I often wonder if some people head home after a long days toil and spend their evenings whipping themselves and pulling out their toenails with tweezers. I’m truly convinced that certain horse-arsed people enjoy punishing themselves.

In the office of my day job (in between the times I’m flying over rooftops clad in a Lycra catsuit saving puppies from burning building etc) I sit opposite a particular girl and I would swear that she enjoys making life difficult for herself. Every morning I have to listen to her tales of romantic woe. It’s one disaster after the other. And why? Because she’s nuts! Subconsciously this woman doesn’t want to meet anyone. Well she can’t do, not to do the things she does.

Recently she decided she didn’t like a guy because he asked her on a date to a rugby match.

Exactly. So what?

Well our moronic woman in question disapproves of rugby; she considers it dull and overly aggressive. So she took his invitation as a personal insult. She thought he was insinuating she was masculine. Idiot. Any normal person would think ‘Well I don’t really fancy that, so I will either A) suggest something else or B) go along because he has been kind enough to invite me and you never know, doing something different could be fun’. But not our girl, no no. It was out with the mobile phone and a curt call to tell him “No way pal” and never to contact her again. Harsh!

I don’t think this lady is alone however. I think that at a certain point we become a little set in our ways. We become less willing to bend.

In many ways this is not a bad thing. All the lunacy that we were prepared to put up with when we were teenagers (in my case the unwashed clothes, lack of money, personality or intelligence just as long as they were cool) becomes a definite no no. But after a couple of bad eggs it is possible to start looking for any teeny tiny problem and use it as an excuse to discount a person. Like the proverbial bear, honey, and door, this is a trap best avoided.

I am not necessarily the most tolerant person, but when I am online, chatting away with a fit guy and he mentions that his hero is John Major, or perhaps that he enjoys tap-dancing, I force myself to ignore it and move on with the conversation. After all, I’ve been known to enjoy the odd game of scrabble in my time and I even have a signed picture of Michael Bolton knocking around somewhere. So clearly, not one of us, (even me!) could be considered absolutely 100% perfect.

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