52 First Dates in The Guardian's Women in Leadership blog

Hola 52FDers, it's been a while, hasn't it? Well don't worry,  I've not been doing anything silly like getting married or owt, I'm still as single as the day is long, but I have been keeping myself entertained by non-serial dating antics, as you can see in this lovely little piece in The Guardian's Women In Leadership blog:

http://www.theguardian.com/women-in-leadership/2014/sep/11/i-created-a-business-from-my-blog-you-can-too

That's it for now y'all, hopefully will be back sometime soon with something sensible to say.

CTS x

Woman's Hour / Men's Hour double date bonanza

Earlier this week I took part in a delightful Radio 4 Woman's Hour vs Men's Hour internet dating bonanza with the sublime Jane Garvey and the dashing Tim Samuels. If you were holed up in bed nursing the bank holiday hangover from hell, fear not, you can catch the full thing right here.

Radio 2 Interview

Hello there. So I popped along to Radio 2 today to have a little chat with Paddy O'Connell about my recent online dating shenanigans, particularly Sebastian Pritchard-Jones. If you missed it but wish you hadn't, fear not, you can have a wee listen on iPlayer right here. No donkeys or nudists were harmed during this interview.

Mr #52 - The Great Dane

The preamble:
I don't actually need to tell you an awful lot about the preamble leading up to Mr 52 - The Great Dane, because you guys chose him yourself by public vote. A friend of his had originally suggested he got in touch and put himself forward to be Mr 52, and fast forward a month or so and the prospect of me actually hopping on a plane and popping over to Denmark became very real indeed. But as promised, we chose a date, I booked my tickets, and waited for the day to roll around. 

In the interim we'd bonded over our mutual love of Eddie Izzard, cheese, Tim Minchin, cake, turning Disney films into grammar lessons, the possibility of time travel, meteoromancy, Douglas Adams,a gallbladder called Merv and bacon, so I was pretty convinced we'd be able to find something to talk about on the date. Brace yourself for an epic write up of an epic date...

The man:

Age: 27

Profession: Computer games designer

Random factoid: He is a full time resident of Copenhagen and the final date in my year-long challenge of 52 First Dates. I know that's not so much of a random factoid, but it's certainly a title worthy of some sort of a badge, at least. 

The date:

The date for me started at a rather antisocial 5am yesterday, made even more so thanks to the fact that the entire nation had been up partying the night away because of the Olympic ceremony, and after all the fireworks had stopped I managed to only grab 4 hours sleep. But as is always the way on a big day, I was literally cast out of bed by an imaginary poltergeist and thrown into the shower before I had a chance to contemplate whether I was hungover or not. 

Two Tube rides and a train journey later, I was at Gatwick, on my own, passport in hand, thinking 'what the fuck am I doing?'. But I knew what I was doing. I was about to get on a plane to fly to a country I'd never been to before, where I didn't know a word of the native language, to go on a date with a boy I'd never even spoken to. It was either the coolest thing I'd ever done, or the craziest. Perhaps a mixture of both. I won't lie, I was bricking it. The pressure was on. Not only was there the geographical pressure, but the fact this was the final date in my epic quest was also in the forefront of my mind. I also really wanted it to go well, to end the blog on a high, although I suspected whatever that outcome was, Mr 52 and I would get on. One slightly nervous phone call to my mum later, and it was time to get on the plane. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. Cue some photos to illustrate aeroplane travel:

Fast forward 2 hours and I'm setting foot in Denmark. On checking my phone, I saw that The Great Dane had sent me an email and it seemed he was equally in denial about what was about to happen too - certainly I don't think either of us thought when he sent me that very first email 6 or so weeks earlier that I'd actually end up on his nation's doorstep knocking to see if he wanted to come out and play. 

We were both excited and terrified in equal measure, but certainly for me it was absolutely the right thing to do, both for myself and for the blog. The last date deserved to be something a little bit special. And you readers decided international travel was what it needed. My fear of flying and I thank you greatly. 

I'll tell you now, as I walked through those arrival gates my heart was in my mouth. That morbid fear of the unknown date that first prompted me to set about 52 First Dates had made a surprising cameo appearance, and I was terrified. But as soon as I clapped eyes on The Great Dane and he was exactly as I had imagined, it evaporated into the hot Danish air. He was very tall, handsome and smiley, and I wouldn't mind betting partially in shock that I'd actually turned up. Greetings were swift, and we headed off to the Metro to find our way into town for the date.

As a Londoner, I expect public transport everywhere else in the world to be equally as nightmarish - a thousand different lines, sweltering heat, and being trapped in the armpits of a sweaty stranger. In Copenhagen, they have only two lines. Just two. Even I couldn't get lost here! Actually I probably could, given that it turns out Danish words sound nothing remotely like the way they're written to a native English speaker, but more on that later. And luckily there were no sweaty armpits to get stuck into, although it was really rather warm, and I was trying my best to chat to The Great Dane without looking like my make up was sliding off my face withing the first 10 minutes of our meeting. 

When he'd first written to me, he'd mentioned that he was very shy, and when faced with a strange little English girl, that shyness decided to take a trip on the Metro with us. It's obviously very easy for me to be vocal about my pre-date nerves, since I've been on more dates than lots of people have had hot dinners, but I always forget how it must feel for the other person, particularly when their date has flown nearly 1000km to go and see them. But we chatted on nonetheless, mostly me honking on about the Olympics opening ceremony from the night before, and how random it was that I'd actually turned up.

