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Sex & Love

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30 Minute Micro Date

If you recall in my Sherlock feature I said that my record time was one hour and two minutes long. I’ve managed to stamp the shit out of that and halve it. You’ve gotta love it when you beat your own PB. So wtf happened to make it decline after half an hour exactly?

Firstly, I met him on a hen do. I have secure reason to believe you should never hook up with a man on a hen do. Hen dos are designed to ensure you’re 10x more intoxicated than you’d ever usually be on a weekend, and your ‘beer goggles’ are basically non removable until you return to the safety of your own home. On this particular weekend I was dressed up like an Egyptian (of course, it is a hen do what do you expect?) and thus was wearing flat sandals. This is significant to note, I assure you. Anyway…we’re all drunk and I see this cute guy at the bar and we start talking and the next thing I know I’ve spent the past two hours with him – just chatting, kissing, drinking, smoking…the norm. He had already called me baby and I was lost in this drunken ‘isn’t everything awesome’ coma. Apparently when I eventually got back to the hotel room with the bride and a few others at 4am, I woke my best friend up to let her know I had ‘gone to Bournemouth and found myself a boyfriend.” She found my drunken rant highly amusing, personally at 4am I’d have been livid.

When I woke up the next day, I of course felt less than ‘good’ about myself. My hangover knew no bounds, and I checked the phone to see texts from my ‘boyfriend’ who I couldn’t really remember. In my head, he was hot. He had long mousey blonde hair, sort of floppy charming ‘do look. Blue eyes, I think. Average height, and a good kisser. That’s all I can remember. I couldn’t tell you what he wore, or what his voice sounded like or what we said to each other, except the word baby being thrown about all over the place. Urgh. Also, this whole ‘what happens on tour stays on tour’ shit actually holds some viability too. Because, believe it or not, my Bournemouth boyfriend lived in London. Yah…I know. Only I could go all the way to fucking Bournemouth for one weekend and pick a dude who lives in London. It seemed to be though, a fateful message that I should see him again.

So, we kept in touch and arranged to go on an actual date. In London this time with I dressed as my normal self, not as a sandal wearing wig donning Egyptian. As usual with my after work dates – I get up at 6am to get dressed into my date outfit that I wear during office hours so I can scoot straight out of work and head to dinner. I’m always dressed nicely for dates and this particular one I went with black shorts, high heels and a chiffon blouse. This is important information for later, I assure you.

My Bournemouth beau had mentioned taking me to Sushi Samba, which of course is a wonderful venue and I was blown away with his suggestion. Touch of class I see! The venue choice also led my attire decisions – I refuse to go to Samba looking like I’ve slaved away at a desk all day. I want to arrive bright eyed and high heeled ready, so that is exactly what I did. However, plans were slightly thwarted on the day when he said that, because I admitted I’ll be going back to mine and not his that evening, he cancelled the Samba table…but we can still go there for drinks. No-one cancels a table at Sushi Samba. No-one. You have to book that place weeks in advance for goodness sake. So on this knowledge I figured already that we’d been pulling at different strings – I assumed he’d booked a table at Samba for dinner and he assumed we’d just go for drinks. Right.

Now, my work day finished at 5pm and his at 6.30pm, so, I already knew I’d have to hang around for him. I don’t do that, ever. I usually plan dates when we both finish roughly the same time because waiting around for a guy is bullshit. But, this time, Bournemouth boy had me chilling at the office for overtime because I figured even though dinner was off the cards drinks would still be nice and my curiousity to see him sober outweighed my want to go home. I called him at 6.30pm expecting a response and I got nothing. Just rang off. I should have just gone home then, remember that girls. Just blow the fucker out. I didn’t of course, and made my way to Liverpool Street station. He had text in-between to say he didn’t get my call because he FELL ASLEEP on route home and that he’d be at the station to meet me at 7pm. I arrived exactly on 7pm. I sat down and waited… for HALF A FUCKING HOUR for him to show up. And guess why he was late? Because he had a wardrobe malfunction and ripped his jeans. So what was he wearing instead? The very same ripped jeans. He also had a black jacket zipped all the way up under his chin because he didn’t like the top he had on underneath. His hair looked like he’d not touched it at all. PLUS, he was a lot shorter than I ever remembered. Damn those misleading flat sandals. Damn that Egyptian outfit choice. In the cold light of day, I was a lot taller, especially in my platform heels. Sigh.

So, now, I’m pissed off. He strolled up to me and I instantly knew this was not a date of laughter and happiness. For one, I didn’t fancy him. For two, he was not quite the guy I remembered. For three, we were not going to Samba for dinner now. For four, I finished work at 5pm and here I am at 7.30pm still sitting in the fucking station. For five, this outfit is totally wasted. I explained very loudly that I was unimpressed with waiting, and we walked hand in hand to a bar for ‘pre drinks’ before Samba. We go to this crammed City Boy Banker Wanker bar that was filled with suits, and I felt a little uneasy in this joint. As there was no room inside we took our Bellinis (his choice, good choice I must say) outside and I sat on a wooden bench. Yep, on a wooden bench. It was pretty damn windy, my hair was blowing in my face, I had my heavy work laptop inbetween my legs and my Chanel bag hooked over one arm as I grasped my drink and tried to hold conversation. A less than ideal situation. I thought it might hold that low maintenance romantic vibe but instead I was just seriously pissed off with everything.

I explained quite quickly I wasn’t in the mood for Samba anymore, I said I lost my mojo for the idea. Instead, I was just thinking I don’t want to go there with him dressed like that. I then announced at 7.58pm after the second Bellini that I was going to goooooo. I said it in that voice too “I think I am going to goooooooooo”. I tried to muster some kind excuse but I lacked both the imagination and the energy. Plus, hair was rapidly filling my mouth in the wind. His response was something like ‘Are you fucking kidding? Omg have I really fucked this up?’ to which I just replied Noooooooo…but I have to go. After awkwardly holding my hand to the station and then kissing me twice, I swiftly left. 30 minutes after our union, I have scarpered back onto the tube and was already thinking about the fact I wished I had just gone home at 5pm.

So, this non entity date is almost as tiresome and pointless as the very article about it. I can’t slate him as a guy because I think he hasn’t got a bad bone in his body and is very sweet, but his first impression was far from impressionable. I need a man who takes control of the situation – who arrives on time looking the part and who knows how to bowl a girl over. Some of it wasn’t entirely his fault but that aside, the date was a complete disaster. All 30 minutes of it.

However, the Bellini was beautiful. 


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