Turning it around

...an old thought turns with the old tune in my head

I SEEM always to be over-motivated or under-motivated about romance: over-motivated when, rarely, somebody interesting, attractive, potentially suitable, available and seemingly possibly interested catches my eye, when I get terribly anxious about whether she is properly interested, or just happened to be feeling playful/frisky/drunk when I caught what I thought were signs of interest, how not to blow it, how to express some level of attraction without being too forward, inappropriate or keen, where best to ask her out, how to go about asking her out, whether she really is suitable after all, why she hasn't replied to the e-mail that I sent her twenty-five minutes ago and how cute that she looks in a hat; and under-motivated the rest of the time, when the thought of staying at home and engaging in my latest hobby of computer programming seems far more enticing than the thought of going out with friends and potentially meeting new people (only to-day, turning down a barbecue in the rain for just such reasons), or finding out more about or making effort to pursue properly somebody who might conceivably be interesting but who don't make my heart beat faster when she walks into the room. Either way, I inevitably blow it.

I suspect that that might be part of the early-filtering mentality: if a person doesn't catch my interest, I simply lack motivation to pursue her; and, because I'm so rubbish at it, it takes a great deal of effort (and therefore motivation) to attempt to do so. As I rack up an impressive score of blowing it, I become less inclined to be enthusiastic, and err on the side of caution and under-motivation; and every time that I feel inclined to be enthusiastic, I remind myself that I'll never get anywhere by being too keen and that it's no use pursuing disappointment, that being constantly anxious is a singularly unpleasant experience, and that I might as well get on with other things and hope for the best. The computer programming has been coming on well recently.

---

"It means that she sees you as just a friend - unless you can find a way of turning it around somehow".

I had asked Lara about whether there was any significance to the fact that Catelyn had called me of her own initiative and suggested we go for lunch', but had not replied to my e-mail. Dennis enquired as to the background. Lara briefly explained, and concluded,

"...but [CoatMan] f***ed it up"

"What did he do?"

"Ughh - he asked her out and invited a friend along"

"It's not as simple as that", I protested.

"Yes it is! It really is that simple."

Dennis didn't say anything, but smiled.

"You've got to find a way of letting her know you think she's hot," she continued, then put on a silly voice and said, "hey, you're hot, yo!" and then added, "Don't say that", as if she thought that there was a possibility that I might have taken her seriously.

But it really wasn't as simple as that. Last time that I'd asked her out, over two years ago, she'd brought friends along: it turned out that she had a boyfriend at the time. I'd thought of her in those terms since then, and although I'd always been attracted to her, I'd not thought of her as potential, and had consciously avoided doing anything that might suggest an interest other than as a friend, partly to avoid disappointment, and partly so as to avoid being inappropriate: there's nothing worse than somebody who can't take a hint. When, at the conference, she showed what could be interpreted as signs of interest, I was confused, and played it safe. I hadn't had the chance to speak to anyone or get comments here to get confirmation that I hadn't wildly misinterpreted things before I sent her the e-mail suggesting that Dominic come along - a suggestion that I'd made before when she suggested meeting up, when, for all I knew at the time, she was still with her boyfriend.

I was going to e-mail her to confirm what we had planned for this week-end, when I noticed that the diary entry that I had made at the conference had recorded that she had asked me to text her to remind her. I sent her a message on Thursday lunch' time:

"Hello - are we still on for Saturday with cake?"

I hadn't had a reply by Friday evening. It was perhaps a sign of incipient under-motivation that my main concern was my ability to plan my week-end rather than whether I'd get to see Catelyn. I called her shortly after seven.

She apologised for not having replied to my text message; she said that she had planned to reply in the morning, but had been sent to court at short notice, and then again elsewhere in the afternoon. I forget now the exact order of the conversation, but she explained that we'd have to reschedule the cake expedition she had agreed to take on a case lasting all four working days of next week on behalf of a friend, and she'd have to spend the whole week-end preparing. I had half expected, having quite possibly blown it, that things would not go ahead as planned. I looked forward to a week-end of working on the programming but was mildly irritated that I had not organised an internet delivery of groceries on account of having planned to be in Bristol.

