Erm ... At least Betty got a number! Original Photo: TheTim/Flickr, moderated under CC license

I discovered the downside to business cards soon after I got my first one. Handing your card to someone, while seen by most people as a networking gesture, comes across to some as an invitation to swamp your phone or email inbox with flirty messages. Nevertheless, the guy I met last Saturday could really have done with a business card.

I was at one of the trendy pubs near Primrose Hill with my friend Patricia. She had dragged me out with a promise that she wouldn’t try to set me up with anybody, which was a welcome change after a week of failed set-ups, which my girlfriends had subjected me to after the unexpected breakup with Gustavo. So I got slightly suspicious when Patricia’s phone rang and she told the person at the other end which pub we were in. Her boyfriend, Pete, was in the neighbourhood with a friend, she said. What a “coincidence”.

It immediately became clear that Pete’s friend was somewhat of a character. He walked straight to our table, sat down next to Patricia and introduced himself as Shaun, while Pete was gone to the bar to get drinks. Shaun’s eyes were fixed on Patricia – he didn’t seem to notice me. He wore an unbuttoned yellow-and-red Hawaii shirt, with a blue UCL T-shirt underneath. His hair had been bleached a while ago, and the roots had grown out to make his hairdo just a little too long to look put together, but a little too short to be long in the sexy way. He turned his upper body 90 degrees to face Patricia as he leaned forwards and asked her what her name was. “I’m Patricia, and I’m Pete’s girlfriend!” she said and leaned backwards away from him.

He then did a reverse 90 degree turn and faced me across the table. His eyes looked at mine with such an intensity that I had to look away. He put his arm across the table, not quite far enough to touch me, but in a way that made me feel that he gave me all of his attention. “What’s your name?” He asked.

I felt uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure why. He was still staring. His eyes were brownish-green and half covered by his half-long, half-bleached hair, which he kept throwing back with a sudden sway of his head, only to look back at me with even more intensity. He asked me what I did for a living, how I knew Patricia, where I lived and a couple of other questions. At every answer I gave he nodded attentively and looked at me as if I was telling him the real location of the Holy Grail.

Creeped out by his gaze, and furious with Patricia for setting this up, I took my bag, excused myself and walked across the room to a table where a lone man was sitting. “Please play along with this,” I told him and gave him a hug and a cheek kiss. He looked startled and didn’t say anything. I sat down, made myself comfortable and started talking about my day. At the corner of my eyes I could see Shaun get up from his chair. He got closer, but stopped at one of the pillars in the middle of the room and stood still. I tried to concentrate on the guy in front of me, who was actually rather handsome and seemed to find my monologue funny.

Suddenly, my new, involuntary companion looked up behind me with an uncertain expression and a frown, almost like he was trying to apologise and look tough at the same time. Rather cute. Then I felt something land on my lap. A postcard. When I looked behind me, Shaun was on his way back to Patricia and Pete. The card was one of those free postcards you can help yourself to in pubs, with different designs on the front and some advertising at the back.

On the back of the postcard, he had scrawled some big, clumsy letters: “Betty, I think you look nice. I‘d like to get to know you better”. Underneath it he had written a phone number and signed it “Shaun”.

But the front of the postcard is what’s been keeping me awake at night. It was greenish black with a big, gothic-looking tombstone in the foreground, and the letters R.I.P on the stone. Readers, if you have experienced anything creepier than that, I’d really like to hear from you!

I’ve quite possibly just met my first axe-murderer! Or strangler. Or basement monster. I’ve spent a couple of nights imagining what kind of killer he is, but for sake of my own sanity I have decided to believe that he just didn’t think about the front of the card he chose. If he had thought that far, surely he would have picked the card right next to it with two vintage bikes on the front, or, perhaps the one in the bottom row with red hearts – just a thought.

So I haven’t exactly been resting in peace lately. I’m toying with the idea of calling the police. But Patricia says Pete has assured her that Shaun is alright – he is just “a bit different”. I told her to tell Pete to give Shaun proper business cards for his birthday.

