The preamble: a few messages and a facebook add. The venue: A wine bar in Charing Cross. The outfit: an all-black ensemble decided upon after numerous freak-outs and frantic picture messages to friends. The evening arrived, and I began the long process of getting ready (it usually takes 20 minutes, but in situations such as this must be drawn out to at LEAST an hour and a half, to achieve almost invariably the same effect.) Confession time. I MAY have had a glass of wine whilst this process was taking place. Not enough to make me do my make-up like a transvestite, but what I thought would be enough to work as a helping hand in making me relaxed and open. I fretted my way to the venue, working out my timing to arrive at 7.35, when I received a text message from Sam (25, restaurant manager, a sarcastic but funny profile) saying he was ‘so, so sorry’, but he was going to be at least 15 minutes late. Transport issues, apparently. I was instructed to get seated, get myself a glass of wine and await profuse apologies and reimbursement. Little did he know that this would be my second drink of the evening, and that I’m not a regular wine drinker. Whilst I tried to keep tabs on how flushed I was getting in the CAVE of a wine bar he had selected, I sipped my rose as slowly as possible, hoping that when he arrived he’d think I was open and bubbly, when really I was just slightly pissed.
As soon as he arrived ALL focus moved from self-appraisal/loathing to judgement. I won’t beat around the bush. My immediate thought was ‘well, he’s not the 6ft he advertised on his profile’ (woe betide the 5’10 men who think they can cheat those extra couple of inches. FYI, WE NOTICE). It says a lot about my fixation with height that the issue I mention second is the ears. Oh, the ears. Small but so forward-facing it was like they were straining themselves to listen to his nose sniffing. Whilst partaking in the obligatory kisses on the cheek, hello-nice-to-meet-you and of-course-no-it’s-absolutely-fine-I-haven’t-been-here-long’s, my mind was racing as to how I had failed to notice the ears on his profile. I can’t have been THAT distracted by his (lovely, lovely) arms. Investigation the next day led to the discovery that all his photos either featured him in a hat, or side-on so you couldn’t see the full profile of his ears. Sneaky. Regardless, the rest of his appearance was up to scratch, and his chat was great. He wasn’t afraid to take the piss out of me, and obviously relished my, frankly, probably HYSTERICAL, response to his story about his Mum being on Trisha. If EVER there was a cool way to talk about your Mum on a date that was it. He was obviously a regular visitor to the bar we were at (after-work drinks or the date location for those hooked on the fishing rod? Who knows) and perused the wine list with the air of a connoisseur. Already aware that he was a few years older than me and a ‘proper person’ with a job an’ that, I tried to pretend that I too was interested in how oaky different wines were (when really I was just looking out for Blossom Hill). We whittled away a good few hours drinking, chatting and laughing, and when the time came to get trains home, he suggested going on for a drink at my local. I was fairly sure this wasn’t a sleaze move as he lived fairly close-by too, I was enjoying myself (and definitely had a wine glaze on by this point), so agreed. At my local, the great chat continued and the wine glaze only got worse. When we parted, he kissed me on both cheeks and slung the ubiquitous ‘I’ll-call-you’ my way. I pranced home thinking how lovely it was that I had had a great time, how great it was that his ears stuck out as it meant he wouldn’t be as arrogant as many other men with lovely, lovely arms, and how fun it was to get pissed on a date.
I woke up the next morning with red-stained lips, a huge wine head and a foreboding feeling. Had he actually had a good time? Had we laughed as much as I remembered? Had I actually looked nice or did I not notice red-wine flush in all my excitement? Should I have got so pissed? Was it obvious? And the main issue: SHOULD I HAVE PAID FOR DRINKS? As I thought back on the evening, I realised that he had taken pretty full control of getting the drinks in, and keeping my glass topped up. He was obviously aware that I’m a student, but I began to panic that I should have been more 21st century and offered to pay my way. We are 21st century dating, after all. This led to my (probably unwise, and still slightly inebriated) decision to send him a whimsical by lighthearted text saying ‘I’ve woken up with a red-wine head and a feeling that I didn’t say thank-you for buying me all those drinks last night. Thank-you! The Fonz.) – a reference to his pisstake of my leather jacket and a reminder to him that we had a GREAT TIME. A couple of days went by. Then a couple more. With no reply. And no promised call. I spent this time frantically canvassing male friends for advice on what the appropriate amount of time to wait for contact was, receiving wildly different estimates. “Two days, max.” “Nine to ten days, easily.”
