Lederhosen Me Not Into Temptation.

Last night myself and a friend decided to hit the town. The weather being so clement, we settled on Canary Wharf as our destination of choice. Anyone who has been reading my blog for a while will know that I'm rather partial to a man in a suit. Last night was less a few drinks after work and more an impromptu City festival, less wellies and cider. Not even a rogue bankers National scandal can put them off their Bollinger and the city was heaving like the lovestruck breast of a Latino waitress.

I was delighted to find that the ratio of men to women was hugely disproportionate. Meaning that, not only was the eye candy rich and plentiful but the chances of being chatted up where greatly improved. Make no mistake, I don’t presume on pulling, just conclude that a woman who can’t pull in a square mile full of drunk city boys needs to reassess her make-up technique. 

I felt positively transgender compared to most of the waif-like 21 year old secretaries sipping on their mojitos and still managed it. Trust me, confused as to where all the men have gone? Wonder no more. 

Myself and said friend found ourselves chatting to a group of men. Amongst them, a rather dashing young German. More bizarrely still he turned out to have a personality. I jest, of course. Who could mock a country that bought us Boris Becker, a man capable of impregnating a woman in a broom cupboard? Move over Andy Peters. 

As way of comfort, after his sporting lose last night, I saw it only right, as a representative of our fair land, to see he didn’t end his night without a good old English snog. Us Brits may not know how to make decent Sauerkraut but, boy, are we fine tuned in the art of drinking far too much cheap wine and kissing men we’ve never met before. I can’t imagine where we get our reputation?

Turns out the man who has no name was rather a snog demon himself and we spent a good hour ‘getting off’ with each other in the middle of the bar, as all self respecting 35 year olds do. 

I left at midnight and woke up to five unknown missed calls, which was either my new Germanic amour or my dental hygienist who, if I didn’t know better, would say has started stalking me. Enough already, I'm flossing! I digress ...

A most excellent snog and a follow up phone call (or five), how very refreshing. He was charming, considerate and, I'd wager, an absolute tiger between the sheets; and German, would have known it. 

As way of research after my revelation I googled some background information on last nights man. Given that I didn’t have his name to hand (but a minor detail) I thought ‘German men’ should cover it. I was delighted to find a list of personality traits one is most likely to find a German man to have. 

The list included being shy, responsible and serious. Woohoo. 

It also states that, ‘In Germany a man can be passionately in love with you for years and have absolutely no idea.’

Excellent, who needs flowers and a ring on your finger when you’ve got a thorough knowledge of road safety and four hour nightly conversation about the strength of the Euro.

'In general don’t expect a wild, spontaneous night out with a German man. Instead, look forward to a walk, a film or a coffee in his apartment. Be his friend first and let him get to know you. It is unlikely he will approach you first, but don’t worry, this does not mean he doesn’t like you.’

And there you have it. I’m not clear if the author intended to write in the style of the subject but I'm disappointed to report the review did little to conjure up my enthusiasm for our European neighbours. I’m as tired of English men as the next 35 year old on Match.com but shy and responsible? Total unawareness of any human emotion? Coffee? 

I have chosen to ignore the list and remember the advice I was given when pregnant. Googling information will only lead to fear and confusion and, most often, give you the worst case scenario. 

Anyway, who could write off a country who's national dish is a sausage?

Trust me, I know how to choose my men.