Rejection by proxy

I have a very caring mother. She lives in another country at present and so we communicate a great deal via the magic of texting. Sometimes this results in our texts arriving at inopportune times owing to phone companies being a bit useless. A few weeks back, at about nearly 1am, I got a text from the mothership telling me the following things:

She has a friend (nice!) in Chch, who has a son in Rotorua who is ... MY AGE and, oh, the poor chap, he's single.

I think you can guess where this is going. Now, the mothership never does this sort of thing, I suspect so we will never produce grandchildren who may give away the fact that although she looks about 35 she in fact might be a few years older. So blame can be laid squarely at the feet of her friend. At any rate, I text back saying 'Is this a set up?' and mother says it's not her fault and the young man will be in touch next time he's in Wellington.

He never does. This is rejection by proxy. Thanks, mum.

I can just imagine the conversation he's been having with his mum.

'You did what? Said I'd call some sad and pathetic single woman whose mother has to get her dates? I can totally get my own dates, thanks, mum.'

Moving right along ... we went to the All Whites match on Saturday night. Oren, J, Morgan and I painted ourselves up, wore some white, had a few drinks and marched off to the stadium. I think I should add that Morgan and I know very little about soccer and had no idea just how big a deal this match was until a day or two before. It was insane. Wellington went berserk. It was fucking ace, actually. We leapt about and shouted and generally had a spectacular time and wound up dancing round the pub after the match, and managed to convince several other people there that they should let us paint their faces. Full points to my flatmate, J, who was painting the face of a very hot girl, who obviously liked him but he was oblivious to this fact, to whom he said 'Hold on, I just have to finish painting your double chin'.