Approximately seven days after the date, I discovered that he had deleted me from facebook. Charming. This obviously led to intense analysis of the date, his decision to ask me to go on to another pub, and self-relection. Maybe he thought I was brash. (Not helped by my favourite accessories which share this characteristic.) Maybe he thought I was an alcoholic. The most annoying this is, that I’ll NEVER KNOW. As one of my BRUTUALLY honest friends summed up; ‘well he was obviously attracted to your looks, so you must have ruined it somehow with your personality’. Cheers. After a few days of ‘I-hate-myself-I-must-eat-icecream-straight-from-the-tub’ behaviour, I picked myself up, dusted myself off, reminded myself that I would have been embarrassed to introduce his ears to my friends, and got back online. This was only the beginning of what was to become known as my ‘hectic dating schedule’.
As soon as he arrived ALL focus moved from self-appraisal/loathing to judgement. I won’t beat around the bush. My immediate thought was ‘well, he’s not the 6ft he advertised on his profile’ (woe betide the 5’10 men who think they can cheat those extra couple of inches. FYI, WE NOTICE). It says a lot about my fixation with height that the issue I mention second is the ears. Oh, the ears. Small but so forward-facing it was like they were straining themselves to listen to his nose sniffing. Whilst partaking in the obligatory kisses on the cheek, hello-nice-to-meet-you and of-course-no-it’s-absolutely-fine-I-haven’t-been-here-long’s, my mind was racing as to how I had failed to notice the ears on his profile. I can’t have been THAT distracted by his (lovely, lovely) arms. Investigation the next day led to the discovery that all his photos either featured him in a hat, or side-on so you couldn’t see the full profile of his ears. Sneaky. Regardless, the rest of his appearance was up to scratch, and his chat was great. He wasn’t afraid to take the piss out of me, and obviously relished my, frankly, probably HYSTERICAL, response to his story about his Mum being on Trisha. If EVER there was a cool way to talk about your Mum on a date that was it. He was obviously a regular visitor to the bar we were at (after-work drinks or the date location for those hooked on the fishing rod? Who knows) and perused the wine list with the air of a connoisseur. Already aware that he was a few years older than me and a ‘proper person’ with a job an’ that, I tried to pretend that I too was interested in how oaky different wines were (when really I was just looking out for Blossom Hill). We whittled away a good few hours drinking, chatting and laughing, and when the time came to get trains home, he suggested going on for a drink at my local. I was fairly sure this wasn’t a sleaze move as he lived fairly close-by too, I was enjoying myself (and definitely had a wine glaze on by this point), so agreed. At my local, the great chat continued and the wine glaze only got worse. When we parted, he kissed me on both cheeks and slung the ubiquitous ‘I’ll-call-you’ my way. I pranced home thinking how lovely it was that I had had a great time, how great it was that his ears stuck out as it meant he wouldn’t be as arrogant as many other men with lovely, lovely arms, and how fun it was to get pissed on a date.
I woke up the next morning with red-stained lips, a huge wine head and a foreboding feeling. Had he actually had a good time? Had we laughed as much as I remembered? Had I actually looked nice or did I not notice red-wine flush in all my excitement? Should I have got so pissed? Was it obvious? And the main issue: SHOULD I HAVE PAID FOR DRINKS? As I thought back on the evening, I realised that he had taken pretty full control of getting the drinks in, and keeping my glass topped up. He was obviously aware that I’m a student, but I began to panic that I should have been more 21st century and offered to pay my way. We are 21st century dating, after all. This led to my (probably unwise, and still slightly inebriated) decision to send him a whimsical by lighthearted text saying ‘I’ve woken up with a red-wine head and a feeling that I didn’t say thank-you for buying me all those drinks last night. Thank-you! The Fonz.) – a reference to his pisstake of my leather jacket and a reminder to him that we had a GREAT TIME. A couple of days went by. Then a couple more. With no reply. And no promised call. I spent this time frantically canvassing male friends for advice on what the appropriate amount of time to wait for contact was, receiving wildly different estimates. “Two days, max.” “Nine to ten days, easily.”
Approximately seven days after the date, I discovered that he had deleted me from facebook. Charming. This obviously led to intense analysis of the date, his decision to ask me to go on to another pub, and self-relection. Maybe he thought I was brash. (Not helped by my favourite accessories which share this characteristic.) Maybe he thought I was an alcoholic. The most annoying this is, that I’ll NEVER KNOW. As one of my BRUTUALLY honest friends summed up; ‘well he was obviously attracted to your looks, so you must have ruined it somehow with your personality’. Cheers. After a few days of ‘I-hate-myself-I-must-eat-icecream-straight-from-the-tub’ behaviour, I picked myself up, dusted myself off, reminded myself that I would have been embarrassed to introduce his ears to my friends, and got back online. This was only the beginning of what was to become known as my ‘hectic dating schedule’.
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