Back in at the deep end

I have to say, the dreaded date with The Word Smith the weekend before last was actually the first mentally scarring date experience that I’ve ever had, and whilst it makes for a funny story to share with the girls over the odd glass of wine, it didn’t do wonders for my nerves when I had to face my first online-source date since then.

What if he was another complete and utter freak? Would I be able to just get up and walk out without feeling an ounce of shame at being such a cow, or would I be tied into a good two-hour chat with a complete and utter arse, again? Surely I’ve done my time in that respect!

In reality it’s incredibly unlikely that I would have been able to silently turn and leave the room mid-conversation, but with the promise of at least a gingo tongo for my troubles, I managed to get myself back to my standard nerve-free state (I’m assuming the fact that I make a tit out of myself all day everyday is responsible for explaining why shame and nerves don’t touch me anymore – they’ve apparently got more delicate people to spend their efforts on) and I stuck to the agreed plan to mill around by the Costa pod outside Victoria Station at seven last night.

Actually, I was milling slightly round the corner and about five minutes early, watching the pod and getting stomach pangs every time a very short boy with the sort of hair I was keeping an eye out for slowed their pace (see my post on only realising at the very last minute that the original date I had lined up for Monday night was a good few inches shorter than me). Fortunately, it turned out that there were just an awful lot of short people buying coffee last night, and at bang on 7pm an insanely tall chap went and stood right by the pod, waiting. No mooching around pretending to shop or thinking about getting a drink. Nope, he was there, waiting. It took me a while to remember that I was actually going to have to go and introduce myself, but with that slightly awkward moment out of the way, it all went rather well.

            We made our way to The Phoenix, a local pub that I really like going to (comfort zones on dates are always advisable), but that doesn’t have the same magical home-from-home vibe as The Queen’s Arms (that’s a very special place for everyone in our house, and there are rules about where you’re allowed to take boys you don’t necessarily intend to keep – plus, I really don’t need to give the bar staff any further amo for mocking abuse; they have more than enough as it is!)

Feeling nothing but eternally grateful that The Biking Engineer was not a patch on the craziness of The Word Smith, conversation covered the entire required selection of dating conversational essentials – family background, schooling, jobs, weekend entertainment of choice, last holiday, future holidays, you know, the basics. Two drinks were drunk, one chair was knocked over (yep, I’m elegant at all times), and two air kisses were offered in farewell.

I won’t say it’s the best date I’ve ever been on, but it’s a long way from the worst one too. The likelihood is that I won’t be seeing The Biking Engineer again (unless I suddenly decide to take up rock-climbing, motor biking or Portuguese lessons as hobbies and require a buddy to help me out), but this morning, I’m just very glad to be back in the saddle and not on the cusp of deleting yet another online profile.