Date 5: The Accidental Date

I met my accidental date in 2008, on a training course. We were at a session about interviewing skills so questions were the order of the day, and as it turned out, I was a natural. Maybe not a journalistic success, but if a chat show hosts were judged on how many of your interviewees you'd snogged, then move over Graham Norton I'm getting Friday night BBC 1. It's just lucky I don't work in the HR recruitment department because it’s saved the tribunal. On second thoughts, maybe I missed a trick. The first foray into eye contact, ruthless questioning and really listening, revealed its power. I've noticed in the years since this, if in doubt ask a question and look like you're listening is the best lazy date strategy. People love talking about themselves. It seems to help. To feign listening you have to not interrupt and then ask another question that vaguely leads on from the last answer they gave. The strategy can be employed at various stages of any relationship, and has particular power during phone calls when your bow insists on seven-minute monologues, when your total input mash-up could only suggest that you’re a big fan of the 2000s indi-rock punk band, the ‘Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs’.   Even less focus required over the phone on those long distance relationships. No eye contact required. 

Way back in 2008, when the staff training had usefully taught me some seduction skills, I received a lot of great kisses from my accidental date between hotel rooms, and then in the park, and then in more parks. There were many parks. Some had deer. He’d introduced me the magic of cucumber, tomato, fresh coriander and salt on pita. Revolutionary for an individual brought up on iceberg lettuce and no dressing. It blew my mind. He is Palestinian and had the tight black curls, a neat and fairly petite frame, brown eyes and rounded features. We’d talked about what it was like to grown up in the Yemen, summer camps with AK47s, and looked at maps where Palestine once existed but no longer did. It was the first time I'd hung out with someone who was suffering with post-traumatic stress disorder. We use the word disorder like it’s unusual, but actually it’s normal physiological reaction. It was only really apparent because we happened to date in November. He certainly wasn’t going to be remember, remembering any gunpowder, treason or plots with me.

In terms of women he was a good Muslim boy at the time, so spending time together was more My Fair Lady than My Bare Lady. My sexually liberated 27-year-old self did find this somewhat frustrating. It had come to an end when I went to Australia, fell in love with a lothario diving instructor (cliché alert) at the Great Barrier Reef (double cliché alert), and love with the diplomatic multilingual Palestinian never rekindled.

Until…,

I bump into him at work. He's attempting to give up smoking so is visibly frustrated and distracted. People from countries where peace can’t be taken for granted seem to smoke more. The message that smoking is not good for your health and may shorten your life doesn't touch the sides when you come from a perspective that smoking doesn't kill you, IEDs (improvised explosive devices, not to be confused with IUDs) do. It's relative when comparing 35 years and a few seconds to the end. He's lived in the U.K. for some time now, knows more Kings of England than I do, and has residency. He's been embracing the culture by going to the BBC proms all month and it's the last week, so he invites me along. 

During the eight-week season of the Proms there are 90 concerts performed by leading orchestras and choirs of the world, in one of London’s finest buildings, the Royal Albert Hall. You can go inside and take a look at the auditorium on Google maps. It’s all for under a tenner if you buy the pleb tickets, which you can even purchase on the door. Warning: Spontaneity might occur, unlike other London events, which are booked out a year in advance.

We went for a beer and Tai curry before the performance. He’s a flexible Muslim, and would pass the non-official test for being a Londoner. In London the pollution is so bad that to limit exposure to heavy metals and other chemicals in the drinking water, it’s best to drink spirits and beer ALL the time. It’s the Wild West End. Fact. By this point we are definitely on a date. There’s so much familiarity that it feels like we have picked up where we left off eight years ago. There’s even some hand holding going on.

It’s very exciting. We are going to see Mendelssohn’s String Adagio, and I’m starting to feel those 'violins strings playing like a symphony', Corrine Bailey Rae style. The music is phenomenal, the setting and the acoustics are stunning. It’s really good to see him, and listen to his balance and insightful views before and after; and to just be.

After a lovely evening we kissed, and it was as dreamy as my memory, but with less smoke and more nostalgia. He asked if I wanted to come back to his but a thought about carefully, and I really wanted my electric toothbrush. It’s hard to explain just how much I love cleaning my teeth!

Read More

Date 4: The Friend of a Friend

Have you ever been in the situation where you said you would meet up with a friend, and their mates but you’re not quite sure who exactly is on the guest list? When the four of us sat down at the table and the chitchat began, I looked up to realise my mate and his mate are looking at me with all the expectant loving pride of a parent at the school nativity. They are both very excited about their matchmaking, and every expression in their faces is willing me forward! All their hopes rest upon the fairy tale in which I get to play a star role. Lucky me, I’m the Princess.