Our first port of call was an area of Copenhagen called Christiantown (and I apologise in advance to any Danish readers who might spot glaring mistakes in my spelling etc - I'm not sure how I'll get some of your linguistic symbols in here yet so it may be a bit of a challenge). Christiantown is a sort of independent hippy commune slash nature reserve in the centre of town where there's a green light area for marijuana, lots of shrubbery, lots of water, and an awesome collection of houses hand-built by their owners. Imagine Occupy London, but with less attitude, greater commitment and much better architectural skills.

We wandered around for a good hour or so in the baking heat, watching the locals potter around on their bicycles, seeing dragonflies go about their business, errant golf carts and the teeny tiniest frog I've ever seen in my life scamper off into the undergrowth. The Great Dane was in full tour guide mode, which I think must've taken a lot of the 'date' pressure off, and he did an exceptionally good job too of showing me all the key landmarks, telling me about the local history, before we drifted off into the territory of dubbing foreign films, Disney, property prices, and how best to avoid untimely death. 

The highlights of this part of the day for me were the little frog, watching The Great Dane leap around  the pathway to avoid squishing the many snails that had come out to join us en route, and spotting a really cool table and chairs, complete with tea set that had been set up in the middle of the water for the ducks to sit on.

Pretty soon our nature reserve yomp had given us quite a thirst, so we sat in the sun outside a refreshments shack in Christiantown sipping on an icy cold cola and watching the locals go about their business. As a little gift, I'd brought along a copy of Douglas Adams' The Deeper Meaning of Liff which I knew he'd never read, plus a tiny knitted Apple Mac computer I'd made, and we sat chuckling over the definition of Twomileborris (noun): A popular East European outdoor game in which the first person to reach the front of the meat queue wins, and the losers have to forfeit their bath plugs. 

Once the drinks had been quaffed, we set sail again to have a wander into the main part of town. It turns out, Copenhagen has a shed load of churches and a shed load of theatres. The Great Dane's knowledge of his hometown was exceptional, but my favourite parts of the tour were the things that probably weren't on the usual tours: where he works, a street affectionately known as 'the Piss Street', and the statues of famous Danes outside the university that he had no idea who they were, but guessed their profession by their haircut.

He was noticeably more relaxed, and I finally felt like I wasn't terrifying him any longer by being a foreign visitor. And what made me feel even more at home was someone had kindly gone and grafittied my initials about the place which made me feel even more welcome. How very kind.

We gradually headed further into town where The Great Dane had decided we'd have lunch. His chosen venue? The Royal Cafe. This place is awesome. A traditional Danish dish is smørrebrød, which is a sort of open sandwich, but at the Royal Cafe, they give it 'a contemporary sushi twist', and call is 'smushi'. They're in delightfully small portions, so you choose a few different dishes as you would in a sushi restaurant. It's impossible not to love smushi based on the name alone. But you'd love it even more when it comes out to the table. Cue photo of food porn (my crap BlackBerry camera clearly didn't do these justice)... 

From left to right, I chose a potato and smoked cream cheese smushi on a round little rye bread with radishes, asparagus and little fresh beansprouty type things, a wafer thin marinated beef smushi on a slice of tomato and rye break with wasabi cream, onion slivers and a caperberry, and a puff pastry triangle with a creamy chicken salad smushi with peas, carrot ribbons and more beansprouty business. And it was all beautifully served on a tile made by the pottery company next door. It was exceptional. I've never eaten anything so beautiful (and tasty, of course!) in my life. 

We sat outside in this cobbled courtyard, neither of us wanting to destroy these little edible works of art, mulling over whether it would be practical to live in a hexagonal tower (part of this awesome building next door, testing out regional accents (he does a very convincing Australian) and staring in awe at the beard that must've taken the waiter about 3 years to cultivate. Soon enough, the smushis had mysterious vanished and coincidentally our bellies had burgeoned, and it was onwards with the tour.

Lots of churches, theatres, funny little back streets and local trivia later, we'd started to walk off our smushi-tums. The Great Dane took great pleasure in trying to get my to try and pronounce all these long place names which I was ashamedly utterly crap at, but it was funny having a go anyway. I don't think I've ever encountered a language where I've literally not had any clue where to start, as normally I'm pretty good at picking up the odd foreign word or phrase. The best I could do was try the Danish word 'hygglig', which is a fundamental aspect of Danish culture, and the Danish word for Gummibears, 'Bubbi Bjørnene'. You can listen to the theme tune sung in Danish here. 

Time was ticking on, and The Great Dane was determined to take me for cake before I had to get my flight, since we'd spent an awful lot of our preamble talking about sweet treats. So we arrived at La Glace, and then bamboozled ourselves with the menu. I've never seen cakes like it, and their macaroons were absolutely beautiful. I'm kicking myself for not taking more photos, but their website shows them much better than I ever could. Sadly for us, we'd arrived 5 minutes before closing, so we had to buy to take away, but bought we did! I went for the Othellokage and The Great Dane went for the Æblekage. 

Cake in hand (but without cutlery which in hindsight was an error), we grabbed some iced coffee slash slushy drinks and went to find somewhere outside to eat. And, as if on cue, it started to rain. Brilliant. We wandered through the streets of Copenhagen half on the hunt for somewhere to sit and half on the hunt for free plastic cutlery. The Great Dane struck gold by half-inching some of the tiniest plastic spoons I've ever seen from a nearby ice cream vendor, and eventually we made it back to the canal lock where it had stopped raining, but the wind had taken up the helm instead. Try eating custardy cake in the wind with long hair and it's neither easy nor sexy.  But needless to say it was pretty awesome eating Copenhagen's finest baked offerings watching tour boats waft on by. 

