—3—
A Train of Thought
I was standing in a train carriage, clinging to a (I hope that’s not human residue) moist handrail and a worn copy of Persuasion. There was a man sitting opposite me playing a ukulele, wearing only a pair of green briefs and a top hat (to keep it classy). I could hear a distant banging in the background. Bang. Bang. Bang. You’ve. Hit. Rock. Bottom. It seemed to taunt.
What am I doing here, in this vast, open, new-to-me world of the blog, you’d like to know? After accidentally kissing – ahem, molesting – a stranger’s nose at my place of work, I have been forced to seek alternative methods of finding a mate. So, I hopped aboard the 5.42pm to Alamein, armed with a good book and just a shred less self-respect. My plan? Use my deeply judgemental bookish self (because let’s be honest, we do actually judge books by their covers) to sift through the bad boys, the bad-in-beds and the bad readers. Using the heroic and hopelessly romantic words of some of my favourite novels, I am determined to find a half-decent-looking man who makes me laugh and is capable of sitting through an entire dinner party without using phrases like ‘ROFLMAO’ and ‘That’s what she said’. Surely I’m not asking too much?
So, after surreptitiously raiding the shelves at the bookstore at which I work (#kleptomaniac #shelfie #bestbossever) and taking just a few from my personal collection, I flipped to the seventh-last page of each one and scribbled the following:
You have great taste in books. Fancy a date? Email me, Scarlett O’ x [email protected]
Over the next few weeks I will stealthily ninja said books (everything from Atkinson to Zafón) on various train and tram services travelling in and out of the city. My hope? For a man to find one, read it, and be so deeply and irrevocably moved by the words (because he has superb taste in books, is obviously intelligent and has his shit together) that he is compelled to contact me. We shall then hit it off. Date for a few months. Move in together. Get married. And before you can say Fitzwilliam Darcy, live happily ever after with three kids, two Dalmatians and an American walnut veneer bookshelf, of course.
Now, I know what you’re thinking … Does this woman not have a shred of dignity? What about feminism? Her concern for privacy and security? Does she realise that her life’s worth is not measured by the man in it?
I’ll admit it: I’m lonely. I haven’t had sex in too many months to count, and the last time another human being held me, really held me, was when I tripped entering a 7-Eleven at 11.40pm to collect a second bucket of Ben & Jerry’s. Don’t get me wrong, it’s okay to want more than the warmth of a stranger late at night. But in actual fact, I’m willing to open myself up to you (whoever and wherever you are) because I need to find a way to bridge ‘the gap’ (as my best friend so eloquently terms it) that I put between myself and other people, and just take a punt at life, and love. I need to get over my desperate fear of failure and put pen to paper again, and maybe along the way I can find the man of my (fictional) dreams.
Oh, and the other thing you must be wondering is: HOW COULD YOU PART WITH YOUR BOOKS?! For that, I have nothing. It’s the single flaw in the plan.
It’s been four days since I released Persuasion to the rails. Tomorrow I’ll put The Goldfinch out there, and the day after that, Catch-22. And all the while I will obsessively refresh my browser until something either expected or (I hope) unexpected comes of this strange social experiment. All notable correspondence and dates will be documented here.
To protect my identity, and by that I mean to prevent my mother from tracking this down, over the next few months you’ll come to know me as Scarlett O’ – the woman whose sanity has Gone with the Wind.
Until next time, my dears.
After all, tomorrow is another date.
Scarlett O’ xx
Leave a comment (3)
Cat in the Hat > I’d date you. Now get over here already so we can watch Outlander.
No offence but … > Going to all this effort to find a man? As an independent woman, this does strike me as slightly anti-feminist.
Stephen Prince > @Nooffencebut … I think you need to Google the definition of feminism. Scarlett O’, you’re my queen.