there’s something about autumn that makes life a little cinematic. chapters of the day that I would usually sail through with little note or excitement, begin to accumulate some sort of romantic significance (i’m strictly a closet romantic- having spent most of my life denying any sort of life in my cold, cynical, wizened heart, I’m not prepared to give up the game that easily). but come the first crunch of leaf underfoot, the first tantalising day that simultaneously serves up sunshine and nippy cold, i find myself becoming convinced that i’m in some wretch-inducingly quixotic meg ryan film, and that love is just around the happy-go-lucky corner. if a breeze catches my hair, i am no longer annoyed that it sticks to my lipgloss and renders me partially blind, i simply toss it a la cat deeley and imagine myself in slow-mo, complete with artistically placed golden leaves spinning round me. narcissistic much? perhaps. judge all you like, i just can’t help it! i grin like a Cheshire cat on crack at everyone down the street, no shop assistant is safe from my whimsical chatter, and heaven help any totty that may happen to hold my gaze for longer than 2 seconds- odds are I’ll probably propose on the spot.
but with so much love for humanity coursing through my little soul, i am prone to make some hideously ill-advised mistakes. not only do i have loving surges of goodwill and romantic persuasion, i also develop an inherent desire to divulge my contact details to the very dregs of society. usually, if some cretin asks for my number, and is quite clearly an arrogant twat, or more in james corden league than james dean league, or completely unable to communicate in recognisable English, i supply them with a number that will take them straight to a sexual health helpline, or an aggressive male homophobe. then go home, chuckle myself to sleep, and congratulate myself yet another terribly witty moment of merciless malice.
you may be crying into your teacup now, over all these poor souls i have vindictively stamped on. but really, in the long run, honesty is the best policy. at least this way my feelings are made (painfully) clear. and for the arrogant twat quota, they fully deserve it. when I’m autumnally-minded, however, someone who looks like the hunchback of notredame, has all the charm of nick griffin, and all the language skills of someone nick griffin would take a shot at in the street, could approach me a garble something about phone numbers and i would smile sweetly and enter ALL THE CORRECT DIGITS. foolish behaviour indeed. not only am i then stuck with someone ihave absolutely no interest in whatsoever messaging me, i am also stuck with an innate sense of guilt over ignoring said texts. it’s lose-lose.so the rest of the autumn will be spent locked up indoors, well away from any romantic temptations. either that, or I’ll have to brain wash myself into believing that flirt divert is my real, actual number. it’s for the good of humanity.