Taking over from Susi in the general ranting at men I thought I’d share with you the latest debacle in my spectacularly unsuccessful attempts at ‘getting out there’ and ‘dating around’. My latest experience was an evening out with a rather nice chappie I met in a bar. He called me the night before and we chatted for 20 minutes; which is highly unusual for me, and I wasn’t bored.
In fact, it was such a good conversation and promising omen that the date could only go downhill from there on. My first sign that it wasn’t going to end well was when he set my press release on fire.
We were in a small bar off Carnaby street with lots of red velvet throws, and candles for mood lighting scattered around; I’d come from a press event so had the standard goody bag filled with mints, pens and press releases. Him, being a curious chap decided to browse through the literature, not noticing that the oh so sexy candles had actually attached to the papers, creating a blaze which I can only describe as both hilarious and pathetic. Once we’d doused it with vodka (flammable: bad move) the evening continued.. and it didn’t get any better.
Despite the fact that he was buying me doubles (I asked for singles) and the conversation was flowing reasonably, he kept giving me odd looks. "What?" I said, innocuously enough. He paused. "I was just thinking...you have really nice breasts." "What?!" "And really great eyes". "Uh, OK". It had kind of come out of the blue. Eyes were one thing, but boobs? On a first date? I didn’t really think it would be appropriate to say thank you.
Then he touched my wrist. "You’re so petite", he murmured, "I thought you were larger". "Oh. OK". "It’s a compliment", he chided. Uh, thanks? Seriously, you can’t make this stuff up.It’s still pretty early and though the evening hasn’t been promising so far I still had hopes that he was just socially awkward retarded shy and that somehow it would get better.
Next he asks if I mind if he smokes. ‘Sure, no problem’, I say. ‘in fact I’ll have one’. (I’m a social smoker me) We then go outside where he proceeds to chain smoke three in quick succession while I puff on one. Then he looks me up and down. ‘Do you always wear flats?’ The honest answer to that question would be no, rarely ever, and never on a date, but I’ve only met you once and I thought you were short. He is shortish to tell the truth, but I would have been able to get away with kitten heels. Still, how do you answer that? ‘No, not always’, I mumble.
His mobile has been beeping a lot while we’ve been out, and he keeps answering it. ‘It’s work’, he says looking harassed, ‘Someone doesn’t have the keys to their flat’. (He’s an estate agent. That’s a warning in itself) Then he gets another message. ‘Oh look, ‘ he says, ‘It’s my friend wanting to know how the dates been going. Why don’t you reply?’ He hands it to me and I look at him fairly non plussed. ‘Um, no that’s OK’, I say weakly. ‘So why don’t you have a boyfriend?’ he asks next. OH GOD. His phone rings again. He goes off to answer it, cue gesticulating and raised voices.
Five minutes later he’s back. ‘That was work,,’ he says. ‘A client can’t get into their flat and I have to go let them in. I’m so sorry’.
‘That’s OK,’ I shrug. ‘Stuff happens’.
‘No, I feel terrible. I really don’t want to go. Will you wait here for me?’
‘What?’
‘I’ll only be forty minutes’
‘No.’
‘You’ll hardly notice it’.
‘NO!’
‘I’ll buy you some drinks to keep you going’
‘You want me to wait in a bar on my own for forty minutes?’
‘Tell you what, I give you permission to talk to anyone in the bar while I’m gone’.
‘I don’t need your permission, and no again’.
‘I really can’t convince you?’
‘NO!’
Then, as we were leaving the bar, a man started talking to me. ‘Hey.. ‘ he started, then realized I was *with* my date. ‘Oh, sorry’, he said. Then the date butted in, ‘No, why don’t you guys talk,’ he smiled, ‘I’ll be back in a bit’.
‘I’M NOT STAYING IN THE BAR’, I say.
‘Sorry,’ random guy apologises. ‘I didn’t realized you two were together. Or are you?’
‘Why don’t you answer that Zara?’, the date says. Cue mumble silently, eyes looking in all directions, shuffle out.
Outside it’s pissing down and the date walks me to the tube station. ‘I really don’t want to go he sighs. ‘You’re so shaggable’. Then he goes in for the kiss, and manages to somehow miss my cheek and get my lips. Grrreat. ‘I’ll call you about the weekend’, he trills.
Sadly, I’m sure he will. On the plus side, now I’ve read my whole rant I’m 98% sure I won’t be picking up to him. Is this what singeldom has in store for me? The evil ex is looking better and better in comparison. Mostly I’m just kicking myself for staying as long as I did. Why waste time on a loser when you have Ben and Jerry waiting for you at home?
Zara Rabinowicz writes for Shiny Shiny, Star Trip, and Dollymix and is looking for a higher calibre of compliment than 'you look shaggable'.