The Great Dane had long-dispensed with the sensible tour information by this point, and instead was telling me how actually we were sat by the River Styx, and when the tourists pay the ferryman, he takes them to the end of the canal whereby the entire boat plunges into Hell, and to be frank I much prefer his version of events.

Sadly time was not on our side, and the prospect of a return flight to London was ever more pressing, so we hopped back on the Metro and headed back plane-wards. The Great Dane spent the entire journey back trying to explain to me the ticket system for the Metro, which I was apparently totally incapable of comprehending, either because a. I was borderline delirious from lack of sleep or b. because I was an utter moron. 

Once back at the airport, and I'd successfully misread every single Danish sign en route and finally managed how to work the self check in system, it was time to say goodbye. We had a hug at the bottom of the escalator, and I wandered off to security. The minute I'd gone through the gates that you can't get back through I was immediately stung with regret that I'd not suggested we went for a beer at the airport to round off what had been a really wonderful day. 

Suddenly I was on my own again at the terminal, exhausted after a day's travel and touring, and I started to feel rather tired and emotional. This was it, the end of 52 First Dates. I'm embarrassed to admit I shed a few tears whilst sat cuddling a 1kg bad of Daim Bars I'd irrationally bought to try and use up some Danish Krone, and I can't really tell you why I did. I checked my phone again and the response I'd already been getting through texts and tweets and Facebook told me there were lots of people around the world who'd been waiting for news on the date, and rather cruelly didn't tell them very much other than the fact I was back at the airport again.

One eventful flight featuring some free white wine and a woman with a broken arm later and I was back in Blighty. And finally, after four tube ride, two flights, two Metro journeys and a bus ride, 17 hours after I'd left home, I was back there again. Shattered, emotional, but happy.

Memorable Quotes:

There were loads throughout the whole date, but I can't remember them off the top of my head. But this was the first date ever where I'd not taken a single note at the time.

Events of note:

Too many to mention - smushis, frogs, cake, canals, flights, I mean, you've read this far...

The verdict:

So here it is, the moment you've all been waiting for. The verdict on Mr #52, The Great Dane, the final date of my epic 52 First Dates quest. Yes, we will hopefully see each other again, we've already mentioned the possibility of him popping over to London so I can try and play tour guide in return, so we'll just have to wait and see. 

As for romance? Who knows. I think maybe I spoilt that a little bit by the very nature of the date - me flying in from another country for the day and relying on some poor guy to impress me with his hometown as well as himself. 

In some ways, the tour element will have been a welcome distraction to the 'date' factor, but in other ways it may have been a bit of a hindrance. I really don't know. This distance thing is a real bugger to be honest, it's not like he lives just down the road, and we can pop out for a few more nights and see how it goes, it has to be a lot more contrived than that, and that's the unknown quantity. 

What I do know is Copenhagen is a really awesome city, and The Great Dane lived up to his name, a really awesome guy. This, for me, is a very happy ending to a very long year. Watch this space.

PS:
As a further note, I have to say I can't believe 52 First Dates is finally over. Fuck! Over the last 13 months or so, I've been on 52 dates with 52 completely different men. I won't lie, it's not been easy. Sometimes it's been scary, sometimes it's been weird, sometimes it's been fun. But now it's over I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. Do I celebrate? Do I comiserate? I honestly don't know. But what I do know, and I'm teary as I type, is I need to thank you all for sticking with me along this journey. It's genuinely been a life-changing experience for me and I don't regret a single minute of it. But I wouldn't have been able to do it without the kind words of encouragement that my wonderful readers...my virtual friends...have sent me every step of the way. It's been a wonderful assurance knowing that so many of you have been living these experiences with me, and hopefully enjoying them. Honestly, that means the world. So from the bottom of my heart I thank you. for reading, and I thank you for chosing such a wonderful 52nd date for me. I already have plans with what will happen to 52 First Dates away from here, but in terms of this blog I hope to carry on writing in some form or other, so you won't have heard the last of me yet. Sorry about that.

Thank you

CTS x

Mr #52 - The Final Five

So, this is it folks. A month ago I put a rather pitiful message out to the internet appealing for potential candidates to be the final date in my 52 First Dates challenge because, quite frankly, I would really love  a happy ending to the blog, and I’d been doing a pretty rubbish job of finding decent men online. And you’ll never guess what...I actually got some responses! From nice guys! I know, you’re probably as shocked as I am! But delighted nonetheless. 

Anyway, over the last few weeks, I’ve been emailing back and forth, and finally I’ve been able to narrow them down to these five chaps below. And for the record, I would love to go on a date with each and every one of them. But there can be only one. To protect their identity, I’ve given them each a pseudonym, and there are no photos here, because that’s not what it’s about. Let me introduce them to you, and why I wanted them to be in my final five *cue some sort of dramatic Apprentice-style music in my mind*

Mr 52A – aka The Great Dane

The Great Dane and I initially bonded over a mutual love of Eddie Izzard, why cheese is the best thing ever, how Disney can be used to teach grammar, and irresponsibly long hash tags. He’s 27, works as a software developer, and lives in the glorious city of Copenhagen. He has an awesome sense of humour, the capacity to endure 11 days at a festival without dying of alcohol poisoning, sunstroke or cholera, a command of the English language that puts most of us native speakers to shame, and he looks excellent in sunglasses. He can also bake.