Speaking of business cards, I made sure to leave one for the handsome stranger in the pub. It has no references to death, so hopefully he’ll drop me a line.

Read more from The First Pint, the international's guide to all that London offers.

Dancing or grinding? A night out's dilemma. Photo Credit: mangpages

You’re at a club scanning the crowd; the music sounds great, the beat is riding through the air causing you to bounce along with it. Tonight feels like an epic night. As you look down the bar you notice a really hot girl, you catch each other’s eyes and without a moment’s hesitation you walk over. Mustering your courage with each step, you make your way through the masses. Sometimes there are times when you feel bold enough to dance with a stranger and this is one of those nights.

You nod and signal that you should dance out on the floor, she agrees and you set off, holding hands. You don’t know where things are headed but this really chill person wants to dance, so for a little while the world seems to be on your side. As you both weave through the crowd of random gyrating couples, you start to get into the groove. But to your surprise she backs into you and like some sort of robot she starts to writhe methodically. You didn’t expect it - but who are you to deny this lovely lady from giving you an awesome standing lap dance?

So letting your libido get the best of you, you go along with it. Your ‘dancing’ continues to be the same with each song with a few variations such as ‘grind in center of dance floor’, ‘grind against wall’, and your personal favorite, ‘grind against other people grinding’. It hasn’t been too bad since the music has been constant but now the beat is changing and things are starting to look a little ridiculous. People are dancing wildly and having fun, but you’re still grinding – or rather, she’s still grinding on you. What’s the matter with this picture?

People are giving you weird looks and girls who might have danced with you earlier are definitely reconsidering their opinions. You whisper in her ear to make sure she’s not deaf, “Do you like this song?” She nods and continues re-enacting her favorite strip tease on your leg. You try a new approach, take charge and change the dance style: time to whip out the “funny/cute” dance moves. This causes her to turn around and give you a confused look.  “Why are you doing it like that?” she says.  “I’m just having fun,” you reply. “Don’t you want to dance?” she says while glaring at you. “At some point, that would be nice,” you blurt. After you say that, she’s pretty much done with you, leaving you wondering: when did grinding take the place of actual dancing?

Don’t get me wrong, grinding can have its place on some dance floors, but ladies and gents, grinding should never be your default dance move. You’ve got to be willing to try other things, don’t think all people want to do it, or even see it. Personally I believe dancing is supposed to be a way for two (consenting) adults to get a sense of each other’s rhythm, test each other’s sense of humor, or just have a moment. I, for one, think that dancing should be considered social foreplay, not actual foreplay. So next time you decide to get serious (or for some people, REALLY serious) on the dance floor, please do some of us a favor, try to keep it in a shady corner? Thanks.

Read more from The First Pint, the international's guide to all that London offers.

Dating in Web 3.0. Photo credit: Don Hankin/Flickr

I thought I was done with men. Between artists, businessmen and the Adonis who turned out to be gay I had pretty much thrown in the towel. But then one evening, while I should have been doing some work, I found myself browsing through a dating website.

I’ve never tried online dating before. A friend had told me about her experience and recommended a site. Without planning to I, in the most extreme form of procrastination I’ve ever indulged in, quickly wrote myself a glowing report and posted it along with my most flattering picture.

Then came the exciting part—seeing who added me to their ‘favourites’ and reading messages from potential suitors. I’ve been up there for a few days now and am relieved that a respectable number of gentlemen seem interested.

It’s an unusual experience. You can search for people who match the criteria you select (hot, not hot, kids, location) or you can just browse through profiles. It’s a bit like a social networking site—if you put someone on your favourites list they are notified and can check out your profile and favourite you back. So you can test the water before you take the plunge and email them directly.

I’ve received a few emails—mainly just short messages with ‘how you doin’-type openings. I’ve also received a couple of essays. One wrote me a long message telling me that he really enjoyed reading my profile. He then changed tack and said: “I pretty much decided to contact you on the strength of your photo.”

