French clients of Edinburgh Escorts

Tales of Stupidity: MEN

This is the second part of the tales. The first one, dedicated to women, is here.

He’s coming to Edinburgh for a week-end and we arrange to meet for a dinner on Sunday night.

On Sunday morning, however, instead of a confirmation e-mail I receive a cancellation one. It comes with a story: on Thursday night, when he’d landed in Edinburgh, he met a lovely girl at the airport (let’s say she was German) who also had just arrived to Edinburgh for the week-end. He got her number and texted her* the next day but never heard back. And then on Saturday he ran into her while sightseeing; it turned out that the settings of her German mobile wouldn’t allow her to text him back on his French number while in Scotland, that’s why she didn’t reply. She now agreed to have dinner with him on Sunday night, so he has to cancel our date.

Yes, of course I giggled a little and even said “Oh, honey!” but my reply read along the lines of “good luck! Hope you get what you’re after”. He immediately e-mailed back saying that he wasn’t after anything, he simply really liked the girl and wanted to make friends. I do wonder why he said it. His mother may have bought it. But me?

Here’s a woman’s take on this story.

Imagine you’re the German girl. At the airport you meet a bloke and you give him your number. You receive a message from him the following day and…

And if you really like the bloke and really think there might be something there, what do you do if your phone inexplicably tells you that you can’t reply his message? Exactly! You call him. If you can’t call him from your mobile, then you call him from your hotel room phone or from a payphone. Because if you really want to see him again, you only have these 2 days in Edinburgh for it.

Edinburgh escortsIf, however, you only gave him your number because he was sweet and you didn’t want to upset him, you ignore his text and get on with your short holiday. And when by some super-unlucky chance you run into him when sight-seeing, what do you do? That’s right! You concoct this story of how you couldn’t get back to him. Because even if you’re German, it’s still impolite to say something like “Yeah, I think I got something from you yesterday, but I couldn’t be bothered to read it and deleted it straight away”.

And now imagine you’re the French man. You have a sexy date arranged for Sunday night. Then on Saturday you meet a lovely German girl who agrees to have dinner with you on Sunday. Here are your options:

  • You can meet your lady of fixed-rate virtue and have sex – guaranteed. Or
  • You can meet your German girl and, with luck, you can have sex for free – no guarantee though. Or
  • You can lie to yourself that you’re not interested in sex at all: the German girl is only a friend and you cancel your date (sex guaranteed) to spend a sexless evening with her.

But we already know that the German girl isn’t going to be enthusiastic about sex**. So the inevitable happens: at 10pm on Sunday night the poor young man, having stopped lying to himself, calls his lady of fixed-rate virtue to ask if she’s still free and willing to see him after all.

__________

* Don’t. DON’T ever text the woman whose number you just got. Apart from the fact that it’s just plain bad manners (and she will be right to ignore your message), you run the risk of not knowing if your text was delivered, if it was delivered to the right person, or if the woman it was intended for is actually happy to hear from you.

** Actually, no, we don’t know that the German girl refused to have sex with him. Maybe the dinner was so good that she agreed. In which case his call to me later only proves the old axiom that if you want something done well, either do it yourself, or pay a professional.

And yes, it’s the same image for entries for men as well as women.

On cats and dogs – part 2

While everyone knows that all men are dogs, some men are more dogs than others. This is what this post is about. Cats were mentioned in Part 1.

Mr French. He’s only an inch taller than me, with small hands, small feet and a body that you could also call smallish if it didn’t have his personality attached. Teamed with the personality, his body takes inexplicably more space than it physically needs. He looks large and heavy-boned even though it’s not the case. And you always know when he’s in the room. It’s like visiting a dog-owner’s home. You don’t need to see the dog, you just know there is one in this house.

