Sunday, 22 January 2012

Dinner/Drink Date Fail.

Meandering the streets of London, buses hound, tube stations glare and Hackney carriages chase.


I can't seem to speak to an individual for more that 20 minutes without my relationship status being brought up.


For the love of God.

I recently shed the skin of a two year relationship, got burnt by the rebound-guys inability to commit and all done whilst playing russian roulette with how many drinks it'll take to be just that 'tad' too drunk. I lost more often than not.

I've no concept of my limit. One bottle or three, if it's available I'll guzzle. I'm either stone cold (Steve Austin) sober or drunk as a skunk (love that nonsense).

Take Friday night. My hand has been asked for. He's 20. Cripes, that's younger than my brother. Aesthetically he looks older, that'll do for me. At 6 foot 5, some facial follicle ability and a large nose, I'm happy to have dinner with the chap. Let's call him Sam.

Sam meets me outside the Apple store. They say always tell someone where you're going, I did. He thinks we should dine straight off. I disagree, drinks are needed, it had been a long day. He might not date often, I'll let it slide. He buys the first round, fine. Man asks for lighter outside & then launches into how he kinda wished he had Autism so he wouldn't have feelings and lets us into the secret of his being touched up by a female taxi driver aged 15. Has this set the tone of the evening? Next stop taxidermy heaven. Second round, he buys, in that case I'll have a large*. A thief fingers my bag and breathes his pox-marked face stench on my freshly applied lipstick, twerp.

Two hours have gone by and I realise I don't know anything about Sam. Not that there have been any silences, I just don't shut up.

I've given the rundown on; my parents divorce, how many Xmas presents I received (44), why I'm not happy in my career, how I might change my name by deed-poll and mentioned my ex about 6 times, covering my tracks by calling him a 'friend'. Focus man, this is a date with a boy, not a mirror. I casually ask about his past (not that there's much of it), his family (only child ...) and his ambitions (mentions bands I've no idea of).

Somehow, it gets to 12, we've eaten Tapas (I know) that I had to choose - turned out I just ordered meat and now look like a cavewoman/Atkins enthusiast, and we're heading to a club. He stops to get cash, suppose I'd best put my hand in my pocket then.

I force feed wine as I wish to order a bottle but not consume (all of) it alone. I still manage 3/4 so value for money.

Apt choice of venue. The Bar close to Tottenham Court Road. We met in a 60s club, therefore it figures to go to one now.

And that, is where I should have thought 'let's end the night on a high, just go home'. Should've being the operative word. I remember; spilling drinks, smashing a wine glass, dancing on a table, opening a fire exit, demanding a drink off a stag party member and epitomising that annoying high pitched girl who wants to be chummy with everyone. I kiss him, he really is very young.

Pay back time, rolling in at 10am, smudged makeup, zero credibility and without the brooch on my coat or flower I'd cast into my hair. Touch of food poisoning to boot, clever clogs me.


Still, I remember his surname. & the fact he's not baptised. Might give FB friends a miss ...

*every time I drink, I swear I'll not drink wine as it's fattening. I'll just have G&T. The flesh is weak. Every time.

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