New Year Same Me - Part Two

Why, of course there is a part two.

When I told this story to my dear Mother on Facetime,I  didn't know whether I was laughing or crying. And neither did she. I think it was a mixture between the two and if I’m honest, quite a foreign and looking back, humorous noise I was making. I think I was laughing because I couldn't believe I was crying over such a trivial matter and crying because at the same time I didn’t really feel as though it was funny at all.  I asked mama through my girlish sobs; 'am I being pathetic? Is this ridiculous behaviour mum?' She reassured me that it wasn't and comforted me through understanding of how I felt, and I believed her -  despite the fact I couldn't quite come to terms with the emotions myself. My nostrils kept flaring every time I let out a sob which made me giggle/weep even more.

So a few blog posts ago I told you about that handsome, charismatic ginger chap who paid for my taxi after my desperate attempt to find the debit card in my bag THAT WAS THERE ALL ALONG. I did find it post-cancellation, in one of the many compartments of my bag that I have never used before. When I found it a week or so later, after that night that I naively believed was ridden with fate, I was glad I couldn’t at the time  because else I wouldn’t have met him  or had a cup of tea with him because it was meant to be blah blah bloody blah.

His name was Shannon. It came to me when I was searching Facebook for every Shannon and Sharron in Bristol after googling whether either were actually boys names or he was just ‘avin me on. I found him. I won’t tell you how long it took me (four days.) Turns out we do have a mutual friend of a friend (of course) but no one mutual enough to find out if he was the type of chap to leave insufficient mobile digits to a fickle little idealist who'd as a one off, mixed red wine and red stripe on new years eve. What a keeper.  

Now you may think of this as some seriously stalkerish behaviour. well I hold my stalkerish hands up I admit it okay! I stalked, I stalked the very depths of Facebook, high and low to find this gentleman. I swiped high and low like I was on some sort of new gen quest, embarked upon from the very comfort of my sofa, sofa searching and sofa scrolling through social media sites: 'Shannon, male, Bristol, slightly ginger.'   I wanted desperately to find him and pay him back for his good nature by means of a beverage or marriage. Kidding. Maybe.

I was about to call off the one woman search party until so suddenly, there he was, in all his strawberry blonde glory, his left nostril modelling a nose ring, his head fashioning a skater-esque flat cap, wearing the t-shirt I met him in on new years ('fate') and his profile picture was of him and his beautiful little boy that he told me about, who had inherited his hair colour and fashion sense. 

I messaged him something similar to the above, minus the marriage part - and I waited for the response. I waited for the response. I waited and waited, I waited some more. I kept waiting for that response. Maybe he hadn't seen it? Had he seen it? He can't of seen it...I even exhausted Google, asking it to teach me which each of the little ticky symbols meant on Facebook messenger. And I know I am not the only one to do this - because there were plenty of people to ask the same question.  I concluded, he didn’t use Facebook, it hadn't told me the day and time it was 'seen' so perhaps it went into the 'others' folder where all the spam goes from seedy Turkish men telling you 'you beautiful.' (Maybe not so much for him.) He hadn’t seen it. He would have replied else? I mean we had a lovely time together really, so he can't have seen it.

So, I found his instagram (stalker hands re-raised.) He seemed to be an avid user of the picture uploading site (instagram tells you when the last photo was uploaded, and his was full of recent snaps,  his and his little boys face decorating his insta-album.

There was another face that popped up quite a bit too. An old school emo looking chick, with a full fringe, dimples and a little nose. She must have been a good mate because they seemed quite matey and did matey things together like go on walks, hang out by the harbourside drinking beer, and watching films on a projector screen from his bed I presume. Oh there she is on the loo, he took a picture of her going for a wee...friends these days. Hey there’s a sweet one of them holding hands, snoggi...waaaait a minute.

He had a fucking girlfriend - OF COURSE HE HAD A FUCKING GIRLFRIEND!

I ruddy asked him! I asked him when he sat on MY RUDDY SOFA, drinking MY SHIT TEA, his arms tangled around my body, lulling me in with all his ginger glory, face centimetres away from mine...I drew back and I ruddy asked him:

‘You don’t have a girlfriend do you?’ 

