Men.
Haven't talked about them for a while. Maybe because there wasn't much to talk about.
What I thought was a secure and happy relationship ended horribly in January, nearly a year ago. Even though he was still bothering me at the start of the summer. Hell, I even got a bunch of flowers from him, while I was in hospital, as if he was still trying to prove that he was a 'nice guy'. Not to mention the reason why I was in a car wreck in the first place was because I wanted a weekend at home where he couldn't bother me.
I have had a couple of dates since our breakup, but nothing substantial. Most were ended with 'But you are going away, is there much point?', and one date ended terribly when the Ex walked through the door of the pub I was in, deliberately sat behind me and made faces at my poor date all night. And throughout the summer I wasn't really up for 'dating'; I just spend my time concentrating on becoming physically and emotionally fit for my time abroad.
And now the men in Corsica. They are gorgeous. And they know it. And all the girls here are as thin as rakes. If you want to feel better about the way you look, do NOT come to this island. But nevertheless (great word, should be used more) I met one. Let's call him Frenchman. And he seemed genuinely interested in me. Hurrah! I thought.
I went to the pub a few times with Frenchman, saw a few live band, and we even met up in the French half term when I went to Nice for a few days with a friend (he is from there originally) and it was great. So last week after my adventures on a horse, he came and picked me up, took me back to his apartment in the next town, where he had prepared this amazing chili con carne, which is always a winner, and I stayed overnight.
The next morning, we were sitting down with our croissants (of course) when there is a knock at the door. He opened it, and in walked his girlfriend, 'surprising' him as a romantic gesture.
She turned on me.
'Who is she?' She shouted at Frenchman.
'She is my friend,' said Frenchman. 'She came by for breakfast. She is an Erasmus Student that I look after.'
I have never been so horrified by anything in my entire life. He didn't even make eye contact with me, and he just expected me to lie for him as well.
She believed him.
The worst of it is, he had to drive me home, and she still believed him. It is a forty minute round trip, so there was definately no possibilty of me 'popping around' especially at 10am on a Saturday. The car journey was a silent one.
When I confronted his friends later about it, they were shocked as he had seemingly never mentioned her existance.
Even worse, last night I got absolutely rat-arsed and went home with an Italian man, another man who I later find out has a girlfriend.
I have moved from being cheated on, to being the other woman. And I don't like it.
Roll on Christmas.
The only two men I'm trusting from now on: Daddy and Santa.
Saturday 24 November 2007
Friday 16 November 2007
post thirty-two: horse, part two
So there I was; sat on a horse inches away from a river, preparing to get wet.
I should explain about Corsican rivers. Throughout the summer they are completely dry, and throughout the winter they are mostly made up of melted snow and ice that flows down from all the mountains. The riverbed, therefore, is made up of very large and slippery rocks, and the water is literally only just above freezing temperature.
Mobi went into reverse, and started to back away. Obviously he didn't want to get wet either.
'Allez, Jim!' cried the instructor.
'Allez, Jim!' cried the other French Students.
'Come the fuck on, Gemma!' yelled the German Flatmate.
I urged him on. He turned his head and started nibbling my trainers. Great. I kicked him. He took a step forward. I kicked him again. He took another step forward.
Several minutes later, we are back at the edge of the river.
'Allez Mobi,' I said, and he took his first step into the icy water. The other students burst into applause from the other side of the river.
'Fuck you all,' I said. My German Flatmate is the only one who understood.
A moment later, I was in the middle of this river. Mobi stumbled and slipped over the rocks under his hooves. I lost my balance and ended up with my arms around his neck. He turned his head around and eyed me suspiciously. Then his whole body followed. He was going back the way we came.
'Wrong way! Wrong way!'
'I know!'
I eventually took control, and crossed the river without any further hitches.
And then the heavens opened, and I got soaked anyway.
I should explain about Corsican rivers. Throughout the summer they are completely dry, and throughout the winter they are mostly made up of melted snow and ice that flows down from all the mountains. The riverbed, therefore, is made up of very large and slippery rocks, and the water is literally only just above freezing temperature.
Mobi went into reverse, and started to back away. Obviously he didn't want to get wet either.
'Allez, Jim!' cried the instructor.
'Allez, Jim!' cried the other French Students.
'Come the fuck on, Gemma!' yelled the German Flatmate.
I urged him on. He turned his head and started nibbling my trainers. Great. I kicked him. He took a step forward. I kicked him again. He took another step forward.
Several minutes later, we are back at the edge of the river.
