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.

22 January 2012

Mr #33 - Job Security

The preamble:
Mr #33 and I hadn't really spoken a tremendous amount, but from the few messages we exchanged I thought he sounded polite and sweet, and the fact he wasn't determined to take me out to get wasted was a bit of a bonus.

The man:
Age: 39
Profession: Security guard
Random factoid: Recently had to process 800 security passes at work. Mmm, riveting!

The date:
For once, this was a quiet Sunday afternoon date with coffee in mind, which was rather refreshing given how boozy some of my dates have been of late. 

We met at Waterloo, and my first thoughts were 'is that him, or is that an Italian tourist from the nineties?' He didn't look a lot like his pictures, which were obviously selected from about a decade ago. Let me paint the picture for you: flat top salt 'n' pepper hair. swarthy tan, leather jacket, Burberry scarf, those very contrived over-frayed jeans, gold chain and Timberland boots. Quite a picture. He also had some expensive-looking shades by some designer that I can only assume is entirely fictitious, and he picked them up on the market for a fiver. 

But he looked very nervous bless him, and for the brief walk to the coffee shop he was a little tricky to get chat out of. Once perched with froffee coffees he warmed up a bit after we covered his home town in great detail, as it happened to be where I went to uni which was a bit of a conversational godsend given his skills at making small talk. 

I'll be honest, he wasn't the brightest star in the galaxy, and it wasn't the most stimulating of chats, even though he was nice enough. We talked about Jack Russells, flatpack furniture, people being rude, supermarkets and bomb scares.  Oh, and he lives with his mum. At the age of 39. 

It was all very nice, but after one hot beverage it was definitely time to call it a day. We said our polite goodbyes and went our separate ways.

Memorable Quotes:
'I was talking to my daughter the other day...I mean SISTER!' Hmm...
'I've got a 40" telly in my bedroom'. Hmm again...

Events of note:
Trying to negotiate a cappuccino-tash. New territory. I think I won against the foam's a shame he didn't...

The Verdict:
Nice guy, nothing in common, no attraction whatsoever, and I'm sorry, but STILL LIVES AT HOME? Nup, not for me thanks.


  1. I think he's married and having a mid-life crisis hence the clothes and mum cover story.

  2. I'm with Becca, I think he was married. Avoid!!!

  3. At the risk of judging a book by its cover, I think that some, soooome professions can be the gateways into people's personalities. I am yet to meet a security guard who is a catch...

  4. I was just saying to a friend yesterday that if I met a guy who was living with with his parents at my age (44), that is was a deal breaker. Sorry, it just is.
    My friend argued it a little bit... but then up until recently he was living at home (at 43). I am still not convinced, I agree with you, it's warning bells ringing oh so loudly.

  5. He lives in Egham? Oh dear.....


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