He starts every date by marking his territory. He enters the incall flat, goes straight to the kitchen, opens the fridge to put a bottle of wine to cool, opens the cupboards looking for glasses and plates for the snacks he brought. Once the food is sorted, he goes to the bathroom to wash his hands. He then returns to the living room, walks around it, fiddles with things and eventually settles down on the sofa – now, with every corner marked, he can relax. And yes, he’s the only one I know who opens a fridge that’s not his and feels at home after that. For the majority of people it’s the other way round.

We all fall for different things. Some people are attracted by what they see, others – by what they hear. Personally, I fall for how people express themselves. For Mr French it’s smells. Throughout our very first date he went on and on about how beautifully I smell. At first I just shrugged it off, but then I realised it was very important to him – not the way a woman looks or acts but the way she smells. And it’s deeper than perfume.

For me, it was a whole new world. I was most probably zinc deficient in childhood: my sense of smell is non-existent. I need to be looking at the toast I’m burning to smell something burnt. I won’t know what a client smells like until I can taste his aftershave on my lips. Needless to say, I never know if I’m wearing too much perfume or way too much perfume. And so, smells not being a part of my reality, I found it difficult to understand what the attraction was for Mr French – I’ve no clue what I smell like! But I knew that when he helped me put on my coat, he was sniffing the back of my neck. When he helped me take off my lingerie, it also went past his nose. With time, I just accepted it. But on the second date I had to ask:

– Are you sniffing me again?

– Sniffing? I’m like a dog, aren’t I?

There you go, he said it himself. Dogs mostly sniff and lick each other. Yep, he is just like a dog.

He’s not light and leggy, made for speed like most hunting breeds. He’s a working dog, heavy and broad. He could be a Greater Swiss Mountain dog if they came in black and were fluffy. Or he could be a Newfoundland if they at least pretended to have a backbone and tried to look like they are bold and daring. Being hairy as he is (the only hairless spot is his back. His rear view is that of a satyr with a missing tail) only increases the similarity. Once I even got to see it. Here’s how it happened.

We were in a restaurant when I asked if having a bath together would be too French for him.

– No, – he said. – Sounds fun, let’s try this.

So when we got to the flat, I ran a bath and turned away to wash off my make-up (to avoid having it run down my face when we’re in the bathtub). I heard his bare feet on the bathroom tiles behind me, then the water splashing as he stepped in the tub. I dried my face, turned round and…

Sitting in the bathtub facing me was a large black woolly dog. It looked rather pathetic as wet dogs tend to do. It had sad eyes, and its muzzle seemed strangely red in the steamy air rising from the tub. The dog lifted its front paw and splashed the water discontentedly.

– It’s too hot! – whined the dog in a familiar French accent. The vision disappeared. The memory of wet Mr French, all red in the face, sitting in a tub of hot water will stay with me forever.

Unfortunately, this is the last post dedicated to Mr French. Fortunately, this means that a very good regular client position is now available. Please send your applications to jewel@scotlandmail.com

Old “friend” – Part 1

This week brought back two old “friends”. Let’s start with the first one, Colin, whom I’ve seen a few times. In fact, quite a few times. But not in the settings that you as a reader are used to imagine.

Up until 2 years ago I visited Edinburgh from time to time – for the Fringe and, of course, while looking for a place to live when I decided to move to Edinburgh. During these trips I advertised in Daily Sport – the fastest (even if not the easiest) way to generate a few clients a day to cover the expenses of your trip, festival tickets and the real estate agent’s fee.

If you don’t know what Daily Sport was 3 years ago (it’s changed now, I hear, but not necessarily for the better) – it’s a highly unpleasant newspaper with about 400-500 ads for “services” all over the UK. An ad consists of a lady’s name, her location and her phone number – nothing else. This ad cost £30 a day (and this is when pimping is illegal in the UK). As you can guess, this newspaper does not provide you with upscale clientele. The average client it gives you is looking for a quick fix at 60 quid for 30 minutes. So this was what I offered.

