Mr #43 - The Murderer. Probably.

The preamble:
To be honest, I'm not entirely sure why I eventually agreed to meet Mr #43. When we first started emailing, I thought Mr #43 was quite sweet. We'd bonded over our mutual love of African grey parrots and he had a lovely way with words. But then in the middle of our e-chat, suddenly I was unable to reply to his messages. Then, a couple of days later, he emailed to apologise for 'accidentally' blocking me. Weird. But nevermind, chatting resumed, we swapped numbers, and arranged a date. 

A couple of days before the date, however, he texted to say he had to get something off his conscience, that he'd lied on his profile and that he was actually 40, and not 35, but that his colleagues had advised him to fess up before the date. He justified the claim by saying he actually looked a lot younger than 40, and thought he could get away with it. Weirder. So to refresh my memory even further, I logged back onto the site to have a look at his profile. And it was no longer there. Weirdest yet. 

So I texted Mr #43 querying his absence, and made it perfectly clear that if he was dicking around for whatever reason, I wasn't interested, and that I had concerns he might not be who he said he was. He concurred that his behaviour had been pretty odd, explained away, and allayed my fears enough that I would go and meet him. But in broad daylight. And not before getting the ladies in my office to look for him on t'internet in case I didn't turn up to work the next day and pieces of my anatomy were found floating along the river in Asda bags. The more astute of you may have deduced by the very presence of this write up that I probably wasn't dismembered and discarded into the Thames. 

Or was I?

Okay, I wasn't.

The man:
Age: 40
Profession: Something to do with law and publishing

Random factoid: He had a number of ex girlfriends. From the following write up, you'll see why this might seem really rather random...

The date:
So, bracing myself for a potential face off with a genuine interweb weirdo and after practising my rapid deo-in-face self-defence move, I headed off to Waterloo to meet Mr #43. We were due to meet at the bottom of the main steps, and as if I wasn't suspicious enough, when I arrived there were two police officers stood there also waiting for someone, hopefully not my date, but at least if it WAS my date then a. I'd have survived a watery grave and b. I'd have had the night off. Lovely. But no, they didn't accost my date before he accosted me, more's the pity. And why I say 'accost', it was actually more of a polite approachment and cheek peck. 

My first thoughts were how quiet and petite he was, and also how camp he was. Had I maybe mislead him from my profile? Perhaps my picture with the handlebar moustache had been a bit "confusing". Was he expecting a date with a dude? It seemed not. Or if he was, he masked his disappointment well.

First assessments made, we pottered off to a nearby bar, and attempted to procure some beverages. Like a fool, I'd rushed out of the office without the precautionary bladder-empty I would usually employ before going on a date, so  I left my date with my drinks order and scampered off to the facilities before making the date memorable for rather more embarrassing reasons. 

When I returned to my rum and coke, I was rather surprised when my date said 'now I'm not an alcoholic...but I was forced to buy TWO Kronenbergs'. I see, so you've got two pints there, and I have a little rum and coke to nurture. Don't get me wrong, I am no fan of double parking on a first date, nor did I want him to buy me two drinks. But I'm a swift drinker, and struggle at the best of times to pace a spirit and mixer against a date's pint, let alone two. Plus I always like to buy a round myself, but it's only polite to do so once my date has finished. And if I'd gone before he'd had his second, that'd just seem rude. It's funny how rapidly these thoughts whizz around your head when faced with such a situation. Anyone would think I've been on one too many dates...! 

Drinks aside, we got to the talky part of the date, which proved a little problematic. He was very quiet and not very chatty, and although I'm pretty good at getting some sort of evenly-balanced dialogue out of my dates, with him I was definitely responsible for 80% of the chat. That's not why I go on dates, if I wanted to hear the sound of my own voice I could just stay at home, talk to myself about the same old shit and work my way through a bottle of Morgan's Spiced. It'd be a lot cheaper. 

I also studied his face, and the more I realised yes, he did have very young features, but his skin was very thin and crinkly, like crepe paper, the sort of skin you'd see atop a bald octogenarian that would be so soft you'd be frightened to tear it. As we spoke, or more accuretly, as I spoke and he listened, my date did become more animated, and with the animation came more effeminate flourishes.

Memorable Quotes:
'You may have noticed I'm a keen swimmer' No, I hadn't. You're in a suit, not Speedos...! Oh, but if you were...

'I don't read newspapers. Or watch the news...' Er, what???

Events of note:

The distinct lack of any sort of murder. Don't get me wrong, I am very pleased about that.

The Verdict:

I won't be seeing Mr #43 again, partly because I suspect I'm not quite as masculine as I suspect he might secretly have liked, but mainly because he was so polite although he didn't murder me on a first date, he definitely would have done so on the second date and I have shit to do, a life to live, bills to pay, more dates to go on...death would really put a dampener on the whole thing, so best we leave things as is.