Mr 52I – aka Not So Keane

Not So Keane and I first hit it off over comedy typos, why cucumber and celery should be made illegal, the merits and pitfalls of a Pret crack-mayo addiction, but most of all, of our mutual hatred of Keane. He’s 33, works as a draughtsman mapping the new sewer system under the Thames and is a fellow resident of London town. He too has an excellent sense of humour (you’ll see a theme developing here), an awesome appreciation of food programmes and is only ever photographed in multiples of four.

Mr 52J – aka Twinkletoes

Twinkletoes and I have actually been in touch on and off for the last 6 months or so, and we were at some point meant to go on a date, but this never really happened. Twinkletoes caught my attention largely because he calls me Twinkletoes with no obvious regret, but mainly because he has a maturity level similar to myself (chuckles at rude-shaped fruit), we like the same music and he can move his eyebrows independently. Twinkletoes is 26, an IT Project Manager who I believe might still live with his mum, although I can’t quite remember. He’s also a cheeky chappy and an ardent royalist who tries to curry sympathy by diagnosing himself with brittle bones.

Mr 52K – aka Lethal Brizzle

Lethal Brizzle first caught my attention when he sent me a link to his dating profile and I read the words ‘handy with a screw driver’. There are, of course, other redeeming features, such as similar tastes in music, the ability to sport a beard with aplomb, and the fact he offered to bring Fruit Pastilles on a first date. He’s a 29 year old ‘IT professional’ (I still don’t know what that means, you do computer shit, right?) who resides in the charming city of Bristol. Why did I like him? He is introduced as ‘the infamous Lethal Brizzle’ at weddings, occasionally wears hi-vis, and has been known to use his shoes as a pillow.

Mr 52O –aka Captain C-Diff

Captain C-Diff first wrote to me recommendation from a friend of his, and what struck me about him was his delightful inability to monitor his inner monologue, our mutual adoration of Elf and his love of writing (which, luckily for him, happens to also be his job). He is a 35 year old copywriter from Cardiff (hence his pseudonym, he’s definitely not a potentially lethal virus to the best of my knowledge) who calls his best friend his boyfriend and ranks St Elmo’s Fire (Man In Motion) as his all time favourite power ballad. When he’s not writing things, he also sends random girls infographics about malted milk biscuits over the internet.

So who should I go on a date with? Now, and rather tentatively I do so, I’m handing it over to you to cast your vote. You can choose who you’d like to be Mr #52 up until midnight on Sunday  15^th July (I’m not sure why then exactly, but most of these things seem to end at a midnight on a Sunday, so I may as well follow suit) and I’ll let you all know who the (un)lucky fellow is next week. So what are you waiting for? Cast your votes.....NOW! <--- there's a link under the word NOW, just in case you missed it. People do sometimes, especially when the word is so short. Probably should've thought that through earlier. Probably shouldn't be dwelling on it so much)

Mr #52?

So, I’ve finally done it! 51 first dates down and now it’s time for the last one. I won’t lie, it’s been an awesome experience, for a myriad of weird and wonderful ways. And now I’m faced with the final date, and somehow I’m sad to let it go. 

For the last couple of months, I fear I’ve maybe lost sight of the purpose of this project – to find someone special – because as soon as the big five two hove into view, the competitive part of me wanted to reach the bitter end. But perhaps that’s what it’s become, bitter, and that’s not doing the blog any justice at all. I knew I had to get to number #52 and I knew I had to do something very special for it. 52 First Dates deserves to end on a high, and of course, I’d rather like a happy ending for me too.
 

My first plan of action involved doing what I have never done in this entire process – putting my pride on the line asking someone nice out on a date, and being the one to make the effort. Over the last four months or so, I’d struck up a rather lovely long distance correspondence with a rather lovely single Danish boy. We’d spoken about the big serious things: religion, love, family values, as well as the trivial things: Will Ferrell, rum, cake, coffee, log cabins and knitwear. As the last few dates approached, I’d decided to swallow my pride and do the unthinkable: to summon up the proverbial balls ask this boy to be Mr 52. Because whatever would have happened, assuming he agreed in the first place, I knew we’d get on as people, and I knew it’d end the blog on a high. I had this silly idea that for the grand finale of 52 First Dates I’d bake a cake, hop on a plane to Copenhagen, deliver said cake and hopefully share a slice over a cheeky espresso, and then hop back on the plane to England again. For me, it’d have been positive closure to what has been a life-changing experiment, and for everyone who’s stuck with me through the blog, their chance to see me do something different and positive. Good plan right? Yes, in principle...

Trouble was, in the interim of my making this decision, the lovely Danish boy had found himself his own rather lovely girlfriend. Balls. Since I’m not the sort of girl to meddle with other people’s happiness, that idea bit the dust pretty sharpish. But DP, if you're reading this, there's still a cappuccino cupcake with your name on it should you ever end up in London town.

Anyway, back at the ranch, I was once again left with the quandary of how to make date #52 as special as I’d hoped. Enter my good friend Maggot*, a PR guru who then suggested in so many words that my choices of dates have been pretty poor at best and fucking diabolical at worst, and to let the long-suffering readers of 52 First Dates choose the final date for me!

Brilliant!

So, dearly beloved readers of 52 First Dates, this is where you come in. I put it to you that since you probably all know me better than myself by now, having endured every buttock-clenchingly cringe-worthy moment of the last 51 weeks of my life, that you help to find Mr #52 for me. You may know the perfect person to tick this elusive box, or even fancy yourself for this coveted slash much-afeared position. Well now’s the time to play Cupid and get that little bow and arrow of yours out (but perhaps leave the nappy at home). You’ve been on these dates with me (virtually), you know the sorts of things and people I like and don’t like, I’m obviously making a total balls-up of finding a boyfriend myself so perhaps you can do a better job.

