Three is the magic number

You know the universe is trying to tell you something when a date goes badly wrong. Not just wrong but three ways wrong.

Firstly I sent him to the wrong bar by accident and wondered why he was texting me saying “I’m here!” when he quite clearly wasn’t. I mean it’s easy to get Edesia and Elevate mixed up when you’re multi tasking in work and sending date arrangements across cyberspace. Whoops!

Secondly once he arrived he was all flustered having driven across town in like 5 minutes flat and I was pretty merry having drunk most of my wine. So time for wake up call two – he got stuck into a juicy tale and animatedly smashed his pint of beer all over my top! Worse, it was followed by a tidal wave of liquid that flew across the table top and waterfalled like Niagara all down my jeans….. great!

Now sticky and smelling like a brewery, I’m still too nice and decided that I couldn’t just leave him in the lurch and would sit through another painful drink to ease his embarrassment. But instead he decided it was time for a smoke, probably to calm his nerves. Now guys this is really not cool abandoning your date for a cigarette, but worse still he took his god damn leisurely time. And I sat in the bar while the other men watched me, I was trying to be all cool and taking an avid interest in the cricket on the telly. Really… South Africa is winning? You don’t say! It was pretty bloody obvious I was on a disastrous first date to everyone in the room and I could feel the pity oozing in my direction. In fact I’m pretty sure he was gone so long he probably had two fags.

And to add insult to injury I get a text asking me if he can spray me with beer again? Seriously? Sorry mate not my idea of foreplay.

three

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