A Message from the Universe

I am back in Belfast after a long weekend in London, indulging in the following: attending a hen night; putting the world to rights (and watching an obscure German film) with my friend Marty; catching up with the girls (of which more anon). I flew back from Stansted on Tuesday afternoon. The queue in check-in was atrociously long, and the queue through to the x-ray machines nearly as bad. When I finally made it through, I had merely five minutes to smoke a cig and buy a nice bag at ted baker before hurrying to my gate. When I arrived, stressed and exhausted at my gate, I saw that a chair was free, but covered in coats, bags etc. I asked the young boy sat next to this free chair if he could move his stuff, and he obliged. "Blimy," I said to him, "wasn't that an atrocious wait?" This boy then explained that as he had been out clubbing at G.A.Y. the night before, and had drunk "at least seven" cocktails, before being seduced by the (gasp! black!) night porter at his hotel - the first time he'd had a black man, and, he confided, he'd loved it - something about London "makes you feel dirty" he announced - he'd missed his earlier flight and had been hanging round the airport for hours. Basically, he was a cute, funny, ginger haired gay boy, and we enjoyed camply imitating the air stewards while waiting to board the plane, and making stupid jokes about how high and fast Sleazyjet might take us. When we finally boarded cute ginger gay boy grabbed my hand and asked if I'd sit next to him, as he was scared of flying, and I was "a lovely person who he'd eat up if he wasn't gay" (in fact, I would eat him up, but that's immaterial). I thought of my book in my bag that I was dying to read. I thought of the fact that on flights my ears block and I can never hear anything anyway. And then I thought oh sod it, and plonked myself next to him. He began to excitedly look through the in-flight magazine asking me what perfume I wore.
Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. A tall, dark-haired man asked me if I minded if he sat next to me. He sprawled his madly long legs over the chair, and sat reading his Times. We did up our seatbelts, and cute ginger gay boy asked me if I'd ever taken Valium - he said I seemed like the type!!! c.g. gay boy lent over me to chat to tall man. "Sorry we're giggling," he said, "I'm a little nervous. " Tall man looked up from his Times. "Not at all, not at all." Then he turned to me, and asked why I was visiting Belfast. I told him he should be broad minded enough to not be fooled by the accent, and that actually I lived in Belfast. "Really?" he smiled. We began to chat about where we like to go out in Belfast, my job, his job, London and how ineffably cool it is, and then the drinks trolley came out. Tall man nudged me - "Let me buy you a drink". As I sipped my gin and tonic, cute ginger gay boy nudged my other elbow. "You're good," he said, awe struck. "You're getting a new boyfriend, aren't you?" "What's that?" asked tall man. "Are you going to marry her?" asked cute ginger gay boy. "Oh yes" said tall man, "and we'll invite Stelios to the ceremony". I said that I thought if you got married after meeting on an Easyjet flight, you should be entitled to free flights with speedy boarding for life. "So, F", said tall man, "do you drive?" "No", I admitted. "Oh, let me give you a lift back from the airport then, it's no hassle."
We carried on chatting/flirting.
Once we disembark off the plane, and are stood waiting for our bags, I appraise tall man. V V tall, about 6ft 4. Cute dark hair and dark eyes. Young (in fact, exactly one month younger than me, I found out). Good accent - Belfast, but softened by a few years in Dublin. Slim. Great jeans. (He does all his clothes shopping at Selfridges in London).

We made our way to the long stay car park. Then he showed me his car. I was expecting a Renault Clio, or a Ford Focus. No, it was a massive fuck off Saab with cream leather seats, and a woman who told you off if you weren't wearing your seatbelt. Tall man (maybe massive Saab man now?) carried on chatting away, and we got into a good conversation about Tony Blair, and whether or not he is sincere, or just a bloody good actor. Maybe it was the gin and tonic, or the cream leather, but I was getting good vibes -the best I've had in ages.

As we turned onto Stranmillis Embankment, tall man said, "So, F, you have to give me your number so we can meet up. I've got a bunch of great mates I'd like you to meet." "Sure," I said. He drew up outside my house. "So, what's your number then?" he asked. I gave him my number. "What's your surname?" he asked. "Really, do you have to know?"I said. "It's really strange and embarrassing." I told him, and he laughed. "And no, I don't know what it means, or where it comes from," I added. "Well, I'm not going to forget you now," he laughed. "I'm out on Saturday for my birthday," I said, "give me a buzz then, and we'll see if we can all meet up." He rang my phone, so I had his number. I got out of the car, thanked him for the lift, and shook his hand. He drove off, bipping his horn as he left.

Oh God. Does he like me? What about the mates thing? Is it a mere friendly thing, or is it more???

Anyway, whatever, the universe has sent me a message. I'm not that interested in older man, and more is out there, waiting on Easyjet flights. Thank God for the low cost flight revolution.