The Teetotal Geek - The Nail in the Coffin

Last night was the finale of my My Single Friend career – a date with a very nice bloke, who for the purposes of this blog will be known as The Teetotal Geek. His plan for our date was for us to meet in Soho, grab a quick supper then head onto a comedy show that he had booked for us at the Soho Theatre. To the set the scene, The Teetotal Geek was slim, with dark hair and in the height stakes, scraping a generous 5”7 - not the 5”9 that had been advertised. But, whatever, everyone lies in their profile.

                    We met outside the theatre, which led to an awkward “where do we go now?” chat, as we both side-stepped making any form of restaurant decisions in a super-polite way. Lesson for the future, is to always meet in a bar or pub to save this excruciating awkwardness in your first five minutes of meeting.

                      Our desperation to quickly find somewhere, anywhere, to plonk ourselves down and actually get talking to each other, is the only explanation I have for the fact that we ended up in probably the worst, most over-priced Italian restaurant in Soho. If I could remember its name to publically shame, I would. But, instead, I was too busy concentrating on trying to keep conversation flowing with the very sweet, but the rather timid Teetotal Geek sitting across from me.

                     It was about now, as I gleefully grabbed the wine list and began selecting potential wines to ease us through the evening that he dropped in that he didn’t drink. Fair enough, but this date sober was clearly something I wasn’t going to be able to stomach, as I valiantly battled to keep conversation flowing.

                    There’s no way to gloss up this experience. The truth is that this date was at best mediocre, at worst just plain bad, for the following reasons:

1      - Our supper table was on bustling Dean Street. This meant the waif-like Teetotal Geek’s chair kept getting knocked into by the exuberant crowd and sending him flying down the road – cue much embarrassment on his part.

2      - There was so much public participation in our meal, that at one point he got in the middle of an argument between teenage gangs and got heftily spat on by one of the youths. Nice.

3      - A friend I know from school walked past and started chatting to us. As she looked to me to introduce her to my date, I couldn’t provide the introduction as I had completely forgotten his name. Naughty Miss Fi!

4      - During the comedy show, the comedian dropped the “C-Bomb” approximately every 5 minutes, leaving the Teetotal Geek squirming uncomfortably in his seat and giving me side long glances in panic that my feminine sensitivities had been insulted. No chance, he was the only offended one. Oh, so very awkward!

5      - I wished myself, or even better both of us, had been drunk to make all/any of the above more funny.

Although the Teetotal Geek is a really nice guy, it was clear once again that we had zero chemistry and little in common. It would have been rather nice for my last internet experience to have been a great one, but it did leave me with no doubts that it was time to hang up my internet dating hat for good.

The Grown Up Part Three

After pretty much deciding that I wasn’t too fussed about The Grown up and it was probably for the best to let it lie, against my better judgement we had our third (and I really mean it this time) final date last night.

              I’m not really sure how I came to be on another date with him, but I think it may have had something to do with talking to my housemates, who all were of the opinion that it takes three dates “to know”. How anyone is meant “to know” or have an innate sense about whether something is right or not I haven’t got a clue. However, I did feel that there was no real harm in meeting up with him one more time, so we arranged to go to what he termed “musical comedy” at the Udderbelly Festival at the Southbank centre.

                He suggested without even the smallest dash of irony that we meet underneath the clock at Waterloo station. This, call me a tad judgemental, I took as another nail in the coffin for anything progressing between us. When we met and I commented on the cheesy choice of meeting place, his face clouded over and he professed he had no idea about what I meant. Worrying, very worrying indeed. Anyway, awkward greeting over, we wandered off to find some food on the Southbank.

                 We ended up in Giraffe, which I was perfectly happy about – at last, an opportunity to spend time with him in a non scary or intimidating romantic restaurant! Dinner was chimichangas, chat was continuous and easy, but soon enough we headed over for the dodgy sounding “musical comedy” show.

                   The comedy night turned out to be surprisingly very funny, in a sort of Flight of the Concords kind of way and we both really enjoyed it. But, later on the train home, I vowed that as good as evening had been, it was definitely time to draw a final line under The Grown Up. As nice as he is, we just have zero chemistry and I doubted that would change however many times we met up and he plied me with expensive meals and cocktails. I was hoping he’d feel similarly, but unfortunately a text message I received the next day, confirmed the opposite.  Oh dear. 