 I am not so excited about this matchmaking, and now I’m going to spending the evening navigating the moments when our friends tactically disappear in order to give us space so that romance might bloom. I had met this fellow before at the Nottinghill Carnival in the summer. It was the weekend before the inevitable long-term relationship breakup happened, so I wasn’t really open minded about romance at the time. He had walked my coconut and rum saturated body to the tube station, so I knew he was a gentleman. Even completely blotto, I hadn’t recalled him being a temptation, and nothing this evening had changed. Despite his fairly high yet purring voice, his firm hands, caring and diplomatic nature, this Bruneian Salesman wasn’t winning my heart.

Was it because he’s shorter than me? That’s not necessarily a deal breaker. My ex was shorter, and I found him pretty sexy. Was it that there was nothing about our faces or physicality that matched? Maybe, but opposites attract.

He once again accompanied me to a tube station at the end of the evening, and we shared a kiss. It wasn’t a bad kiss. His hands had a touch that was strong and soft all in one. He’s the shampoo and conditioner of the touching world, but unfortunately this kiss had not transported me to a place where I was eating a Cadbury’s flake in a bathtub, circa 1992. I didn’t know much about sex at age 11, but what I did know was that every woman, and I thought I might turn into one of those, needs to feel that good, and I wasn’t feeling it.

On another evening we met up for dinner. He’s been very attentive about calling and I felt that unless I give ‘it’ a real chance, he wouldn’t accept that I wasn’t interested. Writing that sentence, I’m questioning my logic. It was a lovely evening, but I was talking to a friend not a lover. He was just too sweet and straight laced. Maybe I’m harsh but by 30, the homely guys have a nest egg with collection of tools and consider adventure to be when new draught ale comes on tap at the local, and the adventurous ones have backpacked the world. ‘No name’ had travelled, but mostly to Borneo where his family lived. Lots of useful travel information to be extrapolated, as I would like to go for the whalesharks and he knows Borneo. The problem was that his tales were not of overnight buses, of blagging food and shelter on a three day walk that was supposed to take one day, or the time it rained so hard the visa stamp on the passport ran away and you wondered whether you would get stopped by the border police trying to leave. I was searching for something more, like tales of the right of passage events which are the metaphorical opposite of spending New Years Day in Basingstoke. I did that once. That was the moment I knew my longest-term relationship was over. If you want to subtly start to end a relationship, do that. They won’t be able to put their “finger on why the magic has gone” or even why they are so bored.

I think the draw to someone who has spent the last 10 years DJing underground clubs and illegal raves, and who has recently decided to Zen up their life, is stronger. It shows passion, creativity, rebellion and flair. In conclusion, I’d like to find a man like my porridge. I mean oats are healthy, but they tastes better with a bit of honey, cinnamon, nutmeg and cardamoms thrown in. But you have to keep the porridge. You need the porridge. After all, a kid did once die doing the cinnamon challenge. The dating quest must continue. No kiss for No Name this time. He didn’t call again, so my weird logic was right. He knew.  

Read More

Date 3: O is for 'Oh, awkward'

You have to start somewhere and previous experience in the world of app dating has taught me that the quicker you meet people, the quicker you can rule them out and stop imagining them to be Prince Charming or more accurately Bradley Cooper. The first bumble date had not been a disaster, so this never-ending supply of swipe rights might be worth pursuing.

‘Oh’ looked fairly normal by all accounts. He had taken a lot of pictures in sunglasses, but maybe he has sensitive eyes. Conversationally, my word count was making me feel like Jane Austen in comparison. I can see that where English is an Additional Language, to use an education term, making sentences can be really hard. My sympathies have limits however, and generally I am of the view that where there’s a will there is a way. I once chatted up a guy in Istanbul for two days on Tinder. And I don’t speech a word of Turkish. Google translate is great!

‘Oh’ sent me a selfie at 1am that he had claimed he had just taken. He was looking remarkably fresh faced on a school night for someone who doesn’t work shifts. Benefit of the doubt though, his jumper was rubbish. Exactly the sort of thing you would only wear to bed. Several days later when he sends the exactly the same photo with the message, "I just took this for you" I do inform him that he is clearly lying. ‘Oh’ hadn’t read the manual on how to be a player. He is so bad, he’d be really easy to keep in check and maybe this would be the start of something beautiful. 