Perhaps.

All you need to do is get your proposed Mr #52 (or in fact yourself if you fancy being the boy to break 52 First Dates) to email me with some information about themselves / yourself and a photograph, and hopefully some light-hearted correspondence will ensue (although I must add by means of a casual disclaimer that this isn’t guaranteed, not because I’m rude or anything like that, I’m always happy to email, but I’m just a bit shit at times, especially when I’m in the middle of moving house).

I’ve given myself a month to do this because quite frankly I’ve grown too cynical about this whole dating malarkey, and I figure a month sans dates will give me enough time to get my turbulent domestic situation sorted and more importantly to cleanse my former date-induced scepticism so Mr #52 has the fairest of shots. Therefore, on the 11th of July 2012, I shall short-list 5 possible candidates (or just list them if five or less apply for the date which is more than likely) and I’ll open them up to a poll whereby you vote for the final date of 52 First Dates. I trust you will be kind. I will then go on said date, and write it up so you all know how it went. Simples! And, as an added incentive, if you voted for the right Mr #52 and I end up marrying him, you will of course all be invited to the wedding**.

In the interest of fairness, I should probably also give you some vital information about myself (or lifted from my online dating profile) so budding Mr #52s know a little bit about who or what they’re up against.

Name: CTS (obviously not my real name, but my real initials)

Age: 31

Profession: Edit producer formerly in television, now for a charity.

Random factoid: Used to be a falconer

Likes: knitting, baking, chutney-making, playing the piano, cake, teaching her parrots pointless things, writing in the third person, Tim Minchin, weird films, dark comedy, gigs, blowing raspberries, a wide range of cheeses, cats, Elf, sarcasm, writing, secret London pubs, feathers, loud guitars and louder drums, regional accents, festivals, crispy smoked bacon, Hackney, taxidermy, Eddie Izzard, my nephew, a good book, riding around on the top deck of the bus, cricket, the correct use of grammar, the Overground, lie ins, Charlie Brooker, overripe bananas, being independent, the ukulele, long words, antidisestablishmentarianism.

Dislikes: lateness, bad grammar, stubbing my toe, cucumber, the word ‘moist’, arrogance, spiders, Keane, being disappointed in the human race, the Daily Express, laziness, low-fat spreads, money-lovers, seafood sticks, noisy eaters, unripe bananas, football hooligans, Marley and Me, people who chew gum with their mouths open, the Tube.

 

Would like to meet: Someone fun, funny, possible funny-looking but ideally not funny-smelling. Own teeth and hair essential (or at least acceptable substitutes toupees notwithstanding). Someone who likes to ponder the pointless as well as the poignant. Someone who can make me laugh. Someone who will hopefully not make me cry (unless it’s through laughter, see previous point). Artists, musicians, creative types especially welcome.

Oh, I have a face too. This is it.

So to sum up, I CTS ask you lovely readers to help me find my happy ending. You can help me out by spreading the word, passing this on, telling your friends and helping me round 52 First Dates off with a wonderfully big bang. So until next time, thank you and goodnight.

Mr #51 - The Stinky Ginger

The preamble:

Right, Mr #51, the penultimate date of 52 First Dates. Excited? Admittedly I wasn’t, but that’s because the poor timing of my house move has sapped all of my energy and enthusiasm for pretty much everything except removals, mortgages, and the frighteningly amount of money I appear to be haemorrhaging all over the place at the moment. So as has been the case over the last few dates, I had a panic, and accepted the next date that came my way. He looked smart, sounded sane, and was really rather ginger. In my experience of ginger chums, they usually have about 25% more personality and chutzpah than the average person presumably as a self-defense mechanism cultivated at school when kids are mean about things like this, so I thought I’d be in for an entertaining evening. 

The man:

Age: 30
Profession: Freelance computer programmer. Currently unemployed.

Random factoid: He’s currently taking singing lessons.

 The date:

We’d arranged to meet at Oxford Circus at 7pm, on account of the fact that Mr #51 didn’t know anywhere to go in Soho, so once again I had to think of somewhere to go. So, at 7pm on the dot, I stood myself in the entrance of Nike Town, and texted to let him know I was there. He promptly replied and said he hadn’t left yet. Great. So I decided to potter around Top Shop in the warm, waiting for my date to turn up and trying not to spend money. I may have accidently put my face in a cupcake whilst avoiding the allure of the jewellery section, but what can you do! My poor wallet was crying out for some action, and my empty tummy was also shouting out, so it was a compromise I had to make. 

Half an hour later, my phone went, and Mr #51 had arrived. I found him propped up outside Top Shop in all his titian glory, with tatty black jeans, a sort of aubergine velour tracksuit top on and a big stubbly grin. We greeted, and rather embarrassingly I went for the one kiss on the cheek, whereas he went for a full on hug and ended up snogging my neck. Great start. 

Anyway he seemed cheery enough, so I proposed a couple of pubs up Great Portland Street, and we started walking and talking. He had a brilliant Northern Irish accent which I really love, but I really had to fight the urge to join in with the Ulsterness for fear of offending. As we moseyed up the street, we chatted about London, and since he’d only been a resident for just over a year (and only in Clapham), he was forgiven for his geographical ignorance. We happened upon a reasonable looking pub, so we ducked in and grabbed a table. 