‘I wouldn’t be here if I did.’
I wouldn't be here if i did
I wouldn't be here if i did
I wouldn't be here if i did

He didn't say it that many times, I'm just trying to create that echo-ey affect they do in films where a statement which is quite pivotal to the story repeats itself in a characters head.
He lied to me! And why wouldn’t he? He didn't know me, he didn't owe me anything, (if anything I owed him a tenner) I was just some drunken ditz who lost her card in her own bag late one New Year's morning. He followed me home perhaps thinking he would get more than what he bargained for (£10 to be precise) which I stress here he certainly did not. We talked and kissed on my sofa and he left, he left me and he left the wrong number.
In my naïve, fairy-tale, it-must-be-destiny mind patterns, I was adamant the wrong number thing was a mistake - it NEVER crossed my mind that it would have been left on purpose. He seemed far too lovely for that, and we had far too much of a lovely time for that. Plus that's never happened to me, it only ever happens in movies right? Right? 

Part two doesn't stop here though.

The best part, well the most unbelievably incomprehensible part, is the recent revelation that his girlfriend, and not even a slight exaggeration here, (I do have the tendency to do so) lives 10 doors down from me!!! Yes, we are practically neighbours. 10 doors down on the corner of a street corner parallel to my house. I remember feeling worried for the phoney when he left:
‘Are you sure you know where you’re going?’
‘Yeah, nice to meet you Chelsea,’ he replied, shutting the door behind him. I wonder if he was to walk 100 yards down the road to greet his girlfriend with New year's wishes. Leaving me with a scribbled digit too short mobile number. He isn’t the hero I made out in my last post but he's tactful, I’ll give him that. But I am keeping that tenner.

And I did wonder you know, why was this chap not with his girly on New Years? Perhaps they had had a bit of barney, he walked out and bumped in to little miss lose everything, and got a little ahead of himself. But I shouldn't waste my time thinking up  multiple scenarios in my head, the irony of me sharing a street with the girl made my head hurt enough. I think I learnt that fate and destiny are not necessarily a good thing.
How did I know we shared the same street you may wonder? Why the devil reincarnated as a social image sharing site of course. Instagram! More like Spinstagram I say. The way I’m going anyway. I swiped through the pictures on both his and hers. There was a house party that took place a few weekends after I’d met the little git and he had passed out in a wooden chair on the front patio. And I recognised that patio, and the window behind it. A house I have been walking passed for over a year on the way to work that I have always been slightly drawn to pre-Shannon. Perhaps because of the singer sewing machine in the window, the overfilled recycling bin (full of beer the happy couple probably drunk together) and also the inflatable snowman that I used to judge for still being inflated and on show way after Christmas 2014.

Since I uncovered such  revelation I have crossed paths with emo chick a few times, her having absolutely no idea who I am, just some strange girl who Skype's her mum while she walks and looks quite nervous. Emo chick is cute, in an old school emo way and I am quite bitter about how her fringe falls so perfectly above her eyebrows. I haven't seen him, thank cupid, but I am sure I will cross pavements with them soon, in the big but also very small city of Bristol.

I had a little sob/snigger to my mum in disbelief, but then thought - well he clearly isn’t the hero I thought he was if he’s accepting invites from drunken fools back to their place, after paying for their taxi and telling them they look like Florence from Florence and the machine (which I still cant work out as a compliment or not.)

I won’t ever know what went on in his mind - I have realised that too much went on in mind for a silly little drunken early morning fling. My stalkerish behaviour has lead me to uncover some quite questionable truths (DAMN SOCIAL MEDIA AND OVERACTIVE MINDS.) But at least I know now and I can throw away the little bit of paper with an almost illegible 1 digit short mobile number, knowing that, the chap was not ‘the one.’ Another man related lesson, in my continuous new gen men schooling, don't take everything as 'fate' and destiny,' rather a lesson to stop presuming every chap that is nice to you could be 'the one.'

New year, same me, but slightly wiser me....we will see.

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