Miss Fi - Back with the Grown Up

Nearly 8 weeks to the day since our last date, yesterday I had my second meet up with The Grown up. The time lapse was indeed ridiculous – the slow pace was due to his business trips (hopefully not, as my friends had joked, a ruse for spending time with the secret wife and kids), his rather nasty rugby injury and of course, my dalliances with The Captain (who to fill you in, has swaggered off my boy radar back to Germany).

                So, that is how I came to be shivering outside the Marquis of Cornwallis in Bloomsbury last night, listening to the grizzly tale of his knee injury and catching up on news from the last couple of months. As had happened last time, we had an hour or so of chatting over drinks, before he turned conversation to my favourite of all discussions, to deliberate where we should eat. With our unspoken understanding that my credit card could only access us dine-in Burger King, he suggested what else, but feasting on prime steak at the Hawksmoor. Jackpot!

                 An hour later, I was sipping a slightly odd but entirely wonderful marmalade cocktail, whilst eyeing up a bottle of finest malbec which had just been presented with a flourish. Whilst I was in this stupor of delicious cocktails/pre-steak anticipation, he asked me the bold and dreaded question...

“So, I guess what I’m really wondering, is what you think of me?” he said, smiling at the panic that had clearly appeared on my face in response to his words.

“Er...what?” I stuttered, grasping for time.

“You heard me!”

“Wouldn’t you like to know!?” was my shamefully witless answer. Thankfully though, it seemed to gloss over the matter adequately enough and conversation moved on.

                The completely truthful answer to this question is that I do like him - he is nice. He is quite attractive. He is quite funny. He has willingly bought me steak that cost twice the price of the dress I was wearing. But, the next morning as I texted him thanking him for a lovely evening, I realised that I really didn’t care whether I heard back from him or not. If that’s not a telling sign, what is? 

Double-dating-disaster - Miss Fifi's version

On Friday evening Miss P and I, quaking in our boots, arrived at Farringdon station to await the two chaps who were to be our double dates for the evening... a first (and probably a last for reasons that will come apparent) in Slutty Suppers history!

The evening got off to a bad start because they were late. Very late. Amusingly, as my tardiness is infamous amongst my nearest and dearest, I was the one tapping my toes and suggesting we take the opportunity to sack the whole thing off. Meanwhile Miss P who's ordinarily a stickler for punctuality, insisted we wait it out - she then glanced at her phone, to discover numerous missed calls from the men in question.           

When she rang them back, they told her that they were waiting for us AT HOME, which immediately sent alarm bells ringing. Despite this warning that something was amiss, we trundled up the road and we soon saw two men waving down at us from an apartment balcony.

"Oh dear god, he's massive!!!" I loudly screeched to my shame - not registering that Miss P was actually on the phone to The Shameless Self-Promoter himself at that very moment! In hindsight what would have been ideal, is that he had heard my horribly bitchy comment and then called the whole thing off. No such luck. After keeping us waiting another 10 minutes or so, we then headed off to their choice of the local Italian restaurant up the road. We were diving straight into dinner and there was no escape!

So, after all this hanging around for them on the streets of Farringdon, were they worth the wait? Well, in a word, no.  It was immediately apparent that we weren't going to fancy them (and we definitely were not, despite their protestations, ending the night in their Jacuzzi!). But, what was infinitely the worst aspect of this car crash of an evening, was that we soon clocked that The Shameless Self-Promoter (Miss Ps 'one') was undeniably coked up to the eyeballs. Classic signs - fidgety, compulsively high-fiving, chattering away about complete sh*te and despite being a big lad, eating two mouthfuls of food the whole evening. The Mute (my "one") was inoffensive enough, but definitely in the nice-but-not-for-me category (the jury's still out as to whether he too, had dallied that evening in Columbia's finest export).

The Shameless Self-Promoter had enough conversation for us all, which allowed ample opportunity for Miss P and I to plot our escape. I have never been so relieved for her presence in my entire life - it turned what could have been a rather horrifying experience, into something quite hilarious!

