So here I am, drinking my coffee, checking up on Perez Hilton, when I get an early morning text message from The Electrician. It’s kind of taken me by surprise… I mean, I never thought I’d hear from him again. It’s been a whole week. But the text reads: “Are we cool? I kind of thought you’d call.”
I’m angry. I’m really quite angry that he’d say this, because this is a guy who just last Sunday, accused me of being a double-dating slapper and I swore I’d never speak to him again. He didn’t come right out and say it of course, but he texted it, so it was just as insulting.
Basically, what happened was, I met The Electrician late on Friday the week before, for a drink in a cocktail bar, conveniently located just a 15 minute walk from my house (my rule is that if the other person has a car, I’m not bussing/cabbing/training it to any first date… the man can come to me). So we actually had a really nice night. He showed up a little late but I forgave him when he walked in because he was hot. Being hot always adds a few points back onto the chart if you’ve fucked up, of course.
Anyway, I was pleasantly surprised by this down-to-earth, humble English guy, who’s lived in Sydney for the last ten years and makes an honest living as an electrician, drives about in a huge van with his company name on the side, and in his spare time… wait for it… hosts game fishing expeditions in far out places for the rich and famous. Thrilling or what?! He even rides with them in helicopters! I was hooked. Leaning over my Bundaberg I was already imagining the awesome trek we’d take through the Russian wilderness in search of the rumoured Mutant Milligan Spike fish… only visible to human eyes between August and September, on a full moon.
We had a great night getting to know each other, the game-fishing electrician and I… and before I knew it, I realised I actually quite fancied him. There was no little voice in my head screaming his faults, even though he had a bit of a wonky smile and his shoes were quite possibly a little too shiny… it was all blocked out thanks to the fact that he was calm, intelligent and sexy in a rugged, tradie, fisherman sort of way. He even insisted on buying all the drinks… something I’ve noticed Aussie men just don’t do. We ended up making out in a jazz bar and I agreed to a second date.
We went to Bondi Beach for date two. Ate Italian whilst watching the wind pick up a storm over the sea and then he drove me home in his clapped out van, which he calls ‘the Titanic’ because it’s so fucking huge he can never park it anywhere. Adorable, right? We’d had another night of chatting during which he asked me if I was dating anyone else, to which I answered no. Well, I wasn’t. In all honesty, I was totally wrapped up in him; the fisherman-electrician and our sparks.
Date three, he came to meet me from work and drove me to a gig I was supposed to be photographing. He didn’t come in though. He went home and then came all the way back to fetch me afterwards, took me out for a cup of tea before driving me home again and promising to take me to Palm Beach the next Sunday. I could feel a beautiful romance budding… something fun for once, someone slightly mysterious who I couldn’t quite read, who liked me and wanted me exclusively already. I was mentally packing for the fishing trip – though I’d have to buy a new hat in Russia, obviously. I think you know the kind I mean.
So, Sunday morning rolled around and I hadn’t heard from him… bar one text the day before, asking what time I wanted him to collect me in honour of our beach trek. It had graduated to a picnic and he was, apparently, planning an entire day for us in his head. Only, I woke up with a mouth tasting like I’d spent all night licking carpet. Having met some old friends from NYC down in the Rocks the night before, we’d got a little pissed on red wine. I asked if we could go a little later when I got his text. He’d sent it at 8am on a Sunday… I mean for Christ’s sake, only God and joggers are up at that hour on a Sunday. Our textual exchange went something like this:
Him: It’s OK if you wanna make it another day.
Me: Ugh. If it’s really OK, that might be gd. How bout easter fri?
Him: Thanks
Me: ?
Him: I spent lots of money on food n wine and didn’t go up the coast with my mates, I feel like a fool. Plus u probably met someone else and stayed over at his and ur still with him now n that’s why u can’t go.
I know!!! Of course, that last text was enough to make the voices start screaming again “NEXT, DELETE, ERROR”, but I was hungover and angry, so I replied:
“I was out with my friends and I said sorry. You’re being a bit harsh accusing me of things like that. Take someone else to the beach.”
And bar one text saying how much I’d “hurt” him (ugh!) I never heard back. Until now. And he’s asking if we’re cool! AND he’s saying he hoped I might have called. What. Ever, Mr Fisherman.
I just wrote back and said to be honest, anyone who says its fine to change a plan and then insinuates I’m some sort of double-dating hussy and acts like a needy princess after one week of meeting me, is not driving me to an idyllic beach in a car that looks like the fucking Titanic. I told him I had a jealous, possessive boyfriend once and I wasn’t about to go down that path again.
Shame as I really liked The Electrician. And now I really do want to go game-fishing in Russia with a helicopter full of celebrities. There must be another way…
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