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Cupid’s arrow lands wide of the mark  Anyone
who has ever made the move to a new place will know it can often be a
rollercoaster of emotions.
And for me London is a place that epitomises that very sentiment.
Some days everything is great — I wake up and can’t wait to
greet another new day, wondering what weird and wonderful things the city
will throw at me.
Other times it’s a different story and I can’t help but feel
I’m missing out on what really matters by virtue of the fact that
I no longer live in Ireland — where I have plenty of friends and
know where to go and what to do like the back of my hand.
London is somewhere where anonymity is encouraged (and often sought out).
In Ireland you can’t go anywhere without bumping into someone you
know or a friendly face who’ll ask how you’re doing.
And that’s something that, as much as I hate to admit it, I am beginning
to miss.
I think I’d always hoped that when I moved away, friends and family
would ache for the days when I was there.
And as a result I’d always believed that once I left there would
be a flow of non-stop correspondence flying back and forth over the Irish
Sea.
But naturally, just a few weeks after I packed up and shipped out, people
moved on and I’ve had to settle with receiving the odd phone call
midweek, a group e-mail on what everyone has been getting up to without
me or a quick note on Bebo to say: ‘Hi, how’s things?’
Now most of you could not but have noticed how last week was filled of
the usual hype surrounding that feast of all feasts — Valentine’s
Day, when Cupid supposedly takes his bow and arrow and fires it on unsuspecting
lonely hearts.
This year (sob!) Valentine’s Day was a non-starter for me with no
man and no mates.
And it was one of those days where I longed to be back in Galway with
friends and family to spend my time with.
This year I sat in — ordered a takeaway for two, ate it all and
talked to the walls (because they don’t answer back!).
But reminiscing about home and ‘the good old days’ did remind
me of a particularly memorable February 14 a few years back when I tried
my hand, for the first and the last time, at speed-dating.
I had my dating debut in Galway as part of an annual Macra na Feirme festival
(a kind of young farmers of Ireland event where the country’s youngest
and most eligible country bachelors congregate for a few days of fun and
frolics).
On arrival at the hotel I was told to join the lengthy queue that had
formed at the registration table.
But no sooner had I done so than I was whisked to the top of the line
by one of the organisers.
She pointed out that there was a shortage of women for the event and so
for the first time in my life I was in demand (I realise now, of course,
that this should have sent alarm bells ringing — it didn’t).
I remembered seeing a couple of other girls standing nearby and whispering
about how they were a bit nervous having never done this kind of thing
before (join the club).
Yet they then proceeded to whip their coats off to reveal a series of
short skirts before marching confidently towards the dating arena.
Thinking this was the best way to approach things I made my way down towards
the dating hall with the other eager partakers.
But Cupid must have been detained elsewhere at that particular moment
because as I attempted to throw a sultry glance at one young speed-dater
I tripped and stumbled forward.
Red-faced I was forced to hurry away hoping he had not noticed. (Note
to anyone thinking of giving speed-dating a go in the future — leave
the four-inch heels at home.)
So there I was sat opposite a strange man in a dimly-lit room, having
been given three minutes to chat.
And when the time was up I was supposed to tick yes or no next to the
name of the person I spoke to, after which the man moves on and the whole
process is repeated all over again.
While most people avoid returning to the same table more than once, one
gentleman spoke to me three times (about his sheep!).
But I’m still convinced that the error was more to do with lacking
a sense of direction than any real desire to talk to me… about his
sheep.
That night I sped through 10 dates in one evening — with little
success in finding my Prince Farming.
Now fast forward a few years and I have yet to feel desperate enough to
engage in any speed-dating exploits in London which, let’s face
it, is liable to be a far more weird if not wonderful experience.
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