First impressions, once the awkwardness of the snog-hug had worn off were that he was quite nice, very dry, but nice. As he warmed up, he also had a pretty decent sense of humour. But he was obviously knackered, and whilst I was trying to ‘give good date’, he did spend the majority of the time rubbing his face like an over-tired toddler. We covered music, playing instruments, festivals, vegetarianism, comedy, camping, pets and cannibals. 

He took great pleasure in telling me how that day he’d been for a test at an employment agency, and he’d sat in a room cheating on his iPhone. He also decided to tell me about the drugs he’d taken, and recommended I didn’t try miaow miaow on account of it turning him into a zombie. Thanks for the tip. 

After a couple of drinks, the face-rubbing got even worse, so we decided to call it a day. And just as we stood up to leave, he dropped a bombshell. Quite literally. From his bottom. I have never smelt anything quite like it in my entire life. And it was definitely him, as it sure as hell wasn’t me and there was no-one else within a 7 metre radius. It was inhumane, I could even taste it. In fact, writing this now, I can still taste it. The look on his face said he hoped I hadn’t noticed, but the look on my face must’ve given it totally away. My immediate reaction was to start talking about public transport and how best he could get home, and we quietly but stealthily headed off to the tube, where I left him, before I ducked into Tesco Express to buy some mints to stick up my nose. Game over Mr #51.

Memorable Quotes:

‘Do you need to take cats for walks?’

‘Stephen Fry is too intelligent for me’

‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I don’t do too well in the sun’

Events of note:

En route to the pub, we both stopped for some money, and there was a homeless guy sat right next to cash point where I was stood. Suddenly, an inopportune gust of wind lifted my dress right in front of this poor guy’s face, as if to say ‘Sorry dude, no cash, but here’s an ass’. Yes, I Monroed a hobo. Classy CTS, very classy.

The Verdict:
There was part of me that thought before going on #51 that the poor bugger didn’t stand a chance being so close to the end, but I did genuinely enter into the date with an open mind. And although for the most part the chat was fine and at times amusing, I felt like I was talking to someone a lot more immature than me, not just in personality stakes but in life stales too. But the final blow (literally) came with that dirty protest of his at the last minute, and after dropping a botty-bomb such as that, no thanks, no chance. 

So there you have it, 51 dates and still going. But there’s only one left. Who will it be? Well, let me tell you know, it’s going to be something a little bit different, and I’m going to need your help. Stay tuned for further instructions...

Mr #50 - the Nutter

The preamble:

So once again I owe you guys an apology - not for going on my date #50 late, oh no, I did meet him in good time, I've just not got round to writing him up on account of being homeless. So many apologies, and for this very same reason I fear Mr #51 may be a little tardy in the offing too, but since you've stuck with me this far, I hope you'll not object too much. 

Anyroad, Mr #50, would you like to meet him? Good. So Mr #50 had been messaging on and off for a couple of weeks, he looked very nice and safe, he used full sentences when texting which always a ticks a certain box with me. And amid the chaos of my packing and moving and misplacing most of my essential possessions, we arranged to meet near Angel for a drink.

The man:
Age: 37
Profession:  Importer of gourmet foods, namely nuts and dried fruit

Random factoid:  There was nothing random about this man whatsoever. Which was all in all rather disappointing...

The date:

Before we met, Mr #50 had promised to take me out on the Sunday afternoon for tea and cake. But as the date crept ever nearer, he retracted his offer in favour of a quiet Pimms, which under normal circumstances I wouldn't mind, but I'd been sat in all bloody day waiting for some bastard from Freecycle to come and collect my sofa (they never turned up by the way, I know you were wondering...) and I'd had cake on the brain for hours. 

When we confirmed our plans on the day, I was surprised that Mr #50 actually rang me a couple of times, which always catches me off guard a little as most people opt for the text approach rather than risk hearing what the other person sounds like and bottling it. You know what? He sounded lovely. Nice and normal. Great. Cake retraction forgiven. And I was looking forward to meeting him. So that evening I managed to peel myself away from my boxes to scamper over to Angel, where I met Mr #50.

He was tall, dark, handsome with rather lovely blue eyes. Excellent work I thought! Off we pottered to a pub of my choosing, equipped ourselves with a pair of Pimmses and got to know each other. Within a relatively short space of time, I'd established that Mr #50 was rather passive aggressive. He controlled the conversation with almost military precision, and whenever he tired of a subject and wanted to move on, he'd use the same phrase every time: 'oh it's all fun and games isn't it'. Over time, this got a little wearing. 

Conversation was, at his behest, mostly about relationships - infidelity (he'd been with his ex for 9 years before she left him for someone else), kids, home-buying, utilities companies, and his business. We're both in the same position as we're both in the process of buying somewhere to live, and are technically homeless, but he kept putting everything about his move into the perspective that he'd like to buy somewhere that when he gets into a relationship (which he may have mentioned about a million times) that he'll think about where they should both live, and rent his place out. This man was frighteningly keen to settle down. But then to try and counteract this incredibly keen assertion that he wants to move in with someone, he'd then profess who finding dating 'terribly fickle', and that he doesn't have the energy anymore. Not convinced sunshine. Not in the slightest. 

He was also all-too-keen to over analyse me, calling me 'my own person' (what the fuck does that even mean when it's at home? Or homeless), telling me I was very 'London' (again, what do you mean by that, likening me to one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world?) and subtly patronising me for the fact that I live alone, am buying my own place and I have my own independence. 

The final nail in the coffin was when he managed to make me jaw drop by saying that if we were to get together, because both of us are homeless, we'd have to get 'at it' in the back of his Mini, like (and I quote) 'a pair of horny teenagers'. Game over. Game well over! 