Double-dating-disaster - Miss P's version

Last night, Miss Fifi and I met up with The Shameless Self-Promoter and his friend on what turned out to be one of the worst dates I have ever been on. Ever - and I’ve had to sit and eat pizza with an autistic boy before!

The only thing that actually kept me on the date was the fact that I had Miss Fifi with me to hold my hand, help pour as much wine for me as possible, and team up with to lie our way out of having to go to a bar after the fateful dinner we were forced to live.

            Maybe this would be best if I just summarised the key failures of the night out:

** Having told us to meet then at the station at half past, I got a call at quarter two (just two minutes before Miss Fifi’s cut off point, after which we would have happily taken ourselves off for pub grub and girly chats), telling us where we had to go to get to another meeting point – a boy who’s too lazy to honour the meeting plan that he made; not off to the best start then. He directed us to a Yo! Sushi, where I assumed we would be meeting.  On route, Miss Fifi asked what we would do if they were leading us to a flat rather than public place. I assured her that no one would be that mental. WRONG. Crossing the street on the phone, we were instructed to “Look up”. Two boys (ok men – the wrong side of 30, but a long shot) on a balcony, beers in hand, beer guts hanging out, instructing us to wait while they ‘finished up and came down”. Brilliant, we were going into the flat, but we did have to go and collect them from their home. Not impressed.

**On the walk to the restaurant (about two minutes away) I learnt that The SSP “owned seven companies (didn’t believe that shite for a minute), was a stand up comic in his free time (when you run three companies, you have no free time, and when you have no chat, you can’t be a stand-up – it just doesn’t work!), that mummy-daddy owned half of Guernsey and that he really had been drinking since lunch. We were two minutes in, and I wanted to get out of it already.

**As The Other One was really quite nice (almost too nice, bordering on dull) we managed to get some fairly level conversations flowing, The SSP kept butting in with random “To my left, if you had to get a dog, what sort would it be?” I suppose that if we had been sat in silence, that would have been fine, but he overrode natural conversation to dominate the table with his nonsense. He also insisted on cheers-ing with every gulp of wine that he took, and let me tell you, he took a lot. Ergh, talk about hard work.

**Finally and most importantly, The Shameless Self-Promoter is undoubtedly, a massive cokehead. I don’t know how much crap he had put up his nose before we arrived, but having pointed out the obvious habit to Miss Fifi, she confirmed my suspicions, and our tolerance to his odd behaviour quickly deteriorated.  When it came time to leave and he insisted on us going on for another drink, I don’t think I have ever had to be more rude to man that’s bought my dinner, but I have to say, there is not a rat in hell’s chance that I would ever see him again, and I know for sure that if I was ever faced with a similar situation again without my Miss Fifi safety net, I would have been out of the door five minutes into the date.

It was bad. It was oh so bad. But I guess it’s one that can be ticked off the list, and on a positive, I’m already seeing the funny side. I suppose that single men of a certain age are only going to be online dating for one key reason – they’re cut through with a high dose of crazy. Proper crazy!