I had expected a short, functional conversation, but Catelyn, who is more than usually direct and to the point about most things, engaged me in conversation about all and sundry, asking me how I was and what I had been doing (out of what seemed to be more than politeness, judging in part from the fact that when I replied that I was fine, thank you very much, and how was she, she repeated the question pointedly a short while later), and talking about what she had been doing of late (mostly working, it seems: she mentioned at one point about not having much of a social life). We talked again about what we had discussed on the last occasion of her meeting, how she somewhat regrets having moved to Bristol, that she did not want to be thought of badly for leaving her present place of work relatively shortly after having completed her training, that she gets better work there than she would were she in London, but that she misses her family who live in Surrey, where she grew up, remarking upon a recent occasion where she saw for the first time her recently born nephew and her family remarked on them never seeing her. She asked me what I thought. I had mentioned on several occasions my Samuel Johnsonesque views about London, and said that I can't imagine that she'd have difficulty finding somewhere in London, as she was good and good fully-qualified people are not in abundance, that a desire to move locations would be likely to be seen as a legitimate reason for moving, but that, after she had mentioned a tentative plan to sit it out in Bristol for the rest of the year and then explore options for returning to London, there is something to be said for the view that a person who does not leave too soon after her training has finished is likely to be taken more seriously, and that, although somewhat arbitrary, a year is as good a measure as any.

We then talked about when to reschedule to. She suggested Friday evening, which I couldn't do because we have our work party that evening, which is not merely an office jolly, but an important marketing event that everyone is expected to attend. We settled on the Saturday; she would be staying with her parents for the duration of the case in London, and she was staying over to Saturday; she suggested that we have lunch' at a rather famous restaurant (reputedly the oldest in London) to which she had never been, but had wanted to go; I mentioned that I'd been some years previously at a work Christmas party and that it was indeed rather good. She said that she'd call me in the week, and that, if she hadn't called by Wednesday, it was because she was busy, and that I should call her. She also mentioned that it was the sort of place where we'd have to book.

She mentioned that she'd have to get off for dinner, but, somehow, the conversation carried on for another good ten minutes; she mentioned that her friend, whom she had mentioned before at the conference, was to move in with her next week (she had agreed to let her lodge in her flat in Bristol whilst she undertook some training for about six months), and had remarked then, and remarked again on Friday, that she anticipates that she will "drive [her] mad", and added,

"You're definitely coming to stay when she's moved in!"

having previously mentioned that we would have to do the baking thing postponed from this week-end some time soon.

After our conversation, which had lasted at least half an hour, had finished, I entered our booked rendezvous into my diary, and noticed then that I had already booked to see a friend and his wife in an amateur musical in Woking that evening. I e-mailed Catelyn from my smartphone,

"[Cat],

have just noticed in my diary that I've arranged to see some friends who are in a play in Woking on Saturday evening. Doesn't necessarily interfere with lunch', but would you like to come along (if I can get another ticket)? It's an amateur thing, but should be fun. I thought it might be convenient for you if you are staying with your parents.

Do let me know what you think,

[CoatMan]

She had also asked my advice about a case on which she was working, and, shortly afterwards, another thought in that connexion came to me, so I sent her a short text asking whether a particular type of claim was being brought. A minute or two later she responded that it wasn't, to which I responded "pity".

She hasn't replied to the e-mail, but she called me early yesterday afternoon to ask my advice about the four-day case; it was in an area with which I was unfamiliar (as, I am fairly sure, she knew), so could only give an equivocal answer. That conversation was of rather more swift dispatch than the one of the previous evening.

