The new romantic type

Written by Lady O

I recognise that the fact friends choose not to share all their happy stories with me due to my terrible attitude towards romance but I just can't help it. This is no excuse, but although my sex life is usually pretty healthy, my romantic life has always been pretty disastrous; I've had a variety of short term relationships over the years, sometimes nice guys, sometimes bastards, always unsuitable.

And invariably those who I have high hopes for ditch me pretty early on in proceedings (don't worry - this isn't going to turn into a sob story, I'm merely giving some context as to why I'm so doubtful when it comes to romance). It just all seems a bit like a sickly fairy-story to me; the whole hearts and flowers thing.

Anyway, I've been trying to quell my cynicism for some time now and I do think I'm getting somewhere. I received flowers from a man for the first time ever, or to be more specific a red rose on Valentine's Day, and I must admit I rather liked it.

Although no great romance materialised with this man (I didn't really expect it to) I confess I thought it was a nice gesture and I spent the day content in the knowledge that someone had wanted to send a rose to me.

I think what I dislike about romance is the stereotypes: flowers, sunsets, moonlight kisses, love letters (I wrote one once but he never bothered to write one back and was cheating on me anyway). Although all these things are very nice, they just seem so generically 'romantic' that they aren't very romantic at all. The romance I've experienced felt more personal than all that.

I think the most romantic experience of my life was when I was in college and I had a brief fling with a guy who I admit was a total chav; a fake-Burberry-wearing, trackies-tucked-into-socks, cap-at-90-degree-angle-on-head chav. In my defence he was a cocky little shit and I find that kind of attractive. And he was funny.

OK, that's not much of a defence but I managed to justify it to myself. He asked me out on a date and so we went for an afternoon drinking session in his rather dubious local before going to get some chips. Walking back through the park with chips in hand, it began to snow and as my nose turned red from the cold he put his Reebok-clad arm round me.

As the snowflakes clung to my hair and we both sniffed loudly he turned to me and we kissed. The smell of Lynx engulfed me and the taste of his dirty old fags lingered in my mouth, but for some reason it made me rather weak at the knees, so much so that I dropped half my chips (I'm not a girl who wastes chips under most circumstances). He stepped back and looked deeply into my eyes before saying words that I'll never forget: "Fucking hell - I've got a well massive boner! Do you wanna have a shag in the men's toilets?"

Yeah, it ruined the moment ever so slightly but for some reason this instance stuck with me as being very romantic. Just for the record, I declined his offer in spite of the fact that "...it's not that grimy as long as you avoid the needles on the floor." Perhaps it was the fact that it was a moment so uniquely mine in terms of the sensory experience that surrounded it.

It wasn't romance from the movies or from books and it wasn't romance my friends had experienced (or appreciated as it happens) but it made me feel for a second like the heroine in my own slightly off-beat romance, or in a Mills and Boon book (if Jade Goody wrote Mills and Boon books).

So if you ever want to romance me and sweep me off my feet then here's my advice; dispense with the stereotypes, ignore what Hollywood tells you and let's find our own romance in our own unlikely moments.

Just please don't wear Lynx.

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