If right now you’re thinking “why should I be paying her £200 for what other people get for £60!” – think again. Having been “on the game” for 6 years now, I worked in all possible modes and at all possible rates and believe me – there is a difference. Different rates provide you with different experiences. None of them is better or worse, it all depends on what you are looking for. From the point of view of a sex worker, what client are you more likely to give more attention to? The one who pays £60 or the one who pays £200? That’s right. One of them you will want to come back for more. The other one is easily expendable. One pays enough to make sure he’s the only one for the day. The other one has to queue. Here is how an ordinary £60 booking goes:

4pm. Will never skip lunch because of work again (promised religiously to self every day)! I really need to have something to eat when this one is gone. If he leaves by 4.15, I’ll have just enough time for a quick shower and a super quick snack before the next one at 4.30. Hope the next one is a little late – an apple is not going to be enough for me right now. I should have bought some chocolate last night. I wonder if this new bar I saw is as good as it looks! Jesus, will he finish at all today?! I should probably suggest changing the position. Sh!t, what did he say his name was?

– Honey, would you like to go on top now?

4.15 (smoothing out the bed sheets while the client is getting dressed) Was it Monday or Tuesday I changed the sheets last? Ah, who cares, it looks ok, I’ll give it another day.

4.20 (closing the door) Sod the shower, I MUST have something to eat NOW!

And pretty much any post on this blog tells you how an average £200+ date goes so I won’t repeat that but I’ll say this again – neither way is better or worse. It’s up to each sex worker what they feel comfortable providing (not everyone wants/ has the ability to connect with the client and not all sex workers want a long-term relationship with clients as it can be very demanding and difficult emotionally) and it’s up to each client what they want to pay for (good sex is different things to different people).

And now back to Colin. Daily Sport was how I saw him first and after several bookings I even started recognising him. Mentally I referred to him as “hairy bloke no 2” (mind you, it was 3 years ago and he has moved down to no 4 since. The first position is still occupied by the Geordie, the second place now belongs to the Italian virgin and the third is reserved for Mr French – not that there is a competition of any sorts going on) and had a lot of fun taunting him with it.

With Daily Sport days long gone as I settled in one place, you can imagine my surprise when the person who showed up at the time and location agreed for a date turned out to be my hairy bloke number 2! It is not too hard to find me if you want it – I’ve always worked with the same name and phone number, whatever city, rate or affiliation; but it’s the first time when someone I saw for £60 decided that the “new and improved” deal is worth it. Personally, I totally think it is, but of course I’m curious as to what made him think this way.

– Dunno. You were so sensual and intimidating. Remember the last time when…

Colin goes on to describe what I did last time I saw him and I nod like I remember. What I’m really thinking about is “intimidating”. It’s not the first time I’m told I am and for the life of me I don’t know what they mean or how I manage to give this impression. You’d think that people will want to avoid things that intimidate them but men keep coming back: I guess there’s intimidating and intimidating. So I take Colin to the bedroom and intimidate the hell out of him.

Part 2 to follow.

Chaleur de ma vie

And so, the day has arrived. This time Mr French wanted to go to the cinema. On the way there, we talk about the beauty of polyandry. Oh all right! I talk of the beauty of polyandry and Mr French cringes slightly. He does try to mention the beauty of polygyny but has to keep it to himself eventually.

As with anything else, what we watch is up to me. I choose “The Artist” and get ready for the reaction along the lines of “Woman, are you making me read again?!” (last time you heard about Mr French, I made him watch a 6-hour-long play with supertitles) but instead he seems to be quite pleased. I don’t think I’ll ever have my revenge with this one, he’s pleased no matter what I do.

If you’ve seen “The Artist”, you’ll recall the moment when George, having just been fired, runs into Peppy, whose star is rising. She has 2 men accompanying her. She stops to chat with George and gives him her number, pleading him to call. He points at her 2 companions who are waiting patiently close by. “Toys” , she explains with a smile. “She’s just like you”, – Mr French whispers in my ear. How can you not love a man who knows his place!