I meet him at Sloane Square, a region of London known for stockbrokers and £35 mains dishes in restaurants so dark you can't see the food. The locally sourced Sussex sausages in miniature portions, with accompanying mouse de mash potato, apparently tastes better in a 1914 style blackout; much better than going to a pub in Sussex and paying £12. I wasn't embracing the disregard for the value of the pound, and caught public transport. Taxis just to ‘look the part’ would have me taking out a payday loan in no time, if there is going to be another 96 dates. Besides, you can’t apply nail varnish to your toes in a taxi. On a bus, you could quietly pluck a goose without too much reaction. Nail varnish was fine.

When I reached the actual square at Sloane Square, and the Hugo Boss store facing the square, the location he suggested, ‘Oh’ claimed he was there but was not. It transpired he was at the other entrance. As a Sloane Square Hugo Boss virgin, this was very annoying since he would have known the shop had two entrances. Communication is going to be an issue. Take a breath. When he eventually appeared he had a big smile and very white straight teeth, and he even had eyes. A smile and eyes, that’s two surprises in one, a third and he’s reached Kinder egg status. My internal stress crescendo has plateaued, I’m settling down to more of a pianissimo.

We walk along the high street to a very pleasant pub. It’s small, light, sells decent draught ales and would be totally suitable for bringing your mother to. ‘Oh’ is Lebanese. He is wearing the classic black shoes, blue jeans and pressed white shirt with slightly oversized collar. He is tall (5’11”), has a strong frame and a little bit of the belly tub Middle Eastern men seem to get from too much Baklava. Tasty, and so is Baklava.

I meet a fair few guys from the Middle East with work, and the general consensus is that the Lebanese are hot, with the Syrians coming a close second. I can’t help feel some of the British sympathies for the Syrian refugees are heightened because of how attractive they are. In a culture where the value of human life is synonymous with how well your picture sells, you don’t need to be handsome in a humanitarian crisis, but it helps.

We talk more. The small table has one side against a partition, he is on the open side, and I am on the side of the long bench running the wall of the pub. I’m fairly blocked in. He works as a stockbroker with his father, has been in the UK for 12 years and finds dating hard because many of the women who go to bars in the area are more interested in men with money, than men as individuals. He seems lacking in self-confidence, has verbal tick, and has no idea he is good looking. This all make him very human.

I pity his struggle, though am secretly envious of the gold-diggers he speaks of. They are being smarter about using their physical assets than ever I was in my 20’s. If in 2016, women are still being objectified and limited in their aspirations because of the body they were born with, they might as well also benefit because of the body they were born with. In my 20’s, I was naively focused on developing in my career, not realizing how many doors were closed because of stereotypes of the sexes. White guys would never knock on closed doors that long. If I’d embraced the Barbie mould, there would have been considerably more Raspberry Champagne Bellinis in the company of affluent older men. Looking back at my age 27 priorities, gel nails and hair extensions would not have combined well with a typical spare time activity such as trekking up Ben Lomond with my girlie mates. A day battling the elements of the Highland would have transformed Barbie into an extra from Night of the Living Dead.

This date is actually going quite well. All of a sudden ‘Oh’ decides the lighting is wrong where he is sitting, and he wants to sit next to me. He stands up and practically sits so close he might as well be on top of me. This is very claustrophobic, but I’ve been assigned Seat 25A of a Ryan Air flight before, so I know I can get through this. He puts his hand on my leg, in such a way to suggest ownership. The fingers were extended slightly to my inside leg and the pressure had all the confidence of someone who you’ve spent the last 6 months romping with. He then goes in for the kiss. It might be good, but this is a type of pub Auntie Lillian and Uncle Geoff frequent. It’s not Buffalo Bills. The kiss is good, but it’s time to stop. The level of kissing in such an establishment should be limited to a 12 certificate. This is approaching a 15. He keeps going in for another one. I pull back. He goes in again. I pull back. Decoy conservation required. I’m hungry and this place does good food. “Shall we stay here and have food, or move to another pub”, I ask. He seems to know another pub. So we leave the yummy food behind. He’s Lebanese, maybe he knows a really good Kebab place? My kebab diet last year left me with less body fat than most of the guys at work, and I didn’t even combine it with a regular exercise regime, apart from walking to the kebab shop. I’m a big fan of the Lebanese inspired food.

Walking down the road, he mentions that we are walking past his flat. It’s no Kebab, but as the daughter of a Chartered Surveyor, I can’t resist the sexy talk of real estate. Where some girls are reminded of the love of their father when they think of family holidays by the sea, I like to think of lift shaft access and flat roofs for my comfort blanket. I’m the sort of person that books a flat viewing for fun, and gets excited by a south facing aspect. My inner curious cat wants to know what the inside of a Lebanese Stockbroker’s flat in Sloane Square looks like. Would all the money I could ever earn in my principled average salaried job, if I work forever, ever buy somewhere I could grow in London?

