Here's the deal. I've been single since time immemorial. So, in an attempt to remedy my eternal singledom, and to get over my nauseatingly pathological fear of dates, I've decided to challenge myself. The challenge? To go on one first date a week for a year! So in 52 weeks time, I will have either found my Mr Right, or I'll stay forever Miss Write. This is what happens...

The Rules

Here are the rules to the 52 First Dates challenge...

1. A first date must be had once a week, EVERY week, for a year, that's 52 dates in 52 weeks.

2. Taking someone home after a drunken night on the cider does NOT count.

3. Second and third dates are allowed, I must continue first dates unless there are exceptional mitigating circumstances. For example, God forbid, the start of a relationship.

4. Each date must be blogged.

29 June 2011

Mr #4 - Oh No, It's Frodo...

The preamble:
Mr #4 was pretty straightforward. You like some comedy? I like some comedy. You listen to music? I listen to music. You've got a head, shoulders, knees and toes? I have a combination that is remotely similar. Ace! Let's date!

The man:
Profession: Works in special effects.
Random factoid: Had the ability to insert sneaky burps into conversation like punctuation. And no, lifting your fist to your face doesn't mean you're not doing it, I see you, covert burper.

I did know before meeting #4 that he wasn't the most blessed in the vertical department. I'm only 5'2", and although I appreciate a gentleman of significant stature, I was willing to meet a gentleman notching up a modest 5'7" on the doctor's wall chart. I'm no fool, I knew to wear flat shoes. I also know boys often fib about their height, but when I stood up to greet my date to discover he was only an inch taller than me, I did feel a bit stiffed out of those all important four inches. He'd also been very cunning with his choice of photos on the website, and although he wasn't altogether unattractive, I couldn't help but feel he might have been at home on a quest in search of one ring to rule them all. 

The date:
For the first time since I can remember, Mr #4 actually suggested the venue, which turned out to be one of my favourite night time haunts in Hoxton, and although I was struck with a belated fear my trendiness rating on my personal Top Trump wouldn't be high enough, I thought what the heck, the boy got taste, in gin joints anyroad. 

I arrived early, and got the drinks in - cunning plan on my behalf, because in the nth hour, I'd realised I couldn't remember what on earth he looked like, so I popped myself in the corner, texted my precise location, and waiting to be approached by a complete stranger. Then he arrived. 

Fortunately, he'd left the wizard at home for the night, that would have been awkward, as I hadn't brought a friend. I knew the date was doomed after going for the courtesy one-kiss, and then on thinking he was a meeja two-kisser, going in for the double, seeing him dive away, and then trying to cover it up by attempting some humour out of what was one of those eternally awkward social situations. He didn't find it funny. He looked terrified. 

One thing about this boy I had been very interested in was his job in special effects, working on the last Harry Potter. Definitely good chit chat ammo! So what was it he did? Was he one of those guys that made buildings explode into flames using only the magic of software? Was he one of those guys who created artificial hair on mythical beasts that blew in the direction of the cartoon zephyrs? Or was he one of the guys that could transform actors into mutant superheroes, hellbent on saving a dying dystopian metropolis? No. His job was to sit and watch computers ticking over once all of the special effects had been pain-stakingly created, rendering. Just rendering. Hmm. Not quite the awe-inspiring interest-fest I had hoped for. And thank god for my prior experience in post-production, as at least I was able to talk techie about a few things so at least disguise my disappointment that he didn't personally craft Hogwarts from nothing using just a mouse and his awesome brain. 

I have to say conversation was dry, so dry I had to pull out the Ryan Giggs superinjunction card again as a last ditch attempt at eeking out something interesting. I also found myself slurping my wine at speed, and then staring at his pint just in case I had undiscovered telekinetic powers that would have evaporated his pint faster than he could drink it. 

Memorable Quotes:
'Mr brother bought me a birthday cake last year. It said 'you're gay' on it'. I think I already prefer his brother instead...

Events of note:
That whole greeting kiss palaver overshadowed the entire evening to be honest. And I couldn't help but hope that some funny creepy green guy in a loin cloth would pop up and personally escort Mr #4 to Mount Doom. 

The verdict:
I didn't particularly like him, and I don't think he particularly liked me which is probably an ideal outcome for all concerned? Maybe? Onwards, my precious...!