In the same tone but with a little more style I was sent this message: “Hello…and how lovely are you?! I was just browsing and you caught my eye.”

So far, I’m not exactly blown away. At the minute though I can’t reply to these messages properly because I haven’t signed up for a paid subscription. It’s free to join and browse (it sounds like shopping and it feels like shopping) but you can only communicate directly after you’ve become a paid up member.

There is a very attractive gentleman who has added me to his favourites and I would like to email him but I’m not sure if I’m ready to take the plunge. So now, dear readers, I am asking for your advice. Should I sign up to the website? Or should I buy myself the hot new shoes I have my eye on and rely on them to give my love life a kick up the ass? Answers on a postcard please (or a comment below).

Catch up with all of Betty’s observations on being Single in the Foreign City:
Bitter Betty goes speed dating
Bitter Betty and the Christmas conundrum
Bitter Betty and the ill-fated literary love
Bitter Betty and the perfect man

Read more from The First Pint, the international's guide to all that London offers.

You go into a bar feeling like a million bucks (or maybe it’s quid here in the UK). Casually gliding over to the bar and with your first drink in hand, you start scanning across the room. Then there she is, sitting in a booth across the bar, the love of your life, or at least the love of your night. You stop the scanning and hone in on your ‘target’.

The creepy stare. Photo credit: Braden Kowitz

Then out of nowhere, and without any warning, she looks back at you, and she even has a smile on her face. The situation just got real—how are you supposed to deal with that? All that confidence you had a second ago has started to waver and for a second all you can do is smile awkwardly and look away.

Don’t worry you think, you’re still good, she probably thought you were cute looking all embarrassed. But what now, you can’t just be cute, you have to act, be assertive, or at least do something. You realize you should have thought of an opener before going out tonight. You can’t just boost your ego by listening to James Brown and R. Kelly.

Do you just go up there and introduce yourself? No that’s too boring.

Do you send her a drink? Come on, show some originality.

Do you ask her to dance? Well that would be cool, if you had any moves sonny.

This is getting bad, confidence level at an all time low and you realise you’ve spent way too much time thinking about it.

You look back at her and she’s still smiling. Now you really have to do something about it, and you know she’s expecting you to. So you concentrate all your thoughts on the mission at hand. You’re in Zen mode and things start becoming clear. It’s simple, really; you just go over there and talk to the girl.

There’s only one detail that you neglected to take into account. As you entered Zen mode you forgot to take your eyes off her. So when all your thoughts disappeared into your head, leaving you with nothing but a vacant stare, that stare was directed at her. A stare is never cute.

As you regain your senses you see her leaning over to her friend and tell her something, a moment later her friend turns to examine you and you know it’s all downhill from here.

Well that’s that then really. You’ve might as well go home. You have now been labeled as a creep and there is simply no way you’re going to get rid of that, all because you didn’t show up prepared. You could go and try to get a number, but it’s not going to be hers.

Before signing off I would just like to tell all the girls who’ve been the victim of being ogled by some weirdo from across the room that most of us are actually pretty cool. Sorry for making you feel uncomfortable though.

Well anyway, there’s always next time.

Read more from The First Pint, the international's guide to all that London offers.

Not one but two ideal men Photo credit: Laverrue/Flickr

Forget everything about my married business man and my egocentric artist – I’ve reached a new high on the scale of unrealistic love interests.

I met him at a friend’s party a couple of nights ago. I was instantly charmed by his flirtatious smile and, well, equally pleased with his big, well-shaped upper arms. We laughed and joked and talked for about an hour, and he didn’t seem to take his eyes off me. Then, just as I thought I had nailed it, he gestured towards a man in a suit and said: “Let me introduce you to my boyfriend!”

It is difficult to pretend to be delighted to meet someone who has just ruined your new wedding plans, but I must admit the boyfriend was lovely. He entertained us with the story of how he met the man of my life at the local fire station where he works. Meanwhile, I drowned my disappointment in five cheese and pickle sandwiches that I wouldn’t otherwise have munched right next to two such fine examples of the male species.

