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

Advertisements

Footloose and fancy free

It’s not all bad out here you know, I did once meet a witty, charming guy online. We chatted for a while, turns out he had worked in London for a few years so we had some common ground. He was intelligent and funny, and told great stories about his time in the UK.

I was quite into his vibe and was really flattered and a bit surprised that he’d actually read my profile (tick) and remembered stuff like my love of art and shoes (double tick).  He mentioned Northampton and a really well known shoemaker, which kinda put me to shame because I’d never heard of them before! And there was me thinking I was a shoe aficionado… d’oh.

Anyway we agreed to meet for a drink somewhere quiet and romantic with sweeping views, I won’t deny I had high hopes for this one! I turned up bang on time with the usual waves of sickness and clammy hands and made my way to the bar. I sat at the bar and waited.. a few minutes later he breezed in all clouds of aftershave and ruffled hair, he’d made an effort and thrown on a jacket, he looked quite dapper actually, things were looking up! As he sat down he glanced down at my new green and black wedges dangling off the bar stool “Wow, lovely shoes. Size 6?”. I nearly fell off my chair. When has a man ever, I mean ever, noticed my heels? No matter how pretty or ridiculous? And whatsmore how did he get my size spot on? Weird but also kinda nice. This must be one of those metro men right? And when he mentioned getting his daughters some fake Burberry dresses from Asia on a recent trip I was pretty impressed. I mean he didn’t look gay…

And so we had the second date. Let’s face it, it’s the make or break moment. We had a nice couple of drinks and some food and then he invited me back to see his chandaliers. No it’s not a euphemism, well at least I didn’t think so at the time, I know it sounds dodgy but his business was round the corner and I’m a sucker for a gorgeous chandalier. When we got to the shop he flicked the light and it was like Aladdin’s cave I mean there were all sorts of pretty lamps and lights. I guess I must have been a bit dazed, like a rabbit in the headlights, with all the pretty glowing things, because I agreed to go upstairs for a tea (he lived in the flat above). I remember climbing the stairs and thinking “shit no-one knows where I am…” oh well in for a penny.

His flat looked like a tramp lived in it, there was stuff everywhere and old, baked on food all over the counters, things piled up in the corners and stuff chucked out on the balcony. It was like the apocalypse. Hmmmm not quite what I expected. Anyway tea made, he came over to sit next to me on the couch and promptly swung my legs over his knee, took off my shoes and started massaging my feet! Yew! My feet were hot and sweaty and I really didn’t want a massage. What’s worse he took one look at my toes and muttered “Naughty, naughty you didn’t paint you pinkies!”. I had been in a hell fire rush to leave for the date that night and I did that lazy trick of only painting the nails you can see… well that kinda did for it me, the guy was obviously a foot fetishist and it was weirding me out. I don’t normally have virtual strangers vigorously kneading my feet, I mean I look back on it now and I’m grateful he didn’t try and suck my toe! Yuck. I made my excuses and sprinted out the door. This time I got no escort to my car, even though it was midnight and my car was parked quite a distance away (cross).

Not long after that night I got text asking me to do a lot of walking around so I could “wear my footsies out ready for another massage”. Euch! My foot fetish radar was going off loud and clear. It brings a whole new meaning to the Cinderella tale, I mean Prince Charming would be nice, but as long as he stays well away from my feet and my shoes. Knowing my luck he’d be one of those that wanted to wear my shoes out himself!

footloose