We get back to the flat and, erm… read poetry. In case you are smiling knowingly to yourself – yes, we really do read some poetry. The previous date Mr French complained that he hadn’t read anything in a while, so this time I have a little book by Jacques Prevert for him. I ask him to read for me: it’s so seldom that I hear his French! At first, he seems reluctant, but soon he’s leafing through the book, looking for the next poem to french out. Still, delightful as Prevert can be, we soon leave the book and go to the bedroom to make some poetry of our own.

It’s almost 10 when I get out of the shower and see Mr French getting dressed. Does he want a shower before we go? “It’s a French restaurant”, he shrugs, “there’s no need”. Sometimes I do wonder if he’s being funny or if he’s being French.

I watch him eat. He’s the only one I’ve ever seen eating snails, oysters, scallops, mussels and other creepy slippery invertebrates. Yet I enjoy the sight. I’m sure you know by now that I like men with a passion in their lives. It can be anything from collecting the models of planes to feeding penguins – I don’t care as long as it’s something he takes pleasure in. Mr French has a few hobbies that make him forget the time and, along with seeing me, eating is one of them.

Don’t confuse eating with food, they are totally different. Food is my hobby. I love food in any way, shape and form. If it’s not nailed to the wall – I’ll eat it. Eating is different. Unlike me, Mr French enjoys the process, not the object. He may not be the most elegant eater, but he’s a joy to watch because he does it with appetite – not for the food he’s eating but for the pleasure he receives from eating it.

En masse, the Brits deny themselves the pleasure of pleasure. It’s a cultural thing. They eat to quell hunger, they drink to get drunk, they wear clothes to be dressed, they work to make money, they have sex to reach orgasm. They do these things for their final purpose, not for the pleasure of doing them. Mr French is the complete opposite. He’s so French it makes me envious. But right now I’m looking at him eating – it turns me on.

– Stop staring at me.

– I can’t.

– When we get back to the flat, I’ll take you to the bedroom, undress you, put you on the bed and stare at you.

– Promise?

– Oh yeah!

– Eat faster then.

For the main course the chef made a tart for me – gluten free. It’s basically the tart’s filling on a plate without the tart itself. If anything, it’s only better for it. When the manager comes round to make sure I’m ok and sees the plate, he says the chef will be happy to see this – he likes it when plates arrive back empty (my plate couldn’t have been cleaner even if I’d licked it). Needless to say, I immediately want to thank the chef for all his effort personally, and the manager takes me to the kitchen. When I return, Mr French makes a jealous face: I left the table to speak to another man without even excusing myself, not to mention asking if he minds it. We both know he’s fine with this (does he have a choice?) but it’s still fun, so we discuss the chef over the dessert, and leave.

Back at the flat, he takes me to the bedroom, undresses me, puts me on the bed and… stares at me? Yeah, right!

The price of healthy living

My new year resolution was no wheat. And where possible, I decided to abstain from all gluten (and in case you are wondering, so far so good). This means I have to visit health food stores much more often than before.

Have you ever wondered why health food stores are packed with ugly, unhealthy looking people? I didn’t notice this before, only now that I’m a regular there. And all of them are women. You walk round this shop and wonder if you missed the sign on the front door that says “NO DOGS OR MEN”. As for the women, I’m not exactly sure what’s wrong with them. No matter what weight, shape, colour or age, a woman will be beautiful if she wants to be beautiful. But the health food store customers look like the healthy food sucked all the life out of them. Or maybe it’s just me. I enjoy watching women, the way they move, the way they talk (Scottish accent is NOT sexy. It may be cute, it may be funny, in its extreme forms it may even hypnotise you, but it is not sexy), their facial expressions, their shape… But in my local health food store I keep my eyes on the shelves.

Anyway, to the point. This time I go past the health food store to the French restaurant where I need to book a table for the coming date with Mr French. I think we’ve been to pretty much all French restaurants in Edinburgh by now, and as I’ve noticed, French cuisine is not vegetarian-friendly. That’s why, considering my new dietary requirements, I preferred booking a table in person rather than by phone, but only got to go to this part of town today. Needless to say, on the night like the one in question the restaurant is already fully booked. The helpful maitre d’hotel gives me 10pm as the only available slot.

