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.