Fortunately we were both sucking on dry mint leaves at this point, and seeing it was a school night, I made my excuses to leave. And despite my favourable first impressions, I did not look back.

Memorable Quotes:
'I don't want to have to resort to Thai brides until I'm at least 50'
'There's only so exciting almonds can be'. You're telling me!

Events of note:

Taking subtle notes on the decor in the pub for my new place...taxidermied birds, bowler hat lamp shades and dog print upholstery are now on the 'to buy' list.

The Verdict:
Am I going to see him again? No chance. I'd like to meet someone who appreciates my independence and also is content to have their own. Not someone who suddenly want to leap straight in to co-habitation and instantly becoming joined at the hip (in both senses of the word). I'm sure there's a lady out there in exactly the position to tick his proverbial boxes, but she ain't me. No siree.

Mr #49 - The Mole

The preamble:

Okay confession time again folks. Mr #49 was yet another last minute booking on account of the fact that I’m moving home in less than two weeks, and the fact that I a. Don’t have anywhere to go to and b. Don’t seem to have thrown out a single thing in the last 6 years has meant I’ve been somewhat preoccupied with my living situation and my forthcoming dates have slipped down my priorities list a little. Something more important than 52 First Dates I hear you cry? Well exactly! To be honest, it’s all bloody inconvenient and I’m irked at best that this bloody move is bloody thwarting the twilight weeks of my dating experiment, but such is life. 

So bearing these excuses in mind, you won’t be surprised to hear that Mr #49 was yet again rather a last minute panic booking since all my time at the moment is spent filling cardboard boxes with crap rather than sifting through eligible bachelors online, and I won’t lie to you, I’m not exactly being inundated with offers at the moment, so you know the phrase, beggars can’t be choosers. 

We’d been emailing on and off a couple of weeks though, he sounded and looked sweet enough to share a cheeky vino with (from his limited profile and distant holiday photos), and since we both had other plans for the evening (his were to jet off to Lithuania, mine were to look at...packing materials!), it made sense to meet for a quick drink early and to see if it was worth it for a second date.

The man:
Age: 32
Profession: Hostel manager

Random factoid: He was the first date I’ve ever been on where I had absolutely no idea how to pronounce his name, which made for a rather odd first introduction.

The date:

I met Mr #49 at Waterloo station, and it was rather embarrassing having to call him and say with my usual blustering eloquence ‘er...hi...er...sorry, I don’t know how to say your name, but it’s Claire from t’interwebs, who are you, where are you and what the hell do you look like?’. Fortunately he identified himself as ‘the guy in the black leather jacket and jeans’ (which is helpful amidst hundreds of tourists mostly matching that description), but a random wave across the road and I’d spotted him in the exact perspective I’d seen him in his profile photos. And as he came closer, I soon realised why there were no close ups. No, it wasn’t his rather curiously dyed black hair as compensation for his receding hairline. No, it wasn’t the fact that he looked like a shorter, stockier Chico Slimani. It was the massive blue mole (yes, blue) the size of a garden pea slap bang in the middle of his nose. And it had stubble, yes, the mole was partially unshaven. It was hypnotic! And all I could hear in the back of my mind was Mike Myers saying ‘moley moley moley’. 

Anyway he was chirpy enough, so we popped along to a nearby bar, procured some beverages and got to chatting. Immediately I became aware that this guy didn’t have any appreciation of personal space, and insisted on standing uncomfortably close at all times, so close in fact I could feel his moley moley moley breath on me, and it wasn’t pleasant. I have to say, this guy’s small talk wasn’t great, but he made up for his lack of moley moley moley banter by smiling relentlessly and laughing at everything I said, regardless of whether it was joke or not. 

Conversation was generic at best: the weather, public transport, where we both lived London and moley moley moley festivals. One very random and straw-clutching area of common ground we stumbled upon was the fact we both listen to Metallica, and he really came alive when describing to me a moley moley moley Metallicaed tribute band he’d been to see. It was so good in fact, that he said it was better than seeing the real band live, and he’d taken the time to film their set on his moley moley moley mobile phone which he delighted in showing me. Bless him (moley moley moley). 

Fortunately as the wine and moley moley moley small talk dried up, it was time for us to head off to our respective plans, so we decided to call it a day. Mr #49 kindly insisted on waiting around at the bus stop for me, squeezing an extra 15 more moley moley moley minutes of awkward small talk out of me (thanks TFL) before my bus arrived and I had to bid Mr #49 and his illustrious mole farewell.

Memorable Quotes:
Mr #49: ‘I live in the hostel where I work. It’s really good, I can have free pizza any time I want’

Me: ‘wow, you’re really living the dream aren’t you?’

Mr #49: ‘Yes!’

Events of note:

Midway through our date, I noticed what appeared to be a coach-load of American pensioners filing in through the front door and wending their way round the corner. What was particularly memorable about this crocodile of old folk was that it as never-ending! Literally, ten minutes and they were still going! Mr #49 and I even stopped our conversation to watch what must have been in excess of over 150 greying Americans with baseball caps and bum bags (or, if we’re being geographically appropriate, ‘fanny packs’) plodding in through the front door and into a mysterious back room where I was convinced they were being rounded up and held hostage.

The Verdict:

Bless him, Mr #39 was a sweet boy, but other than Metallica as common ground, there was literally nothing there, no chemistry, no chat, no nothing. He dressed like Tom Cruise in the eighties and looked like Chico from X Factor. Oh, and that mole. Call me superficial, but seriously, THAT MOLE! When recounting the events of this date to my mother, she rather brilliantly remarked ‘well if you got together with him sweetheart, you could always ask for him to have it topped off’? Thanks mum, but no.

