking my dignity I thanked Little Michael for his sweet comments and went home. Alone, but with much boosted self esteem.

Suze x