In short – no.

The flat had one bedroom with en-suite bathroom, a box kitchen and a lounge with a TV so large it was hard to work out whether you would be watching it, or it would be watching you. He had some nice bit and bobs out, and pictures on the walls, which made the place seem more homely. He poured some orange juice for me. Just for me. Not for him. The one drink scenario only happens in Bond movies, when the orange juice has been spiked with a radioactive isotope and the villain wants to cause a slow and painful death to the spy. I don’t work for MI5, but I won’t drink it so fast. He now becomes very occupied with getting me on the sofa. There’s not much choice unless I were to hover over the inappropriately large glass coffee table in the centre of the room. Once seated, he then becomes very occupied with prising the orange juice he has just given me out of my hands. He’s either having regrets about the Rohypnol, or he’s an enthusiastic kisser. Gratefully it was the later. I pick up the orange juice. I loose the orange juice. Yes, I’ve got it. This time, I’m going to drink some. I’m focused. And it’s gone again, Oh, along with something else. ‘‘Oh’, where’s your shirt gone?’

I’m keeping my clothes on. I make an excuse to go to the toilet. Maybe he’ll chill out a bit. Obviously, I have a look in the cupboards on the way back. Who wouldn’t right? All of his cosmetics are on show. None are in the cupboards. I look in his bedside cupboards. Is this pattern repeated in the other rooms? Again, all of them are empty. Nothing. Everything is on show. It’s like he doesn’t even live there. Weird.

He continues to amorously take all his clothes off, whilst I keep mine on, before watching him self masturbate into the bathroom sink. Him, ‘Oh’, Oh, this is awkward. He’s kept me close by through this activity, so my involvement must have been absolutely titillating. Turns out I don’t even need to open my bag of inner Sex Goddess for a happy ending.

He walks me to the station and is concerned that I should get home Ok. As I eat my honey on toast, I text him to say I’m back. After dropping me off he only went for a bloody Kebab. We did talk after the date, but I explained that he made me feel like an escort so it wasn’t for me. He seemed genuinely confused.

Read More

Date 2: The New Yorker

Was tonight’s experience going to be closer to the satirical, cultural commentary magazine or a cold meat and coleslaw rye bread sandwich?

My first foray back into App dating has begun. My experience of Tinder a couple years ago had been nothing short of traumatic, but I’d heard the behavioural expectations on Bumble were slightly higher.

He is a Lawyer with three degrees, because school was easier than adulthood. We spent a while on Whatsapp playing a game where you have to guess the film from the emoji sequences; Psycho, Snakes on a Plane, and any Keanu movies prove to be a good start. His film references are much more classic and nerdy than mine, and eventually we seem to settle on a good middle ground which is working out Riddler (from Batman) riddles. No cheating on Google. I’m really looking forward to meeting him.

The location is set. It’s a pub near where he lives but not too far from me. In west London even the traditional pubs have normally been decorated in the style of a rustic French Chateau; Nouveau antique. A dress might be appropriate and worth the effort. As I walk, in I discover a dress is definitely not appropriate. This is a traditional pub with a real ale meets students union feel, where T-shirts outnumber shirts, and the lights are on in the ‘lounge’. I’m used to being under dressed but over?

I can’t spy the mystery man, so I retreat to find him at the doorway. It’s awkward. He’s awkward.  He looks like his picture, but his posture is not as tall, like Uncle Fester on the ‘5:2 Diet’. We queue for the bar discussing his Spanish heritage, yet terrible grasp of actually speaking Spanish. He’s kind of witty and smart with his nerdy American accent. I’m in heels so feeling weirdly towering, as I get the first round in.

The evening passes very quickly. He works on behalf of lots of celebrities (no names mentioned) and has interesting tales of running the University radio station. He uses fabulous language, is funny and has a nice face. He is way geekier that I am. We would spend our courtship in the Electric cinema and at niche cultural events being kooky. Our album of memories would be polaroid and Instagram filtered. Our love children would read 14^th century literature, and would also be able to spell ‘century’. Thanks spell checker. In fact, they might even win a Spell Bee. But despite my romantic and very practical imaginings, there’s not quite enough eye contact, and I’m not get the feeling I want to lean in and kiss those very pink lips of his.

We depart with promises of meeting up and doing something else together, but we both know it's just platitudes.  