Miss Fifi meets The Captain - Take Two

Yesterday was a momentous occasion- my first-second-date with a chap from the web! The bloke in question was The Captain, who I had been texting almost non-stop since we met two weeks ago. This is unusual behaviour for me, as normally I have very limited patience for text tennis, exchanging minute-by-minute accounts of each other's days. My tolerance of this sent alarm bells ringing that I may actually rather like this bloke - a novel feeling in this internet dating game!
            The only snag was the deadline: today he is heading back to his regiment in Germany after his 'olidays. Following a flurry of text messages after I'd tentatively suggested we meet up again, he pitched a plan of  dinner, then heading onto his friend's birthday party. So, not your normal second date then! Trying to look beyond the slightly mad behaviour of inviting a girl he's met once (and by that token, on the internet!) to meet all his friends, I gallantly popped on a lacey frock and some moderately high heels (my Captain not being the tallest of chaps) and sashayed off to meet him in Soho.
            At first it was slightly awkward... probably due to the mutual fear that we might not hit it off again. However, this was an unnecessary worry, as over cocktails (super strong Margaritas) and dinner (Mexican street food) there was barely a pause for breath as we chatted away. I confessed I was a bit nervous about the party, which The Captain found hilarious - apparently not seeing anything odd about me meeting all his friends on our second date! When we arrived at the party, my first realisation was that I was totally over-dressed. But luckily, I was surrounded by alpha- male army types who probably wouldn't have battered an eyelid if I'd wondered in wearing one of Coast's frilliest and frothiest ball gowns. The Captain was the perfect gentleman, introducing me to all his army pals and keeping an eye to ensure I was never stranded with the regimental bore. Cocktail after cocktail was knocked back and I played my part well enough, chatting away to all his friends. At one point, a gorgeous army doctor was bemoaning his inability to meet lovely girls and confessed to me his desire to go on MySingleFriend. Determined to help him in his plight, I did what any good friend would and suggested he cut out the middle man and just take out Miss P instead!  We'll see how well that little snippet of pimping works goes...
           As I write this, The Captain is racing to join his regiment back in Germany. Who knows whether we'll catch up when he's next back, but considering how disastrously date two could have gone, rather a success me thinks!

Miss Fifi update: Another day, another date!

After my hugely enjoyable time with The Captain on Saturday, yesterday evening I psyched myself up for another first date with a guy from MSF. We arranged to meet at The Cut bar in the Young Vic Theatre by Waterloo. Thanks to the whole of 2012’s expected rainfall occurring in one evening, I arrived in rather more of a bedraggled state than is ideal when you’re meeting someone for the first time.

               So, on with the details about the bloke: He is nice. He is well-educated. He is intelligent. He is good looking. He has a good job. Overall I had a nice time, but there’s no ignoring the fact that this was a pretty mediocre date. We got on fine, but it wasn’t the same level of fun or easy company that I had experienced a couple of days before with The Captain.

               I was also thrown by the fact that in person, he looked uncannily like a boyfriend I’d had many years ago in sixth form.  Sensing a couple of hours in that I was pretty done with the evening, I made an excuse about a heavy schedule the next day at work and we left the pub.

               We got the train home together as it turned out I live at the stop along from him. It was then, on a brightly lit over ground train, that for me the most hilarious point of the whole evening occurred. Bearing in mind that we had shared minimal chemistry throughout the evening and only sipped two drinks, in a very full train carriage he leaned in to full on snog me as he said goodbye. In a fit of panic, I tried to swerve it in an aim a kiss him on the cheek, with minimal success. All in all, an incredibly awkward scene and a spectacle for the sleepy commuters who were our audience. I’ve since made a deal with myself to have at least four drinks on all future first dates, to avoid the self-conscious horror of soberly avoiding the advances of strangers. Argh!

Miss Fifi udpdate: A dashing Captain…

Yesterday, after a morning spent at work with hyperactive teenagers, I wasn't especially in the mood for my third MSF date. However, I was determined to go as from our texting he sounded like a nice, amusing kind of guy who was far too good to bail on. Another incentive to man-up and go was that the bloke in question serves our Queen and country in the army - meaning not only a gorgeous uniform, but also that he may not always be kicking around London for a second chance!

               We met for lunch at Back to Basics a fish restaurant in Fitzrovia. My suspicions were soon confirmed that I was dealing with a MSF virgin, as I doubt anyone with any prior experience of the bizarre and often disappointing world of internet dating, would generally suggest anything so committing as a meal for a first meeting.  By lucky coincidence, the gamble paid off. The Captain and I had plenty to talk about - the hours felt like minutes and in what felt like no time at all, we had in fact spent the whole day and evening together!

               So far so good, but there is one slight catch – about an hour into our date he casually dropped into conversation that he actually lives in Germany. Fellow soldier daters beware- you might be needing your passport to meet up with these dashing young men again!

Miss Fifi update: Pink hearts and bubbles...

After having such a tedious time with The Fulham Bore, I was hardly filled with joy and excitement at the prospect of another first date the very next day. This time I was stepping out with The Grown up, who I'd met eons ago in Madisons Bar (that’s right, someone from the Real World!).

