The preamble:There was a fair amount of messaging between Mr #12 and I, and for the most part it was tenuous, obscure, but vaguely interesting enough to make me think he'd be a decent craic over a cheeky vino or two. How wrong I was...
Profession: Massage therapist plus writer and poet. Apparently.
Random factoid: He's an avid festival goer.
Well, he goes to the Isle of Wight Festival.
Well, just the once.
Back in 2004...
I was originally upposed to meet Mr #12 on Saturday, and I felt bad about having to rearrange because our family cat put our mother in hospital (true story), so I was keen to rearrange for tonight because Mr #12 had sounded so disappointed when I texted to cancel.
An hour before meeting, he messaged to tell me he was nervous, and I felt rather sorry for him, especially knowing I was the least scary person he could expect to encounter on a date. Anyway, I turned up and met him outside the tube, and instantly I knew it wouldn't be an epic evening, for which I was grateful considering I was still hanging from my date with Captain Coriander. A
Although I have nothing against balding men embracing their hair loss, I do have severe reservations about men who, in a fit of folliclular denial, grow their hair long but for the whacking great Friar Tuck bald patch on top to pretend its not there. And he was short, yet again, so I had an almost bird's eye view of said skin circle. Not my initial cup o' tea, I have to say, but nothing a good personality couldn't improve.
I also couldn't get over the fact he looked like he was dressed to go to the office in faecal-brown shirt and black trousers, even though it turns out he's currently unemployed. Anyway my date decided that we'd go to Cafe Rough (yes that is a typo, but I thought it most apt so I've let it be), mainly because we were stood right outside. Hmm.
Anyway, the evening didn't improve from there. I had to explain the wine menu, to the point he had to ask 'is that red wine?' 'Is that a glass?' Er what??? I also had to endure some severe misquotations of Alan Partridge ('no, I'm terribly sorry, his name wasn't Mike, it was Dan. You know...Dan! Dan! Dan! Dan! Do I need to repeat it again so you remember? FUCKING DAN!,' and listening about why he was bullied at school (at risk of sounding unsympathetic, because no-one deserves to be bullied, but perhaps first dates aren't the best place to let such skepetons out of your closet?), some random bullshit about the Waco siege and a very awkward 'I like your dress'. Er thanks, what, do you want to borrow it? Sorry, it's not brown enough for you. Or your boring brown soul.
I literally had to ask question after question to break the awkward silences during which he just sat there. Just sat. Comtemplating stuff. Probably boring brown stuff. I felt like I'd had to resort to Paxman mode to try and keep things going. 'Oh you do yoga do you? Tell me about that then' ...'yeah, I like it. It relaxes me. I once did a headstand at 3am when I couldn't sleep'. Never underestimate the power of the anecdote. Someone give me strength!
With social skills like his, I genuinely was not surprised that he was an out of work massage therapist, because the thought of him being paid to provide such an intimate service genuinely makes me want to do a little sick in my hand. Harsh maybe, but after such an exhausting squeezing of blood from stone, sadly very fair.
Once I'd had to watch him chew through his large red wine, most of which he wore on his top lip like a toddler in a Ribena moustache, I had to call an end to it, I could endure no more. I can't believe I've had two 90 minute wonders in one week...and this one was just the one drink!
I think I've hit a brand new dating low.
At the tube station 'if you'd like to meet up again, just email me'. Don't make me laugh!
Events of note:
The end of the date. I think I may have done a little relief jig on the escalator down to the tube.
The verdict:Do I need to even fill this one in? Seriously!