Read More

Date 1: The Frenchman

The tall dark stranger sits in the hotel restaurant moving pasta round a bowl.  He is clearly in need of some cheering up. I ask him if he’s English? His looks aren’t lost on me, but that’s not my main motivation. There’s a slim possibility that I might be able to have a conversation with someone. I’ve not had one of those all day. What’s there to loose? “Non – Je suis Francais”. Oh.

We chat, I listen intently – French was my worst subject at school. I don’t really understand him. Living abroad I honed my talent for looking like I know what is going on when I don’t have a clue. He is a computer programmer who wants to learn English. I add him on Facebook, and we go our own ways. In the morning I see him tapping away at his laptop. We talk about the UK with the help of Google maps, and which of the various accents of Britain it might be easier for a Frenchman to understand.

Several weeks later, I am looking at FB. I wonder what ever did happen to that chap I met. Did he ever come to the UK? I message him. He has moved to Birmingham just this week. Brilliant. I will be in Birmingham next week with work so we can meet.

Monday night is Kizomba night. I hadn’t heard of it either, but he was keen and I’ve been to a few Swing dances so how hard could it be pick up some new moves.  Wikipedia says Kizomba is one of the most popular genres of dance and it originated in Angola. It apparently has a slow romantic rhythm and is a cross between African dance and Haitian Kompa. I did my research. This situation had potential. I’d like to make it clear at this point that the object of my desire had absolutely no idea that this was date.

I went dressed to impress. Classy black and teal floral wrap around dress and heels; And plastered in ‘au natural’ makeup, using the look guys describe as, “she never wears makeup”. We’ve all been there when a male friend has said that about a fellow temptress and the phrase, “Seriously dude? Should’ve gone to Specsavers, she is caked,” pops into our minds.

The dance class is at a bar. I’m 10 minutes late. Heels are hard to walk in and I suffer from genetic lateness. True story. I read somewhere late people are more creative. I’ll take that one. As I walk through the door he’s there sitting waiting and he stands. He’s the same as I remember: Handsome, very polite and also really hard to understand. We get a drink and chat before the class starts. He doesn’t know it’s a date.

The class starts. I quickly work out this Haitian/Portuguese/African rhythm is not so straight forward, especially in heels, and my hips really don’t move in that direction. Emergency measures are required. The speedy shoe swap to flat sandals ensues. Elegance is overrated and this chap is very serious about Kizomba. There’s huge pressure to demonstrate improvement.

It’s a usual affair where the men stay in one place and the women cycle round. The idea is that you learn from lots of different dancers. Normally there’s a concept of personal space in paired dancing, but this dance is VERY close. I was wondering at what point when our bodies where pressed against each other and our cheeks an inch apart, my date would realize that I thought he was quite attractive. But he was very focused on the dancing, and he still didn’t know it was a date.

Everyone else knew it was a date. As I rotated down the line, the men asked me about him. “Shhh”, I responded, “he doesn’t know”.

After the class there was free dance time and we stayed and practiced. He considered that skill development was essential given my earlier performance. Romance was not on his mind.

The commentary in my mind registers this is most definitely a rebound attraction, where I've combined all the characteristics of both my new find and my ex into one perfect superman. The mystery is a taller younger yet less eccentric less forgiving version of the Frenchman I knew and loved. I learn quite how forgiving my ex was when I am corrected on my verbal expression. Last summer, I had met my ex’s family and had shamelessly, or I like to think courageously, tried to speak French as much as possible. Now I learn that my pronunciation of 'beaucoup', is closer to 'beau cul'. The subtle difference being that one means 'many/much' and the other means, 'beautiful arse'. God knows what I said to his family!? 

After Kizomba, I was keen to share the delights of Birmingham and chat more, so I took him on a scenic route past the canal. It always looks very beautiful and romantic at night with the light reflecting on the water, and it would be a perfect location for a kiss. But, no this was not to happen. Now, it actually looked like I was terrible at directions as it’s taking an awkwardly long time to get to where our routes were to diverge. It was a path slightly longer than I remembered. Eventually we reach the underpass, with the graffiti on the walls, the unflattering neon light and the distinctive smell of urine. Excellent skills me. This is where we must go our separate ways. I stand close and look up to him. “Do you want me to kiss you?” and I smile-nod. Hoorah. Finally he knows it’s a date. And we have a lovely long kiss!!!

Right on cue, some drunken revelers walk by and shout, “Get a room”. Thanks guys, my hotel is just over there. The Frenchman met me every day for two weeks. He seemed to appreciate a room with a view.

Read More