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.

20 March 2012

Mr #41 - Pocket Prince

The preamble:
Mr #41 and I had been emailing on and off for a couple of weeks, and what I liked about him was even on email he sounded incredibly enthusiastic about everything, and showed great interest in my knitting, which of course is automatically going to endear me to someone as one essential criteria I have in my list of my perfect man is the willingness to model my often errantly-sized knitwear. Soon after we exchanged numbers, and a few equally as enthusiastic texts later, we sorted ourselves a cheeky wee coffee date.

The man:
Age: 28

Profession: Post-grad student and part time shop worker
Random factoid: Once played for the Pakistani national football team

The date:
We'd both ended up leaving our respective locations a little late, so there were mutual warnings of tardiness. When I arrived at Kentish time 10 minutes after our designated rendez vous time, my date was nowhere to be see, so I assumed the position just outside the station and busied myself with my mobile phone until he arrived. 

Twenty minutes later, he still hadn't turned up and to be honest, I'd mentally given him five more minutes before I buggered off. Then he rang.

Mr #41: Hey!
Me: Hey, where are you?
Mr #41: I'm at the station, where are you?
Me: Me too
Mr #41: I can't see you
Me: Well I'm here, right outside Kentish Town tube!
Mr #41: Why are you there?
Me: Because that's where we're meeting aren't we?
Mr #41: No. I said Chalk Farm...
Me: Oh. Shit. I'll get the bus then...
Turns out when I re-read my message back, it was Chalk Farm. And not just any Chalk Farm, CHALK FARM IN CAPITAL LETTERS! Well done CTS you utter organisational muppet. 

I hastily leaped on the bus and within 10 minutes I'd found him at the Roundhouse. So much for him being late! But when I turned up in a bluster of apologies, he was incredibly sweet and gracious and scampered straight off to sort us out with some hot caffeinated beverages. When he sat down again I had a proper chance to look at him and he was absolutely beautiful, like a hand-carved Bollywood hero. Albeit a very little one. He was miniature. Properly ickle. He must have been the same height as me and I estimated about half my weight, with teeny tiny hands and perfectly smooth finger nails that looked like shiny pink beetle shells. This man must've had a manicure. But he was all smiles and wavy black hair, and quite delightful! And boy, could he talk! 

He spent the first 20 minutes giving me a lecture on modern economics before we moved onto house prices, Sainsbury's, his hatred of mobile phones, earthquakes, the Gulf War and charities. He was a fascinating little fellow, and told me at length about how he had harboured aspirations of becoming a pilot for the Pakistani air force, but his dream was scuppered after someone slashed the back of his ankle and severed his achilles tendon in a fight two days before the medical. Having seen Hostel, I very nearly vommed on my own lap at that choice mental image.

The coffee soon evaporated and we both had other places to be, so we pottered off to the station to say our cheerios. Once at the station we shared a little hug goodbye and as I started to walk off he caught me with a 'oi' and held out his hand. A handshake goodbye? How curious! We went our separate ways and that was that. When I got in, he sent me a very sweet message saying he had a lovely time and he was sorry he didn't take flowers. I told him I was sorry I went to the wrong station, and he offered me another coffee another time.

Memorable Quotes:
'All these goth shops in Camden scare me'. I decided it probably wasn't prudent to mention my extensive heavy metal music collection and university CV as a goth in the rock society...

Events of note:
Seeing Mr #1 with his big red hooter walking in to the venue just as we were leaving. Awkward! Luckily he didn't see me...

The Verdict:
Well well well, Mr #41 was a little pocket-sized treat wasn't he? He was bright, bubbly, beautiful and was delightful company. But in truth he talked a hell of a lot, and I suspected that deep down we didn't have anything in common. He was also way too small for me, and although I could easily keep him as a little Borrower buddy of mine, that's not really why I'm going on dates. I have plenty of wonderful friends already. There needs to be that something there, and with Mr #41 sadly there wasn't. That said, I may take him up on that offer of a second coffee sometime, if only to see if he could fit on the miniature sofa I'm currently knitting. A fiver says he could...