Mr #48 - Ricey Missiles

The preamble:

There hadn't been a tremendous amoung of preamble between Mr #48 and I before we'd arranged a date. The reason was I'd had such a lovely evening with The Bulgarian Sherlock last week, we'd arrranged to meet again for a second date this Wednesday (which was delightful by the way, thank you for asking, but that's as much as you're going to get on here on account of the fact it's 52 First Dates...not 52 First, Second, maybe Third Dates depending on how CTS gets on), and I felt uncomfortable meeting someone else in the interim. 

But I was aware that I needed to cram a date in during the week, and since all of my evenings were booked up with other things, I had a bit of a panic, and took up the offer of a coffee with Mr #48 from an online dating site on Saturday afternoon. Two things struck me about Mr #48 after we'd exchanged numbers...a. he was really grumpy by text, and managed to make me feel that a quick message to confirm the date was interrupting his incredibly busy working schedule and b. he was absolutely rubbish with predictive text, and never made any attempts to remedy it eg. I can come to White japes. Er, did you mean Whitechapel? Weird.

The man:
Age: 37
Profession: Freelance lettings agent. Mmm, estate agents. My favourite...

Random factoid: He knew more about the  history of the Rotherhithe Tunnel than anyone I'd ever met. This is nothing to be proud of...

The date:

Saturday afternoon galloped around with frightening aplomb, and before I knew it I was heading off to Brick Lane to meet Mr #48. As per usual, I texted him to let him know where I'd be, what I looked like and to warn him I'd had a fringe cut since I'd updating my profile pictures. His response? 'I'll be in a black jacket'. At this point I hoped that no-one else on the busy bustling Brick Lane would be wearing a black jacket too (hmm...) or even more worryingly that he was wearing more than just a black jacket (although that would have definitely added a certain je ne sais quoi to the date. 

Fortunately, when I arrived, he was the only one matching that description, and yes, he did have his trousers on. Phew. Unusually for my dates, he was tall, very rough around the edges, not particularly attractive (well, nowhere near as nice as he'd looked in his pictures), and was a prop'ah geez'ah! 

Before we set off, he made it perfectly clear to me that he needed to eat and that he had to leave in enough time that he could go and watch the football, one man, two missions. We marched up the lane to grab a coffee, and I noticed he didn't have much appreciation for personal space, and as we kept walking I found myself veering closer and closer to the wall on the right hand side. Fortunately before I grazed the skin clean off my right arm, we found a quaint little mezze place, so we commandeered a table, I ordered a peppermint tea, and to my surprise he went for the same, as well as ordering a mammoth bowl of brown rice and meatballs. 

As we waited for his food to arrive (I wasn't eating as it was mid-afternoon, I'd already had lunch, and we all know I'm not the biggest fan of eating on first dates unless there are mitigating circumstances), he cracked on with the small talk, with him taking particular notice to my dress and necklace, both of which he was not content to just look at but was determined to paw. Easy now. 

Being the football-heathen I am, I foolishly asked what the big match was (I knew there was a big match, that's enough surely????) and was then subjected to a rather painful pop quiz of my knowledge of the Europa League. After ten excruciating minutes, Mr #48 conceded that it was okay that I didn't know that much about football, because I am a girl after all. 

As the subject changed, the teas and meatballs arrived, and the rest of the date ensued in between giant mouthfuls and munchings. The date was relatively brief on account of Mr #48's pressing engagement with the big game, and the subject matter was varied. He covered Thailand (well, he did mainly on account of his just arriving back from 5 months away there and all of the accompanying anecdotes, and my contribution that I'd never been to Thailand, but their cuisine is ace), lettings prices in London (don't get me started!), birds, the weather (pleeeeeeeease!), car and van hire (his instigation, not mine thank you very much), the fact he has no idea what a fringe is, quinoa and the Rotherhithe Tunnel.

Soon enough, the meatballs had evaporated, and his internal body clock was telling him it was beer with the lads time. He went off to pay for the food and teas, and then spent the following 10 minutes arguing loudly with the guy behind the bar about the bill, as he was adamant that he had been overcharged. It turned out he hadn't, and rather sheepishly he returned to collect his jacket and we headed off. He frog-marched me back down the lane again and offered me a lift home, which I gracefully declined on account of not wanting to get in a car with someone I didn't really trust to keep himself to himself. 

We arrived at a stunning Rolls Royce and he offered up his goodbyes. And as I walked away, I noticed in my peripheral vision the lights on a battered old Fiesta on the opposite side of the road go, and Mr #48 stealthily scampered over to climb into the vehicle. I pretended I hadn't noticed.

Memorable Quotes:
'So where exactly do you live, what road? Don't worry, I won't stalk you or sit outside your house or anything...' Sorry love, not taking any chances...

'I do like brown rice. Makes me feel all healthy and stuff.'

'Look at you and yer Brick Lane shoes!'

Events of note:

Over the course of the date, I'd successfully managed to dodge no less than ten brown rice missiles as Mr #48 chattered away through mouthfuls of food, all of which I had to quickly pick off my dress when he went to the bar.

The Verdict:

As we said goodbye at his imaginary car, Mr #48 suggested he'd give me a ring and we could go out for 'prop'ah booze!'. Sadly, I fear that's a bullet I'm still going to have to dodge. He wasn't very attractive, was too much of a wide boy and we just didn't have anything in common. I was retrospectively grateful he had something else to do afterwards so I didn't have to call the date short myself, but to be honest I was rather pleased to escape.