---

Near where I live, there is a lovely little "vintage shop", selling all sorts of delightful trinkets and items of furniture from ages past: I have bought many a wonderful thing from there, ranging from a 1950s bathroom mirror to a 1920s tea-set. This afternoon, when waiting for my towels to finish drying in the local launderette, I wandered down to the shop to browse. The friendly owners, who recognised me from previous occasions, politely said hello but didn't try to persuade me to buy anything. That is rather how shopkeepers should be, I think.

After I had spent a few minutes browsing, a younger woman, holding a giant yellow plastic dragonfly on a stick, asked me,

"What are you buying?"

Almost instinctively, I responded,

"Just browsing to-day, thank you."

It took me a while to work out that she didn't actually work there herself, as she seemed more keen on trying to sell me things than the actual shopkeepers:

"You've got to buy something!"

"Ahh, no, I'm fine. Just browsing to-day."

"Look at what I got!"

She moved the giant yellow plastic dragonfly up and down on its metal stick and its wings flapped obediently.

"It reminds me of happy times", she continued, seemingly unaware that one didn't normally go into such detail with strangers.

I smiled and nodded politely. "Ahh, that's good!"

"It reminds me of when I went to live in Japan. They had lots of these there."

"Plastic dragonflies on sticks?"

She ignored my attempt at humour and continued. "They're surprisingly gentle: they'd come and sit on your hand if you sat still. They called them Tombos"

"The dragon flies?"

"Yes. Once, when I couldn't have a conversation with somebody - he didn't speak any English and I didn't speak any Japanese - we spent a whole afternoon in a garden with them just saying 'Tombo, Tombo, Tombo!'". She flapped her arms for effect.

"Ah." I smiled and nodded, and wondered whether it was nearly the shop's closing time.

Her friends, who had been browsing elsewhere, said that it was time to be going, and they practically danced out of the shop, singing, "Follow the yellow Tombo!" to the tune of "Follow the Yellow Brick Road". It seems that my under-enthusiasm for talking to strangers may not be entirely universal.

---

I should probably look into that restaurant and check how long in advance that one needs to book for a Saturday lunch' time, but I half expect to be rescheduled again; I had originally wondered whether I should plan some activities for Catelyn and I to do in Bristol, thinking that she might be somewhat impressed if I had planned things for when she had invited me, but under-enthusiasm rather took over and I spent the time ironing out bugs in the computer program instead. Being driven by the nagging belief that one ought to do something lest a chance of something good slips away is rather less effective than being motivated by genuine enthusiasm.

I did have some enthusiasm for Catelyn at one point, both when I first knew her, and recently, after the conference, and after some of the people on this 'blog helped to decipher her behaviour there. I was sent to Blackpool for work recently, not too long after I'd sent her the e-mail, when I still thought she might reply to it. (I referred to my trip to Blackpool in my conversation with her on the telephone on Friday, and she seemed to respond with more laughter than I thought merited when I responded, to her saying that it was sweet that I'd bought rock for everyone in work, "pun intended?") I remember strolling along the promenade in unseasonably beautiful April sunshine on the evening that I arrived, looking forward to taking photographs of the sunset on the pier (much as I had done in Brighton last year, shortly after I had first become interested in Lara, and had rather less restrained, but ultimately misplaced, feelings of enthusiasm), and looking forward to seeing Catelyn. As the evening wore on, however, and the sun went down, a chill Lancashire wind descended on the still slightly out of season coastal resort, and I realised that the sun set in the wrong direction to get any good pictures. It then became apparent that there is very little to get anything other than fish and chips to eat in Blackpool late of an evening, and I spent a long time hunting for a restaurant in the bitter cold before finding a little Hong Kong style place that, from what I could tell, cooked all of its food from cartons in a microwave, and where the only pudding worth ordering was a scoop of supermarket ice-cream in a little metal dish.

The question is: is there anything that justifies my enthusiasm being turned around, or are my chances of un-blowing it with Catelyn equivalent to finding a Michelin star in Blackpool?