               Clashes in work schedules and busy social lives had meant it had taken nearly a month for us to finally catch up. We arranged to meet at the Bleeding Heart Tavern in Farringdon, a lovely old world pub with lots of character. Within minutes, I realised that this experience would be polar opposite to the previous evening – we barely paused for breath as we chatted through the first three rounds of drinks.

               We then enacted the standard charade of first dates: once he'd assured himself that I didn't appear to be a crazed bunny-boiler or professional gold digger, he casually dropped in that we should go for dinner. He decreed I flip a coin (yes, you did read that right!) to decide where we'd go – would it be the lovely mid-range Bleeding Heart Bistro or the more upmarket adjoining restaurant? With my innate, God-given talent to invariably select the expensive option, we were soon making our way downstairs to the French restaurant. To set the scene, it was a real grotto of a place, with an abundance of low-lit corners and rather nauseating heart shaped décor.

               Now, when I later regaled this tale to my fellow sluts, most of them quite rightly recoiled in horror at this whole cheesy episode... I would have assumed I would have felt the same, but to my surprise I truly enjoyed my evening of being treated like a Princess. Other quite lovely, yet more than a little sickly moments of note, included pink champagne awaiting us at our table (again, I kid you not).

               Then, there was the tricky issue that the waiting staff had a minimal grasp of English. Well, this was no problem at all, as The Grown up speaks fluent French! By this point, my inner girly-girl and cynic were in a tug of war as to whether I should beg him to marry me, or vomit over the heart-motif butter which was gleefully presented to me. Needless to say, my girly side won out and I had a great time. The food was amazing, not least the cheese trolley which sailed over to our table at the end of the evening.

               Now I’ve realised I’ve rambled on a lot about the restaurant, but largely glossed over The Grown-up himself. He certainly ticked a lot of boxes: he was interesting, extroverted (we got talking to half the restaurant… luckily for me in English!) and a true gent. However, I wasn’t sure there was much of the elusive super-spark between us. But who knows, maybe if there’s a next time something more would develop.

Miss Fifi update: The Fulham Bore

I’ve been very silent on here of late, which is due to a tricky blend of going on holiday and downright laziness. However, I’m well and truly back in the game now with a yarn or two to tell from my dating adventures.

            The lovely SugarM and I packed our summer frocks and bikinis last week and flew to the incredibly sunny Egypt, for some intense relaxation and vitamin D therapy. Sadly among our fellow tourists, there was a dearth of the long-wished for “lad on tour”, but we entertained ourselves regardless by flirting scandalously with waiters and musing over our dating experiences back in London.
            Barely any of our time was wasted discussing my meet up with The Fulham Bore. This was a lad from MSF who put simply, embraced every hideous stereotype of a public schoolboy let loose in The City. His first crime was that he was late. Really late. When he finally sauntered in, I was subjected to many a tale of his thrice weekly excursions to Mahikis, drawn out discussions as to why he thinks his housemate doesn’t like him (brilliant first date chat!) and it soon transpired we had very little to say to each other at all.
            Needless to say, this awkwardness was compounded by the tricky fact that The Fulham Bore had prank called me at 2:30am the previous Friday morning. I had not answered, as I was tucked up in bed like the good girl I am. Whilst I'm sure there may be some innocent possibilities as to why a chap might call a young lady he's never met at such a time (friends playing a prank? Inadequate phone-locking?), there's obviously another more sleazy explanation that may jump to mind.
            As he had dropped the booty-call bomb before I’d even met him, you may be wondering why I still went. My rationale at the time was that this “at least this proved he went out and had a social life...” During our fleeting time together, neither of us alluded to his ill-timed phone call at all. This was for me the ultimate indicator we weren’t on the same wavelength in terms of humour or indeed, anything – my natural inclination being to have had a hearty laugh with him about the whole thing. So, it was with a huge sigh of relief that I hopped on the bus back home just over an hour after we had met, phew!

