G&T. Date Me.

7 days post-event.

Took the plunge and arranged my first date. Virtually.

Since joining a well known dating site I've been separating the wheat from the chaff. It's 94% chaff. I'm pretty sure 75 percent of those who've messaged me haven't read my profile and I'd go as far to say they message hundreds of single ladies with the same 'hey there ;)'. Fucking hate emoticons.

Of the 6% I'm left with, I'll admit, I wasn't optimistic.

A sudden bubbling of assertiveness saw me message 2 males I found attractive. Males I thought might like to take me out. Like a lone lady at the bar approaching a lone male, I challenged protocol and made the first move.

I got a few replies & even started up a little rally of messages. A light-hearted bit of hoopla.

With little patience, I moved things briskly along. & so last Wednesday the meeting came to be.

What I knew so far:

Aged 27

Graphic Designer

Own flat in Manchester

Allergic to apples

My being early for everything is sometimes disadvantageous. Not tonight.

I slipped into a central bar, ordered a G&T when I gained a tap at my shoulder. My dearest friend. I'll admit, I hadn't told her. It was for fear of a real ribbing, which I obviously got when she learned the reasoning for me being there. Still, it was a relief to have someone to listen to my woes until he arrived.

Arrive he did. Dressed in Fred Perry, slim fit jeans, dreamily-excellent desert boots complimented by slightly 80s clipped hair. He was 2 inches shorter than he had noted but his face more than made up for it. He had said he had an athletic body, but he looked more toothpick like to me. That face, as I've said, more than made up for it.

As friend exited, the obligatory thumbs up were whipped out. I wonder if he saw.

30 minutes in, he's bought me a drink. Point. I've found out his background, respired in the most delightful scent and decided that the positioning of his ear piercing didn't mean he was gay. Point.

As I spoke of my various travels, I omitted several details that included my being there with boyfriends, which may have made me out to be more independent than I am. Not to fear. Yet as I weaved a (teeny) web of deceit I began to fluster.

Me: "wow it's hot in here"

Him: "not really, it's probably because you're not breathing much. You're talking quite a lot"

I'm fully aware that I talk incessantly when nervous, but never have I wished to be Zippy from Rainbow before.

It was going relatively well and we went to a few more bars. Engaging banter. He offers a bottle of plonk, I'm tempted, but remember last time I consumed wine on a date, "I'll just have a G&T ta".

Walked me to my mode of transport at 12 & leans in for a kiss, I peck on cheek. Slightly awkward. Suprisingly I didn't turn into a pumpkin.

Since this parting we have text infrequently. I broached going out again (no patience) and he said he'd try and squeeze me in. I think not. I told the sonny to jog on.

This isn't to say I'm disheartened. I might tone down my frank approach to first dates and perhaps hold back when admitting I hate sandwiches and sushi, but overall it's about your own confidence and character. I must say, not overly enamored by virtual dating. Tad contrived.

He was a bit camp.

Bitter? Me?

High Vis Dating.

I'm staring wistfully outside. There are three reasons:

Sun

Men

Squirrels & adorable creatures of nature

NB, not in priority order

Being trapped indoors due to gas pipe maintenance has its (minor) perks. The high-vis clad men rat-a-tatted on my door at 10, I flounced out all 'just got out of bed' when I'd done 2 exercise videos, washed my hair, slapped BB cream on and filled in my brows. You know, casual. We engaged in light banter as they took up some flagging. & I indulged them in tea and biscuits. I'm nice like that.

Flirting, tea making, flirting, laughing about my inability to find gas meter, flirting and hair swishing.

Not sure why, but gritty Mancunian accents with an equally weather beaten stance has an amazing ability to reduce me to what can only be described as a middle-aged single tart. I'm no giggler, but Jesus, one slightly amusing line escaped their mouths & I was throwing my head back hyena-like and wiggling as I dashed to make their brews.

This shameful action led me to contemplate my current love life. My being excited at 12 young strapping builders being outside, reflects just how (in)active my dating-sphere is.

Since moving back from London (10 days ago) I joined a dating site. Be it through boredom or being inspired by a friends new lady (met online), the traditional notion of 'internet dating' shed some of its stigma. Either that or my desperation swelled.

To be frank, bar/club hopping has lost its appeal. A few issues:

Gaining attention from (any) men is difficult if you don't resemble one of the Saturdays

If the male crowd are 'alternative', you're never 'alternative' enough

I'm not an (attractive) dancer

You can't hear more than 25% of the conversation

I only attract very strange men. No exaggeration.

As I'm not going to squeeze into a bandage dress or watch TOWIE for pulling tips or any time soon I'm thinking 'outside of the box' (hardly).

PROFILE:

Just moved home to Manchester from London. Working in PR and starting a male style advice site come Summer, this is not to say that I'm a fashion obsessive or overly critical of anyone else's style. Aged 23, with a penchant for 50s/60s related music and style, indie music, a keen interest in discovering new places, people and actively avoiding the humdrum of reality. Dry humoured. I appreciate wit and the ability to spell correctly. No cliched characters need apply. Cannot abide frugality (bad experience).

Standard right?

Within 4 hours I'd had 30 responses, 95% asking whether I'd like some 'fun' (substitute the word fun with a more colourful action) or worse, a sob-story (this isn't an X-Factor audition). What really got my goat was the inability to read. I'm from Manchester, I don't need 'showing around' and I specifically noted I appreciate the ability to spell correctly. One message;

'Hey ther, how it going? cool profile, love thoes picturs, anyway im kinda new to dis. Not sure i should say, but if u chek my prof an like what u c, id love 2 talk mre. Anywy peace xx'

I ask you. This was from a 26 year old male who develops software. Education?

Still. There were one or two who seemed relatively normal who contacted me. I've agreed to a date (after some witty error free banter) with a Graphic Designer. We'll see.

On telling my friend I was embarking on this, she gave me a rape alarm. I certainly know how to pick them.

Spam.

Spam. *

When did it gain a double meaning? Monty Pythons 'Flying Circus' can be accredited with coining it's second meaning, around 1969. I would consider it slang. Which I usually despise but somehow 'spam' has escaped the grammar net.

It's rare that I despise the intended meaning but plump for it's younger sibling. Literary thrills.

Facing the facts, there is so much spam (literally in both cases). I wake up each morning with 27 e-mails I've unsubscribed from. Worming their way into my life.

People on the street asking for aid, spam.

Adverts for loans (APR 1000% naturally), spam.

Mindless chat with an insignificant individual, spam.

DM's from fake Twitter accounts, spam.

Jeremy Kyle, spam.

Apparently 7 million people will call in sick today. I've no need as I've escaped the rat-race for a week and today my agenda is Twitter scouring, a dentist appointment and dissuading my mother from a second bottle of wine, for she is not on holiday.

Oh & re-jigging priorities. Ostriches have the right idea; sand, head, bury.

On a lighter, subject related, note, I may have finally cajoled Mother into internet dating. The profiles are hilarious. Many males from 45-55 descibe themselves as 'earthy'. What in the world does that mean? Eco-warriors? Gardening enthusiasts? Or plain Neanderthals? I'm supervising the process, to ensure spamming is at a minimum. It's an enjoyable project.

Tweet, tweet.

* there's a museum. A Spam museum. Man alive.