– Great, thank you. Make it in the name of Mr French and here’s his phone number. Also, do you have anything vegetarian on the menu?

– Yes, Mrs French, we do, one vegetarian starter and one main course.

I open my mouth to say that Mr French is not that rich, but our relationship is none of the staff’s business, so instead I ask him if it’s possible to have these 2 dishes wheat-free as I’m allergic to it. He checks it with the chef and marks our table booking as the special one.

I go home. I can hardly wait. Most of my bookings are special.

Animal Planet: the A to Z of client species found in Edinburgh

The Americans – these come with a hard impermeable shell that they will open up if consider the surrounding environment friendly. The content of the shell varies from individual to individual. The Americans don’t do well in captivity or on their own, they tend to live and migrate in small packs, even when on business. This might be due to the fact that American folklore is very rich with menacing tales of the end of the world, when their natural habitat as it is will cease to exist unless they are all saved by one American, usually known as “the hero” (the only exception is the series of tales where the world was saved by a German lesbian, usually respectfully referred to as “die Hard”). These fear and distrust over the generations found their natural way out in evolution of the protective shell mentioned above.

The Arabs – religiously clean, personal grooming includes fur intolerance. Young unmated individuals may differ greatly from mature mated ones. The Arabs are reportedly polygynous; when mating outside their natural environment, tend to show preference for copulation with only one female. In return for her favours they religiously follow the prescribed rules of keeping the females satisfied: supporting the female financially, taking her shopping, then to a restaurant, then to the bedroom. It is thus seen as taking on a short-term wife rather than cheating.

The Aussies – think well of themselves and rightly so. For mating rituals always show up well-groomed and well-dressed. In contacts seem to prefer quality to quantity. Exhibit a good sense of style, hygiene and humour. Genetically courteous. Unanimously list religious upbringing as enemy no 1.

The English – easy to spot even out of their natural habitat due to their inbred tendency to form queues where more than one specimen is involved. A few subspecies are recognised (although all show a high degree of individual variability) distinguished by location, attitude to females, mating rituals and view of self. By most part, however, see themselves as sexually attractive just by being male and therefore are not well-trained in the arts of personal grooming and dressing. The ones who left their natural environment and were accepted by other species copy successfully the other species’ ways of grooming, dressing and polite interaction.

The French may vary wildly in their appearance but the behavioral traits that set them apart from other species are unmistakable. They are the only species that really know how to enjoy life and themselves, even within the settings of Scotland. Adults train the young to appreciate good food, good wine and good time for yourself, sometimes even at the expense of training in personal grooming. They willingly acknowledge this about themselves but are not in a hurry to change the behavioral pattern: so much good food, so many good females, so little time for silly necessities!

The Italians – not enough data gathered to provide a reliable description, most probably because located so far north, Edinburgh does not provide this species with favourable conditions for mating. The only confirmed fact is that the myth of hot Italian lovers is a myth. The research continues and volunteers are welcome.

The Kiwis – quite rare here but the ones spotted are reportedly similar in behaviour to the Aussies although differ from them in appearance – they can be careless dressers. It’s unclear whether this is characteristic of the species or is done by relocated individuals to fit in with the local fauna. More research is needed.

The Scandinavians (Norwegian species, the Dutch and the Swedes) – being the northern species, cultivation of body hair is a distinguishing trait, although some individuals are known to have experimented in that field. The absence of smooth body surface is successfully compensated by sweet personality, unassuming attitude and genuine ardour when the possibility for mating arises. However, when the possibility turns into certainty, some Scandinavians show strong tendency for timidity when vis-a-vis with a female. This might be due to the irrational Scandinavian belief that females of the species should not want to mate, and if they say they do – they are clearly confused and need professional help.

