by Vivienne Pratfall on plans that fell apart, a man who didn’t call back, and finding the funny side anyway
Started the week with a plan. Ended the week with absolutely none of that plan intact, and honestly, a rather good story instead, which is usually how these things go for me if I’m being properly honest about it.
The Date That Wasn’t, Sort Of
Met someone Tuesday who seemed genuinely promising for approximately forty minutes before revealing, with no apparent self-awareness whatsoever, that he still lived with his ex “for financial reasons, purely.” I nodded along, finished my drink at a pace that could generously be described as efficient, and left with a story I’ve now told four separate times to increasingly appreciative audiences. Some dates are for romance. Some dates are simply for material, and this one, generously, provided plenty.
Read londonish.uk’s latest piece on the city’s dating scene over breakfast the next morning, laughing far too loudly for a café at nine in the morning, genuinely startling the barista, who has, at this point, seen me in worse states over worse mornings.
The Rest Of The Week, In Brief
Work went sideways in a way I won’t fully detail here, mostly involving a deadline that moved twice and a client who apparently believes emails sent at eleven at night deserve responses before breakfast. I did not respond before breakfast. I responded, generously, before lunch, which felt like a personal triumph of boundary-setting I intend to remain proud of for at least the next week.
Checked NewsThump on the tube home, which remains one of the few reliable ways I know to turn a genuinely bad day into a mildly amusing one by the time I reach my stop.
Ending On A High, Somehow
Friday redeemed the entire week almost single-handedly, a proper night out with genuinely good friends, the kind where you laugh until your face actually hurts and completely forget, for several consecutive hours, about every disappointing man and moved deadline from earlier in the week. That’s London, really, in one messy, unpredictable sentence. It rarely goes to plan, and somehow, more often than not, it’s better for it.
Wednesday’s Minor Disaster, Handled With Dignity
Locked myself out of the flat Wednesday morning, standing on the pavement in yesterday’s clothes, phone at four percent battery, genuinely questioning several major life choices while my neighbour, bless her, let me sit in her kitchen and charge my phone enough to actually call a locksmith. Cost me sixty pounds and roughly two hours of my morning, and I’ve already decided this counts as this month’s mandatory chaos quota fulfilled, hopefully meaning the rest of the month proceeds with slightly more competence on my part.
Told the story to my group chat, who responded with exactly the mixture of sympathy and mockery I’ve come to expect and, honestly, rather appreciate from people who’ve known me long enough to find my chaos genuinely endearing rather than alarming at this point.
Thursday, A Genuine Bright Spot
Caught up with an old university friend I hadn’t seen in nearly two years, the kind of catch-up that starts slightly awkward and within twenty minutes feels like no time has passed at all. We talked for three hours over what was meant to be a quick coffee, covering everything from her recent career change to my ongoing, deeply unserious quest to find a man who doesn’t still technically live with his ex for “financial reasons.” She laughed properly at that one, the good kind of laugh, and I remembered how much I’d genuinely missed her specific sense of humour.
These are the weeks that remind me why I stay in this exhausting, expensive, chaotic city despite every rational argument for leaving. It’s the people, mostly, the ones who show up for a quick coffee and stay three hours, who let you charge your phone when you’ve locked yourself out at eight in the morning, who find your disasters funny rather than concerning. That’s worth the rent, most months anyway.
Friday Night, Properly Earned
Writing this Saturday morning, slightly worse for wear but genuinely content, already looking forward to whatever chaos next week inevitably brings. If this week taught me anything, it’s that the disasters make for better stories than the smooth weeks ever do, and honestly, I’ve made peace with that trade entirely.
Onward to whatever chaos next week brings. I wouldn’t have it any other way, genuinely.
A Postscript
My mother called Saturday morning to ask how my week had been. I gave her the abbreviated version. She laughed exactly as hard as my friends had, which felt like confirmation that some things really do transcend generational gaps entirely.
Some things really do transcend generational gaps entirely, apparently, disastrous dating stories chief among them.
Chaos and all, this city keeps finding ways to make itself worth staying in.
Roll on next week, whatever it decides to throw at me this time.
Bring it on.
One More Thing
Forgot to mention, the locksmith gave me his card “just in case,” which either means he thinks I’m a repeat offender in the making or he’s simply good at business. Possibly both.
Kept the card anyway.
Never know.
