My Mumbling Thoughts

A couple of weeks ago, I went over to my friend's flat to watch the Hatton/Mayweather boxing match. I'm not that big into boxing, but I figured I'd go seeing as they always come to our flat whenever we put something on. It only seemed fair that I went over to their place once in a while.

The match wasn't going to be showing until 4am UK time, but there was supposed to be a party beforehand. Zoe, Carlene and myself decided that we'd go to the pre-party, but once it was game time we'd duck out because boxing really isn't our thing.

When we arrived at midnight, we thought we were late. It turns out that only Ryan, Dave, Khalida and Naomi were there, hanging out eating pizza and watching other boxing matches that were showing before the main event. We were actually early. Who knew?

We claimed our seats on the couch and had chats with everyone until the other guests arrived.

Slowly, but surely, the tiny lounge began to fill up with people I had never met before. I didn't realize that this was going to be such a huge thing. I was halfway tempted to stay a little while longer, but I was stone cold sober and had work the next morning. It wasn't going to air until 4am, and was I really willing to stay up so late when I was shattered from the night before?

Well, I wasn't going to stay until a whole load of footballer's arrived.

On my campus (Digby!), our football team is the Digby Lions. It's just like any school really; they're the popular ones, the ones that all the girls want to be with, all the guys want to be. They're known for their reputations and can easily have any girl that they want (and usually do). I don't "hang out" with them per se, but I do know some of them and they seem like okay guys, even though most of them are man whores.

But there is one that I have quite taken to. I might have a teeny tiny crush on. Small. Microscopic even.

Swindon. *swoon*

On this particular evening when I was nursing a diet Coke, I was sat in between Dave on my left, and Swindon on my right. The lounge was packed full of people (mostly guys), and there I was, this tiny American who had no idea what was going on and was sat next to a really fit guy, who was lovely and said I could have a nap on his shoulder if I wanted.

I didn't. But now that I think about it, I should have.

He explained to me why this was such a huge match in boxing history, seeing as both boxers were undefeated. Ricky Hatton, who is from the UK was the underdog that everyone was pulling for, and Mayweather was the cocky American that everyone in the room loathed. When he asked me who I was supporting, I told him I didn't really know. I should support Mayweather, being American and all, but he sounded like a dick, so I was probably going to go with Hatton.

Well, the night ended and Hatton lost (boo), but I had found a new crush (woo!). It was nice. It had been ages since I've had a proper crush. One that made me feel gooey in the knees, and made me want to pass him a note saying, "do you like me too? Check yes or no."

I didn't really do anything after that night except perv on him whenever I saw him out and about. I decided that we would never work out. He is a footballer after all, and I am a mere mortal. He could have any girl on campus (and he does have quite a fan club of pretty girls that always seem to be surrounding him), and what are the actual chances of that girl being me? I'm thinking slim to none.

But this past Tuesday, something happened. There was some kind of shift in the universe and somehow, some way, I was thrown a bone.

Every year, we have this thing called the Digby Player's Auction. It is exactly what it says. All of our dear footballer's hop on stage at the Belfry bar, strut their stuff, and us folks down in the audience place our bids until the person willing to pay the most walks away with their lion of choice.

This past Tuesday, I bought Swindon.

I wasn't exactly planning on it, but it sort of just happened. I didn't want to bid, but everyone knows I've had a crush on him since that night. There they were, all of my flatmates surrounding me in the front, slinging my arm up for me, raising their hands and then pointing to me, saying that it was for me, and the whole time I'm just stood there, mortified, not knowing what to do. I actually thought that somebody had placed a higher bid than me, so I was genuinely shocked when Gary (our Digby president) pointed at me shouting, "SOLD!" into his microphone.

The price of my footballer? £83. The look on my face? Priceless.

Swindon was lovely, hopping off the stage, coming down and picking me up, swinging me from side-to-side saying, "Thank you! You saved me! You saved me!" What that meant exactly, I'm not sure, but I'm thinking at least he wasn't up there crying because I happened to be the one who bid the highest. And afterwards, as I was heading out to have a cigarette (because my knees were beyond gooey after that) he stopped me, gave me a hug and said in my ear, "this is going to be the best date you've ever been on!"

Oh dear. A date. I forgot that came with the deal. They have to take you out on a date and pay for everything. A date. Where you sit down, generally eat food, have drinks and make conversation? What was I thinking?! I don't do dates. I'm not a date girl. I can't even remember the last time I've been on a date! I skip all of that stuff and usually just get plastered, have one night stands, and then quickly forget they exist afterwards.

Since then, I've been freaking out so to speak. The date is next Thursday, giving me a week to find a hot outfit, get my hair done and get rid of this cough that has been clinging onto my lungs for the past month and a half. Because hacking up a lung on the dinner table probably isn't the most attractive quality that guys go for. It's just a guess.

I've decided to quit smoking (to help with the cough) until Thursday, and all of my lot have decided that I'm going to eat a lot to soak up the very little alcohol that I'll be consuming. Yeah, I'm not allowed to drink as much as I usually do, which is probably the safest thing for me. The last thing I want is for my drunk alter ego, Sharon, to emerge and make it so I seal myself in my room the next day.

The nerves are a jingling a bit. My mind is working in overdrive. I feel like a stupid school girl.

But now I'll be able to say that I went out on a date with Swindon. And no matter how much of a stupid, nervous, mental school girl I feel like, I can't help myself from smiling just a little bit.