The Scots used to form an independent species, but not for long and were never good at it. They were glad to be assimilated by the English, and now, with the same well-documented use of a large variety of polite words, are practically identical. Until the late Pleistocene, were characterised by wearing skirts – a highly distinctive trait, and a very efficient way for males to attract the opposite sex. Nowadays, in line with the English culture, efforts to attract the females are seen as a sign of weakness. The Scots, however, preserved their historic admiration for females and give the lead in the mating rituals to them which, according to Freud, may be due to “skirt envy” and an innate guilt complex rooted in abandoning the skirt tradition.

The Welsh – this mythical species has long been the object of wonder: although everything points to its existence at least at some point in time, no specimen has been captured alive so far. A few individuals are reported to have been suspected of being Welsh, but there was no way to prove it as due to the lack of evidence the existing description of the Welsh and their behaviour is highly unreliable. Consequently, the rumour of a modern country populated with the Welsh has no grounds, although of course a place like that could have existed in antiquity. Theories vary from the ones that suggest that the Welsh died out because they were so few and far between that meeting for procreation was virtually impossible to the ones that stipulate that the Welsh actually reproduced asexually by budding and went extinct because seriously, who can survive without sex? Excavation continues.

The Good Date

Continued from Part1 and Part2.

Mr French is running late. He was supposed to be at the flat at 1pm, but it’s a long way to Edinburgh and the traffic is not very helpful. At 1.30 he storms in, suit on a hanger in one hand, a bag in another. All this immediately goes on the floor so his hands are free for a little fumble right by the door. Eventually I tear him off my face, shove a towel in his hands and lock him in the bathroom where the shower is already running. 3 minutes later he’s out. I dry his back while he zips his bag open. Not made of carpet, it’s still Miss Poppins’ style: he takes out a pair of shoes, a pair of socks, a change of underwear and lots of grooming things. 5 more minutes and he’s ready. Another little fumble by the door until we’re at last out and in a cab. Thankfully, Lyceum theatre is close by and we’re there just on time.

As much as I am now in love with Arabic theatre, I have to mention that One Thousand and One Nights is not the sort of play you go to see with your mother. Or with your children, even if they are over 30. In fact, depending on what sort of woman you were clever/ lucky enough to marry, your wife might also be the wrong partner for this sort of entertainment (when the slaves with strap-ons appeared on the stage, the elderly lady on my right closed her eyes. When The Porter went down on the three sisters one after another, she closed them again. When he ran across the stage stark naked, I didn’t dare to look at her. Besides, The Porter was quite a sight). But the sex-worker – client relationship happened to be perfect for it and by the end of Part 1 Mr French started looking keenly at me. We go for an early dinner in a nearby restaurant and he seems to relax a little, but back at the theatre, in the bar, his hand is again firmly glued to right below the small of my back.

“You’re so lovely” he says. I yawn. He takes a swig from his glass. “You’re bloody desirable.” I smile smugly. He pulls me in closer. We kiss. The taste of his drink burns my throat.

One Thousand and One Nights is a tale in a tale. Shehrazade tells tales to her husband (don’t we all know women like this?). The characters of her stories (2nd level), brought to life right in front of us by the power of her imagination, go places, meet people, tell them their story and listen the stories of others in return (3rd level). These stories also involve people and so we go deeper and deeper. Mr French admits that he’s losing the plot. I’m surprised – after just 2 drinks? But by the middle of Part 2, when a character from a 5th level tale comes to the 3rd level tale to resuscitate The Hunchback, I have to admit that now they lost me, too.

We leave the theatre around 10. It’s a lovely evening, even if a little too fresh, and we walk in silence, his hand on my waist. I’m still dwelling on some parts of the play that impressed me most. No clue what’s on his mind. Eventually, he’s the first to speak.

– Now I know what your plan was. To show me that women are so much better than men.