'Allez Mobi,' I said, and he took his first step into the icy water. The other students burst into applause from the other side of the river.
'Fuck you all,' I said. My German Flatmate is the only one who understood.
A moment later, I was in the middle of this river. Mobi stumbled and slipped over the rocks under his hooves. I lost my balance and ended up with my arms around his neck. He turned his head around and eyed me suspiciously. Then his whole body followed. He was going back the way we came.
'Wrong way! Wrong way!'
'I know!'
I eventually took control, and crossed the river without any further hitches.
And then the heavens opened, and I got soaked anyway.
Tuesday 13 November 2007
post thirty-one: horse
Last Friday, I got on a horse for the first time in about, well, nearly twenty one years.
My German flatmate, who is a riding instructor back in Germany at the weekends, managed to persuade to go with her to a local stable with a group of her friends, only one of whom I had met before. Reluctantly agreeing, I found myself sandwiched in between two people in the back of a Peugeot on the way to Omassa, a village not far from Corte. Chatting away happily in a language that I should really be fluent in by now, I managed to work out that I wasn't the only beginner; in fact, my German flatmate was the only person who had actually been anywhere near a horse.
So, we arrived at the stables. A woman met us, introduced us to some horses that were in the stable block, and then proceeded to tell us that all of the horses that we would be riding were in a field. Twenty minutes walk away.
An hour and a half later, we returned to the main stable area, having had to bribe the bloody animals with bits of whatever we had in our pockets. My horse, aptly named 'Mobidic' (and he literally was the size of a whale) was also stopping to eat the grass along the way.
We groomed them and I even managed to put the saddle on without too much trouble. I did have a slight panic attack over the bridle ('You want me to put my fingers where?!!') but we managed to get them into the little sandy arena without too much more effort.
Them came the next challenge: we had to mount the buggers. My flatmate and two others managed to get on theirs without a hassle: I had a major problem. Not only did I have the largest and fattest carthorse ever, I also am a bit restricted in my leg movements ever since I got pulled out a great lump of metal that used to be my car. After a few (French) words of encouragement, and several leg-ups, I managed to get on Mobi. My legs by this point, having run around a field with a halter as well, were feeling the stretch.
We trotted around the menage for a bit, getting used to the feel of our horses. Mobi seemed only to have two speeds; Dead Slow, and Stop. The cries of 'Allez, Jim!' (The French just cannot pronounce my name, so I'm either Jim or Jamaica). Then came crunch time: We were taken on a 'balade': or a 'hack' in English. Bearing in mind that I can just about scrape by in everyday French, trying to understand how to ride a horse through water without it rolling over with proving to be more difficult...
My German flatmate, who is a riding instructor back in Germany at the weekends, managed to persuade to go with her to a local stable with a group of her friends, only one of whom I had met before. Reluctantly agreeing, I found myself sandwiched in between two people in the back of a Peugeot on the way to Omassa, a village not far from Corte. Chatting away happily in a language that I should really be fluent in by now, I managed to work out that I wasn't the only beginner; in fact, my German flatmate was the only person who had actually been anywhere near a horse.
So, we arrived at the stables. A woman met us, introduced us to some horses that were in the stable block, and then proceeded to tell us that all of the horses that we would be riding were in a field. Twenty minutes walk away.
An hour and a half later, we returned to the main stable area, having had to bribe the bloody animals with bits of whatever we had in our pockets. My horse, aptly named 'Mobidic' (and he literally was the size of a whale) was also stopping to eat the grass along the way.
We groomed them and I even managed to put the saddle on without too much trouble. I did have a slight panic attack over the bridle ('You want me to put my fingers where?!!') but we managed to get them into the little sandy arena without too much more effort.
Them came the next challenge: we had to mount the buggers. My flatmate and two others managed to get on theirs without a hassle: I had a major problem. Not only did I have the largest and fattest carthorse ever, I also am a bit restricted in my leg movements ever since I got pulled out a great lump of metal that used to be my car. After a few (French) words of encouragement, and several leg-ups, I managed to get on Mobi. My legs by this point, having run around a field with a halter as well, were feeling the stretch.
We trotted around the menage for a bit, getting used to the feel of our horses. Mobi seemed only to have two speeds; Dead Slow, and Stop. The cries of 'Allez, Jim!' (The French just cannot pronounce my name, so I'm either Jim or Jamaica). Then came crunch time: We were taken on a 'balade': or a 'hack' in English. Bearing in mind that I can just about scrape by in everyday French, trying to understand how to ride a horse through water without it rolling over with proving to be more difficult...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
