Actually, I only have one confession regarding my first month in London. I’m shamelessly honest on this blog in general, so I’m not sure this entry is part one of a series, or part one of one. But here goes:
I have, in fact, been on a date since I arrived here. Two weeks ago, in fact. Boy and I met on that epic vodka bar night and went out two days later.
I believe my intimidating use of words like “disconcerting” and “serendipitous” partially contributed to a lack of follow-up phone call, as did my awesomely loud American nature and inability to allow for more than thirty seconds of silence. I cannot possibly date anyone who doesn’t find me charmingly gregarious and doesn’t have a Facebook account, anyway. I still thought you should know. I’m also recording the event for posterity’s sake and, admittedly, bragging rights.
Why, you ask, do I deserve to brag? Because I went on a date with a royal guard. The kind who stands around wearing a bear hat and red coat, not smiling and protecting the Queen of England.
So yeah, you might say I’m proud of myself. If going on a date with a royal guard is not an authentic English experience, I don’t know what is.