This totally wasn’t my plan. I haven’t seen the play before and I didn’t know what it was about. Besides, there were some decent male characters in the play, too. Although, in all honesty, not too many of them. But would I really tell Mr French that he’s arrived to the wrong decision? I just reply that everything around is a part of a greater plan.

My own revenge plan, it seems, did not work that well. Not only did he sit through the 6 hours of the play without falling asleep, he also really enjoyed it. Oh well, there’s always the next time. Maybe I will have to tie him to a chair after all. At this point I get too cold and Mr French hails a cab.

At the flat, I make him go through the drafts of Parts 1 and 2 of the recipe first but it’s obvious that reading is not what he wants to do. I point at his chin. He opens his carpet bag, takes out his shaving things and disappears in the bathroom. He knows how to win my, erm, heart.

And so, the ultimate rule for being happy with a woman: no matter what your woman says, all you have to do is reply “Yes, dear” and then go and do as she said. It really is that simple. Happy women don’t nag, don’t look unattractive and don’t make your life miserable. You are far more likely to be happy with a happy woman than with an unhappy one.

The Recipe for a Good Date, Part 2

Continued from Part 1. Again, published with permission, personal information cut out.

Monday (A+5)th, afternoon

Ring-ring.

Jewel: I found 2 plays, and one of them I’d really like to see. How much time will you have on Zth?

Mr French: A couple of hours is not a problem.

Jewel: Sure. It’s just that the play is a little longer than they usually come, so it starts earlier.

Mr. French: Good, we can spend an afternoon together for a change.

Jewel: There’s only one way to say it so I’ll just do. It lasts 6 hours. Well, 5 and a half. It comes in 2 parts.

Mr French: <silence>

Jewel: The first part is 2 till 5, then there’s a break for 2 hours and the second part is 7 till around 9.40.

Mr French: <expressive silence>

Jewel: It’s One Thousand and One Nights. They obviously couldn’t squeeze all the nights into an hour and a half, so it’s a little longer…

Mr French: 6 hours?

Jewel: A little less. And we really don’t have to see both parts. In the programme it says you can choose to see only one part. And it’s all done in Arabic, French and English with English supertitles.

Mr French: French and English?

Jewel: Yes, and Arabic. It’s about Shehrazade who doesn’t want to get killed by her husband so she tells him all these tales to put it off. I’ve been told it’s worth seeing.

Mr French: Well, if you really want to see it… Just book the tickets and keep the receipt. I’ll leave work early on Zth to get to Edinburgh on time.

Click.

Jewel: (to herself) I have just talked a French man into 6 hours of pays maghrebins‘ folklore. Am I convincing or what?

Wednesday (A+7)th, evening

Mr. French: Bonsoir. Have you got the tickets? Getting myself ready for it. X

Jewel: Not yet. Decided to put it off till (Z-2) in case you change your mind or your work plans change. Besides, I’m still contemplating the possibility of tying you to a chair and making you watch me knit for an hour or so as a form of entertainment – you did suggest I should do it all myself.

Mr. French: As long as it’s a comfy chair and you wear very little! Not planning to change plans for Zth so go ahead with the tickets, I’ll be all yours. X

Jewel: You will be all mine? Just wanted to double check. Will also keep the text as a proof in case you want to go back on your word. You might regret having said it, you know. *Off to sharpen her nails.

Mr French: Always taking advantage, are you? Good night.

Jewel: I can’t not take advantage when it’s offered. Sweet dreams.

The final recipe (in case it is still not obvious) is in The Good Date entry.

The Recipe for a Good Date, Part 1

The original text of the texts is mostly preserved with personal bits cut out (which means that some texts look like there was no point in sending them). Both authors of the messages have seen the draft and are happy for it to go online.

Wednesday Ath, evening

Mr French: Bonsoir ma belle. Yes, I know you know. How are you? Busy-busy? X

Jewel: I’m fine, merci. If only you knew what I’m doing right now! I’ve your present here at last (a present for Mr French (which had been discussed with him in advance) was ordered online and Jewel had to wait for it to be delivered), so I’m ready when you are.