Mr #42 - Dumb Blonde

First of all, apologies for the tardiness in bringing Mr #42 to your computer screens. I've had a bit of a bugger of a time trying to squeeze in dates with a bonkers work schedule, and last week when I was finally able to line one up, he cancelled the same day on account of a sniffle. Sadly I wasn't able to turn another date around in time, so last week my date life was more barren than Samantha Bricks' soul. But this week, by way of apology to the followers of 52 First Dates who haven't had their fix of interweb weirdness, I managed to pull the elusive #42 out of my sleeve in the nick of time, and with the promise of a Mr #43 as back up.  Double date week leading up to Easter? Well, it's what Jesus would have wanted. Probably.

The preamble:
Mr #42 have been in touch for about two months or so prior to meeting, but thanks to him jetting off to China for two weeks and me working all hours at work, it took us a while to have a date. Although he was 10 years older, he looked like a game sort of fella from his pictures (most of which for some reason were topless which I hasten to add did not influence my decision to meet him in any way, although for the record, he did have a wonderfully carved torso), and he had a good sense of humour, despite the fact he used LOL a little too freely for my liking. 

However, once we'd exchange numbers, he was pretty keen to spark up the text banter, and from past experience I try not to get too deep into the old texting malarkey as it always ends up getting sticky and disappointing, never a good combination of words. It felt a little like a vetting process, asking whether I wanted kids, my living arrangements, and sending me pictures of him with his daughters, his garden, and some weird chest of drawers he was selling on eBay.  Hmm, possibly the strangest dating preamble to date. But the date was already in the calendar, and it was too late to back out now!

The man:
Age: 41

Profession: Runs his own property business as well as selling weird shit on eBay.

Random factoid: Once owned 20 guinea pigs.

The date:
I'll be the first to admit I wasn't on my finest form leading up to the date, on account of an irresponsible marshmallow eating competition in the office which lead to me rapidly growing the equivalent of a 6 months sugar baby in my very bloated belly. So, hoping I wouldn't encounter any awkward questions about my due date, I hauled my mallow-child off to Waterloo to meet Mr #42. 

If my date was an animal from a film, he would have without doubt have been Marley from my least favourite film in the whole wide world ever. He bounded over in a shock of blonde hair like some sort of Haribo-psyched Labrador and before I knew it we were both bounding off together in search of a pub. 

After grabbing some drinks, we found a little corner in which to perch, and get down to the dating. On closer inspection, my date looked like the bastard lovechild of Paul Hogan in Crocodile Dundee and Mick Jagger (a union definitely made to make the mind boggle). He had the shaggy hair of an aging Aussie rock star, and the deep facial crevices of someone who enjoyed the eighties and probably forgot the nineties. 

He was incredibly attentive, very chatty, and really easy-going. He was also not very bright. For someone who runs a couple of his own businesses, I was really surprised by some of the shit he was coming out with. We covered all the main bases, work, family, travel, and the one thing that I found a little uncomfortable was the amount he dwelt on my single status. He said on no less than 4 occasions how surprised he was I was single, and every time he did so he made me feel more and more insecure that maybe I do have some massive personality flaw that I've not acknowledged yet but that my friends and family are all too kind to point out. 

He spoke at great length about his ex who was a cleaner, and his two daughters, It's clear he's an awesome dad who adores his children, but he was so forthcoming about wanting more kids I was slightly concerned I might've been fertilised there and then by intoxicating paternal osmosis. But after calling me a 'clever girl' for living on my own in London, and then drawing a comparison between the age gap between my sister and I to that of his daughters, It suddenly made me very aware of my age and how much older he was. Another example was his constant allusions to the fact that as a young(ish), single girl I must be out getting irrationally bladdered and pulling boys left, right and centre every night of the week. How little he knew of me. One blanket, a tub of Haagen-Dasz and a Horlicks, please barkeep.

Memorable Quotes:
Oh there were a lot of these...

'I showed my colleague your photo before I left work. She said you looked like you were 25. She also said you looked really normal, which is strange as people on the internet aren't normal'

'I don't drink rose wine, it's poofy'

'I've never been to a gig before. Except when I went to see Bon Jovi. Three times.'

'What do you like to do? I like holidays'

'I got a swan stuck in an oar once. Turned the boat over. But it was okay, as I had a few layers of lycra on'

And the best question on a date yet...'Who is your best friend?' No, that one's for your daughters, NOT your dates...

 

Events of note:

When two girls with absolutely no sense of propriety plonked themselves down at our little round table without asking or even acknowledging we were probably on a date, and about 10 minutes later a bottle of wine and two plates of pasta arrived at our table. For them.

  

The Verdict:

Oh dear, I feel a bit sad writing this. Throughout the date Mr #42 was incredibly complimentary, very tactile, obviously keen, and well-meaning. He's obviously someone without a bad bone in his body, and would make someone a wonderful partner. But trying to find some sort of chemistry between us was way too forced, and I think it was more hopeful from his side of things rather than sensing a genuine connection. I won't be seeing him again, but I sincerely hope he finds that special boat-loving lady with whom he can pop out a whole tribe of mini Hogan-Jaggers

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...