Wine, wine and a bit more wine

Having first met up last Wednesday, leaving the second date until a full week later seemed like the best approach to take with The Crazy Swimmer. He was again going to be a bit late getting into town as he was working at a clinic somewhere near Wimbledon (I think) and didn’t finish until sevenish, so to fill the time between work and meeting, The Co-Dependent very kindly took pity on me and saved me from a late night in the office in favour of a trip to Notes, where she tried out their fabulous coffee for the first time and I stocked up on pre-date wine whilst we had a quick catch up.
         Then, whilst she headed home I made my way up to Cambridge Circus, where we were planning to meet ahead of paying a visit to one of my favourite little wine bars – the incredibly French La Beaujolais on Litchfield Street. This quiet, dark corner of the world, where everyone speaks French (almost exclusively) always feels like a bit of a treat, and when I was given free rein to make whatever selection from the wine list that I liked, I knew it was going to be a good night.
         What I had anticipated would be a fairly brief night out (based on the fact that I had woken up at five that morning to walk and swim before work, and had another 8 mile walk planned in for the following morning) actually stretched out to cover a bottle of wine at the first bar, a detour to a jazz bar that sounded so offensive I refused to go in, before returning to the safety of the known and loved Bedford & Strand for another bottle. This bottle was his choice this time, and I have to admit it was much better than my initial random selection, as he assured me it would be. Turns out that buying the best bottle of red is going to become something of competition here, which is why I know there’ll be a third date. The gauntlet has been thrown down, how can I possibly walk away?!

Dim sum and 'banter'

The Personality Partner is one of those boys that uses words like “Banter” and “Lad” to punctuate his sentences. This worries me. Sure, it’s fairly entertaining and I am the last person to hide behind a fake persona and not embrace the fact that I swear (yes, and drink) like sailor, but still, anyone who actively encourages the part of my brain that yells “For the win!” every time I achieve anything can’t honestly be the very best company for me.

            Still, we’re three dates in and I don’t actively hate him yet. I would have to say that, despite the fact that he really is the sort of boy that my mum would call ‘an arse’ I rather like him. I think.

            I’m still confused about when you’re supposed to know if a boy ‘off of online’ is for keeps, or whether the fact that you still find them funny after three meetings is just a sign that they’re not mental, but by no means worthy of keeping.

            Regardless – I got to have gin on Monday and Dim Sum to boot, it’s just a bit of a shame that I had woken up at 5am and was utterly shattered by 9pm. At least it was a Monday and the requirement of an excuse to need an early night was fairly unnecessary. 

It's getting serious!

And it’s scaring me.

            It’s not getting serious personally – don’t worry, I haven’t decided that after two rather non-dates I am going to marry The Personality Partner or anything dire. It’s more a realisation that for a number of people participant in online dating (well, pretty much all of them I guess) are looking for something a lot more serious than me.

            I was dreading the date I had got lined up for last night. It transpired (through a string of emails and text exchanges) that the guy was not only nearly ten years older than me, but he also a ‘part owned’ dog, which triggered (maybe slightly over-reactive) warning bells. It doesn’t take too much reading between the lines to see that revelation was code for ‘broken home and custody battles over said pooch’. I don’t want to get myself overly involved with a guy who cried every weekend when he has to part with his dog and send it to live with The Ex. Christ, I have enough trouble looking after myself – I don’t need a crier on my hands too!

            Eventually, unable to come up with a suitable excuse and with a feeling of obligation to at least meet up with The Crazy Swimmer (he thinks that swimming in frozen lakes is a treat…) and see if his eyes are constantly on the brink of tears, I met up with him last night at Skylon – a rather fabulous cocktail bar on Southbank with amazing views and even better gin cocktails.

            We bonded over a mutual love of gin and a general obsession with dogs, and he scared me with talk of his ultra-marathons (he ran 150 miles across a desert in 7 days once. I have no idea why, but the mere thought of it terrifies me!), whilst we drank and ate our way through a fair chunk of the menu. Surprisingly, it was really rather a good date, one that I look likely to rerun shortly, and one that didn't result in tears or mental breakdowns of any sort. Maybe the internet isn't just full of crazy people after all!

A walk in the park

Today I braved a second date with The Personality Twin, and it went surprisingly well! Having met at Victoria Station with the intention of grabbing a quick brunch (yes, we’re talking pre-noon, alcohol-free dating here) so that I could spend the afternoon hunting out last minute essentials for my ski trip, we made our way over to The Serpentine Bar and Grill in Hyde Park.