Mr French: Whoever it is you are doing, skip the details. Could you keep Nday Zth free for me.

Jewel: I’m knitting a beanie for a regular! Hm, now that I said it, it doesn’t sound half as exciting as it feels. Zth is marked in my diary.

Mr French: You are KNITTING? Are you having a laugh? I am 😀

Jewel: Gerroff my case! Talk soon.

Mr French: No, not planning to! Nite-nite. Big hugs.

Friday (A+2)th, evening

Mr French: Hi gran, how’s the knitting going? Still having a little smile to myself. Is there a chance to see anything at the festival on Zth? X

Jewel is busy.

Saturday (A+3)th, midday

Jewel: Morning, didn’t want to wake you up with a text last night. You’ll pay for “gran”. Knitting is an art, and don’t you go telling me it’s an ancient art indeed! The Fringe will be over but I’ll see if there’s still anything running on Zth. Will let you know. No hugs for the elderly-women-hater.

Mr French: Not arguing that knitting is an art, but more often than not practiced by women of a certain age! If you don’t find anything to see on Zth, no worries, you’ll just have to do all the entertainment yourself.

Jewel reads the text and loudly blows raspberry in reply.

Saturday (A+3)th, evening

Mr French: Not talking to me? 🙁 Good night. Hugs if I may.

Jewel ignores the text and starts planning her revenge.

Monday (A+5)th, midday

Jewel: Morning. Have found a couple of shows. Call to discuss when you have a minute.

Continued with a dialogue in Part 2.

The most bizarre date, Act 5

Continued from Act 4. Or did you really think it was over? Yeah, right.

Just as he said, Daniel called the night before his flight back home. Jewel was, erm, unable to answer the phone and he left a voicemail: “Hi, Daniel here as promised. Just to say thank you for the great time. It was wonderful to have met you… Come to think of it, would you like to come round tonight?”

Don’t you just like spontaneous men?

This time it really is a quiet evening together. Daniel is sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, I’m lying on it facing him. There’s a bowl of cherries on the bed between us. In between kisses and cherries, Daniel is hard at work: he’s telling me in detail how great I am. Told you he was a charmer. He has a knack for paying compliments: he seems to know exactly what the woman in front of him is proud of and what makes her different from others, and he compliments exactly that.

And here we come to a point where I need to explain something. I recognise a good compliment when I’m paid one, but I myself am not that good when it comes to complimenting people. Rather bad, in fact. It doesn’t matter how much good stuff you tell me about me, the best you are likely to hear back is: “Yeah, I know (because, frankly, I do), glad you noticed though. You’re not bad either”. The “I know” part is not something I do on purpose. It just comes out. Sometimes I can control it and sometimes I can’t. I remember Mr French telling me how attractive he thought I was and there I am, biting my tongue and saying nothing. So after 10 seconds of silence he says

-Yes, I know you know.

-But I didn’t say anything!

-You thought it so loudly I could hear it.

Well, when a man is right, a man is right. As for “you’re not bad either” part, it’s slightly more complicated. Generally speaking, the fact that you pay me is not something that has a lot of influence on how our date goes, but here I’m at a crossroads: I can compliment you and

1. at best, make you wonder if I said it because you paid me or because I really meant it, or

2. at worst, make us both feel unbelievably stupid. Imagine: you’re with a lady, you undress each other and the she goes: “Oh my god, it’s so big!” Even before you ask yourself whether it’s your spare tyre or a creepy crawly on the wall right behind you that the sex worker refers to, wouldn’t you just laugh out loud? I would.

or I can say nothing – which is what I usually choose to do. Besides, I’m sure that if I’m really enjoying your company, you’ll see it.

He calls from the airport early in the morning to say good-bye. It’s just a quick chat, we thank each other, I wish him a safe journey, and he’s gone. I spend the whole day thinking yearningly about how much fun it would have been to make Daniel give me something to write about for Acts 6-10.