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 52 weeks.

2. Taking someone home after a drunken night on the cider does NOT count, otherwise this challenge would just be slutty, and none of us want that do we?!?

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.

24 August 2011

Mr #10 - Toothpaste Tash

The preamble:
Mr #10 was turned around in relatively swift time in my standard internet date terms. There were a couple of generic emails, and then I had an email at 3am saying 'I'm not going to be chatting on this all day so how about we just go for a drink'. Anyway, the next day, he followed it up with a 'sorry about that, I left my laptop on overnight and my "housemate" decided to send that message'. Oh that old chestnut! Whenever I leave my laptop on overnight, the parrots end up looking at porn on it. Honest guv'nor!

The man:
Age: 29
Profession: Runs his own landscaping business slash budding entrepreneur
Random factoid: Once met Michael Eavis

The date:
I won't lie, for whatever reason I wasn't exactly 100% up for tonight's date, and I suppose it was a bit doomed before it started because I had grand plans of having a romantic night in on my sofa with my favourite men, Ben, Jerry, Ernest and Julio. However, determined to honour my word, I popped off to meet Mr #10. I have to say, first impressions were far from favourable: very short, unnervingly sweaty, half-dressed,  super-scruffy, bushy-bearded, and  looked about 10 years older than his claimed age. He was also my first ginger of the project, so for the record I don't want people thinking I'm not an equal opportunities dater. He also appeared to have not looked in the mirror  nor any other reflective surface since brushing his teeth, as he was sporting a rather fetching Colgate-tash. When I clocked him, he nervously offered a hand to shake, but trying to be in keeping with the dating theme I went for a peck on the cheek. A very rough and sweaty cheek. Uh oh. I knew this wouldn't be a long haul effort, but nonetheless, effort I'd put in. It rapidly transpired that Mr #10 had been drinking vodka until 5am, hence the booze-sweats and shabby appearance. Classy. I wished he'd have cancelled at that point. For the most part of the date I felt like I was having to interview him: where do you work, what do you do, where do you live, what are your views on sharks, how gutted were you when Steve Irwin died, if you were to go on the Dragon's Den what product would you pitch...all the usual routes of conversation. He originally hails from Manchester, and as much as I appreciate Northerners have a very dry sense of humour which I'm rather fond of, he genuinely didn't appear to have one at all. I couldn't even raise a titter with my bullshit banter. Tough crowd. And I couldn't help but stare at the way he was constantly fingering his tonic bottle, and I wished that Sigmund Freud was sat on my shoulder taking notes.  I was also willing him to get his finger stuck in the bottle so a trip to A&E would have a. perked up the evening and b. brought it to a rapid conclusion. As he was warming up and making better headway with his gin and tonic, I was rapidly cooling, and  before long made some feeble excuse up about having to go home and make notes on Big Brother for work. Cos I work in telly y'see, that's what we do. Or not. Anyway, at 90 minutes, this stands at my shortest date thus far. And at around 5'4", so was my date. I'm pining for a giant right now...

Memorable Quotes:
'Next year I am going to buy a convertible. A Mercedes SLK and fly first class to the States.' Wanker.

Events of note:
Giving him wrong directions to the tube station. On purpose.

The verdict:
Tonight is a lesson well learned that putting a bit more effort into sussing the buggers out beforehand makes for a better choice of contender. He has just messaged to ask me out again, and I will politely put him out of his misery. I'm tempted to offer him some constructive criticism, but I kinda want a few more unsuspecting ladies out there to have similar anecdotes to tell their mates in the morning.



Read some of the emails that didn't make it to the real life date stage...