            Unfortunately, we arrived at a strange mid-point between the breakfast and lunch menus being available, but having chatted for an hour or so over coffee, watching the seagulls and discussing the finer points of what the best breed of dog is (it’s cocker spaniel, for the record) we placed our orders and spent another hilarious hour or so participating in some sort of wit-battle whilst eating fish finger sandwiches. I’m pretty sure that I lost the comedy war, but it might be the first time I enjoyed undeniable defeat – for some reason, there’s something about him that I’m still not 100% sure about, but he’s so funny, I think I can almost overlook it.

            Fairly efficiently, from early on in the meeting he had already mapped out the next date, as well as a trip to see The Proms and a visit to a pub at the top of Hampstead Heath, so whilst I left him at the station with an underlying feeling that maybe he's not my traditional 'type', I’m looking forward to our trip to Dulwich when I get back from France. I might have to brush up on my political and historical knowledge first though. To say he’s a couple of stages more intelligent than me would be a complete and utter understatement. 

Miss Fifi Update 6

Last Friday I met up with Miss P for early-bird breakfast at Notes, our favourite new catch- up spot.  As evident from my lack of blogging over the last couple of weeks, I had to confess to her my tumble into 'a slutty suppers slump', where in the preceding week I had barely logged onto my dating profile, let alone met up with anyone. 

          Whilst we gorged on the best almond croissants in London, Miss P shouted at me to pull my slutty little socks up, strap on a pair and to go out and meet all the fine young men that “My Single Friend” has to offer. Leaving Notes determined to make some dating progress and to avoid the future wrath of Miss P and the other sluts, I arranged to meet up with a rather fun (and let’s be honest, exceedingly posh!) sounding polo player from MSF on Sunday.                      
            So that's how I came to be yesterday, awkwardly propping up the bar at the Orange pub in Pimlico waiting for The Polo Player to arrive. There was nowhere to sit, as the bar appeared to have been booked out for a “Made in Chelsea” cast party – the scene awash with Mulberry handbags and sculpted hairstyles. Soon enough though, a chap came striding towards me, grinning and laughing to himself as he air kissed my cheeks (both sides, we are in Belgravia daaaarling!) and introduced himself.
            I must have looked a bit perturbed by his raucous laughter, as he swiftly explained himself: ' Har har haaaar! Sorry for laughing. Nothing about you, you’re clearly a sweetie, but isn't this whole internet dating thing just TOO funny!? HAR!”I couldn’t disagree with him.
             We swiftly decided to decamp down the road to the deserted Ebury instead, where the only other punters were a couple snuggled in a corner. The girl was clearly enjoying herself, as she was with bare-legged abandon full-on straddling her partner - or someone who I suspect, may be better described as a “client”. As we wandered about to find a sofa of our own, the polo player said with a sideways glance at this amorous couple and a cheeky wink, "I'm up for a bit of that, if you are?”, before giving another raucous laugh and apologising profusely for his non-pc humour. He needn’t of, I was loving it!
               A more different experience from my previous two internet dates cannot be imagined- he was witty, interesting, incredibly knowledgeable and brilliant fun. We raced through the typical get-to-know you topics, but with lots more interesting and random chatter on the side. He told me about his (by his own admission) rather privileged childhood, and then his social “U-turn” in joining the army as a squaddie (and yes I checked, he still owns the uniform!). Upon discovering we were both from Sussex, we soon realised that Miss P herself is our mutual friend - small bloody world!
            Three hours raced past and before I knew it, it was time to head home. I left this very entertaining evening uncertain that I fancied him, but very much sure that I loved him. Even if I never see him again, I have to thank The Polo Player for reigniting my enthusiasm for this whole game! 

A clash of personality?

I was dreading my date with The Personality Partner, absolutely dreading it. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was that he was going to be a more actively obnoxious version of The Word Smith, and had it not been for a bit of a wine drinking slip up at lunch, there is a high chance I would have made my excuses and managed to avoid being stood on the steps of St Martins at 6:15.

            However, wine was drunk at lunch, and opting out of the date just felt like delaying the inevitable, so I braved the buzz of Thursday night in Covent Garden, and was at the agreed meeting place bang on time.

