Many thanks to Rosbif for sending in this story of a terrible, terrible date.
“The early omens were good. I’d seen a picture and profile of the woman; she was attractive, had a wide range of interests, and to cap it all was a singer and songwriter. I’d listened to a couple of her songs, and liked them. She suggested we meet in Hammersmith for a drink, and then go to a play by a playwright she assured me was the cat’s whiskers. His name was Howard Barker. Some of you may already be shaking your heads.
Continue reading The Theatre of Catastrophe
I met a chap in the pub. He kept talking at me.
One of the more bizarre questions came when he found out I came from London: “London’s famous for its cycle paths! Which one’s your favourite?”
I explained that I’m not a cyclist. But still he continued: “But you must have a favourite cycle path!”.
I had to assure him at least five times that I did not – indeed, I still do not – have a favourite cycle path.
I then asked him what his favourite cycle path was, just to be polite.
He told me that he couldn’t ride a bike.
Absolutely thrilled to a be a guest on The Rocking Vicar’s podcast this week. The splendid Terence Dackombe interviewed me about love, life, and terrible, terrible dates. You can check out the podcast here!
And if you’ve found my website through The Rocking Vicar, then hello! Delighted you’re here, hope you enjoy the stories.
Have a great weekend
Thanks Jo for sending in this story of an awkward date:
“First date with tall, handsome man. A nice pub restaurant, good wine, conversation: all was going rather well. I’d nearly finished my dinner, when he stood up saying he had to see someone.
He promptly walked out of the pub, leaving his coat over his chair. Food finished, wine drunk, I sat alone staring at the table.
Ten long minutes later, he bounced back holding numerous, large packages of what can only be described as very illegal drugs.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not offloading them until tomorrow!’
Reader, I didn’t marry him. Or have a second date.”
I’ve actually no idea what the guy looked like, for reasons that will become apparent. So this is an impression of what the scene may have looked like.
I met a lovely chap in the pub, gave him my number. The next day, the phone rang but it wasn’t the lovely chap. Turns out it was another random man who’d been in the pub at the same time.
As he explained: “You seemed nice, so when I heard you giving your number to that other guy, I thought I’d write it down and call you myself”.
After a cracking second date, with lots of flirting, it was time to say goodnight. I leaned in for a kiss, whereupon he recoiled and told me:
“I never kiss anyone in public.”
I assumed this was polite code for “your breath smells / you’ve got spinach between your teeth / I don’t actually fancy you because you remind me of my Aunt Veronica”, but he went on to say that he’d be happy to kiss me if I invited him back to mine.
Didn’t feel right. I went home alone.
Thanks Joe for sending in this story:
“While arranging to go to the cinema with a girl I liked, she mentioned in a text message that she was “looking forward to getting to know me better.” Even someone as unconfident and unworldly as me knew that this was code for “there will be heavy petting and we’ll see nothing of the film.”
I was feeling pretty full of myself and I met her at the bus stop. Then on the walk to the cinema, she turned to me and said, “I’m glad you agreed to this. When you say you want to get to know someone better, some people take it to mean something else, but I know that you wouldn’t, because we’re friends, and I always want to know more about my friends.”
I saw every second of that film.”
Thank you Joe! Find more of Joe’s musings on music and the world here.
A colleague frequently left ‘erotic’ brain teasers and maths equations on my desk. Seriously. There’d be crude jokes about rooting, sin and periods; I also dimly remember a rude story he’d written about a young lady’s hypotenuse.
I’m still not sure if this was a really obscure come-on, or whether he genuinely thought I’d enjoy them (still rather inappropriate behaviour from a co-worker). A piece of maths filth would appear on my desk; at some point later that day, he’d sidle up and ask me (with saucy eyebrow action) if I’d liked it.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that they always went straight in the bin; his maths was always faulty, which annoyed me.