Whilst listening to their love story, I kept smirking at the irony that the man of my dreams was gay. His alpha-male aura of testosterone made my ovaries beg to be fertilized.

I couldn’t believe it would never happen. Perhaps it just hadn’t occurred to me that he might be gay because there was nothing blatantly “gay” about him. But then, why should he be indicating a private matter like his sexuality in the way he dressed, talked or walked?

Why did I expect to be able to tell such things about people I’d only just met? Wouldn’t I personally be annoyed if someone thought they could detect my sexual preferences in the course of a party conversation? If they scanned me with their eyes and went “Oh, she’s one of those romantically deprived, try-sexual wannabe-bridezillas who thinks she’s got a chance with everyone who talks to her”. Of course I’d be annoyed.

I guess I’ve been one of those people who claim to be all open-minded and tolerant, yet tied up to my own prejudices of what I’m tolerant of. I think I deserve the irony. When I ended things with my artist, I partly blamed his flamboyant use of hairspray and the way I once saw him run around in his flat with his arms raised, causing his much too tight t-shirt to lift so you could see his waxed lower belly, whilst screaming at the top of his voice because he had found a mouse in his cupboard. Not “man enough” for me, I thought.

Now I’ve found the perfect man, and it turns out I’m the one who is not man enough for him.

Read more from The First Pint, the international's guide to all that London offers.

I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day

Read more from The First Pint, the international's guide to all that London offers.

A good friend of mine is multi-dating at the moment. She is seeing about four or five handsome twenty-somethings, all with interesting careers or promising interests, yet different enough for the two of us to spend lots of cafe-time comparing and contrasting them.

It’s like going fishing, she says. “You put out a lot of fishing rods, then you lean back in your chair with a beer and wait to see which one pulls first”.

This couldn’t be further from my reality. My latest dating disasters have been more about me trying to desperately catch the one fish that would never eat the bait. The bait keeps getting older, and the fish is appalled.

Of course, the staple advice from my friend in said cafe-sessions is that there are plenty of other fish in the sea. But where does one start?

Somehow, this friend managed to persuade me to start with a randomly selected range of twelve men at a speed-dating event in a champagne bar in Soho last week.

As she said, it’s better than wriggling your crotch up against twelve random guys in a grotty night club. Fair point.

So I went to the event, nervously clutching my third glass of pink house-champagne, waiting with sweaty palms and a sticker tagged “no.4” on my chest.

That turned out to be an unwise place for my sticker, as all my prospective dates began our four-minute schmooze in the dimly lit bar by squinting their eyes and thrusting their neck towards my left breast to get my details down before chatting to me.

After such an introduction, you don’t have many inhibitions.

At least that’s how I try to tell myself that I ended up telling one guy about my brief, lesbian affair in my second year of college. Realising that I wasn’t doing myself a favour, I changed strategy and started each conversation with the conventional “what do you do?”

Seemingly safe and easy topic, except most of the guys wouldn’t give me a straight answer. “Ah, you know, boring stuff… I just sit in an office looking at my computer screen, trading some foreign currency…”

Basically, they were all trying to tell me that they were investment bankers, without using the words “investment” and “banker”. Now, if my question wasn’t answered directly, at least I got an answer to another question: What sort of people go speed-dating?

With the female seats part occupied by me and my friends, it looked like a summit of the most hated kinds of desperate singles on the planet: Journalists and investment bankers.

At my level of desperation, one shouldn’t be picky. So I stayed for a while and spoke to one of the bankers, who came up to me after the event had finished.

He seemed nice enough, and we had a good laugh, until the moment I gracefully ruined it by pulling out my notebook. He had said something controversial that an aspiring journalist couldn’t possibly let slip. So I went all journo on him and managed to scare him away in less than three probing questions.

Needless to say he didn’t tick “yes” to “no.4” on his speed-dating sheet. Even the most despised singles don’t necessarily hit it off. I guess it’s back to the fishing rod.

Read more from The First Pint, the international's guide to all that London offers.