            Fortunately I was actually pleasantly surprised by the guy that arrived to meet me. Where with The Word Smith I had taken social incompetency for banter, with The Personality Partner I had learnt from my mistake and had been reading into comments and jokes way too much, inevitable dreading the worst. It turns out, he was utterly hilarious, and everything I had started flagging warning signs at were actually perfectly normal conversations / jokes in the making.

            I think that the test of a date in the world of online is the number of drinks you get through before you call it a night. One drink was a complete and utter failure (The Word Smith), two drinks was nice enough, but having got a round each, you’ve definitely seen enough (The Biking Engineer) and three drinks or more means that you’re both fairly keen to carry on chatting, and the fact that the person sat opposite you is a complete and utter strange doesn’t really worry you too much. This was a three drink date, and I think that we can thank The Personality Partner’s sense of humour and comedy story telling for that one.  

            Conversation started with the safe (work, home, family), branched into the slightly wider spanning (recent trips with friends, holidays, most embarrassing moments) and even reached a slightly uncomfortable low which found us discussing the website that we had met on, and our reasons for being there – yes, I told him about Slutty-Suppers (although not the blog, obviously) and I think it worried him slightly. In fact, his exact words were “Oh good, so you’re going to be discussing this whole evening in minute detail with your friends? Yeah, that’s not intimidating in the slightest.” Imagine the reaction disclosing details of the blog would have inspired…maybe next time.

            I suppose that’s the crux of the matter – whether there will be a next time, and having been asked, I think that, in the spirit of making the most of the situation and celebrating the fact that I didn’t want to kill him or myself within the first few hours of our acquaintance, I think there just might be!

In the eyes of God

It’s been boiling away in the background for a couple of weeks now, fuelled by drunken (on his part, not mine) night bus messages and random extensive conversations about his new house and how crap he is at DIY, but tonight I am finally due to meet up with The Personality Twin, and I have to say, I’m not really too excited about it.

            Having just about managed to get over the mentally scaring date with The Word Smith, to have then got through the date with The Biking Engineer without anything going too awry, I have am awful feeling that this evening is going to mark a return to form for me, in that it’s going see a dip back down to ‘dire’ in the enjoyment stakes.

            Whilst on paper The Personality Twin is right up my street (similar interests, fairly closely linked opinions and able to cover a range of conversational topics that don’t make me want to stab my eyes out), he is also dangerously close to being what my Mamu would describe as ‘a bit of an arse’. In fact, he’s not just close, he’s pretty much there – he talks about putting up shower caps, is on some voluntary council thing at work, he sings in a choir three nights a week and he thinks it’s really witty to plan important work presentations in the theme of Faulty Towers. Hmm, if only I had noticed this, oh I don’t know, three weeks ago when I started down this ridiculous path, then I wouldn’t be facing yet another challenging date prospect when all I really want to do tonight is go home and mooch.

            Well, there’s no way out of it now – even if I pulled out a half baked excuse to delay D-day, the amount of background work that has gone into this one would mean that rescheduling would be inevitable, purely serving to prolong the whole process. Nope, when the time comes, I will be standing on the steps of St Martin’s, awaiting his arrival. Well, I will probably be standing somewhere up the road waiting for his arrival so that I can approach with caution and not be caught off guard and to reassure myself that, if I really need to, I can leg it at the last minute and just delete my online account. Ahh, the romance!

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.  

Terror, fear and a little pizza on the side

I’ve just been on my first internet fuelled date, and to be honest, I’m not too sure where to start with this post.

I’m hoping that by running through the main emotions that I have had to deal with today I will be able to offer a fairly full date summary. Let's give it a go. Today I have felt:
- Drunk, thanks to the two ‘warm up’ glasses of wine I felt obliged to have before meeting up with someone I know is t-total.

- Fear that, having received three texts progressively delaying meeting up for a full hour and a half, I was going to get stood up when I had already ordered a glass of wine and settled myself on the bar with a spare seat beside me.

- Terror that the old man with the handlebar moustache and paunch who gave me a slightly suspicious smile as I took my seat was in fact going to be my date and I was going to have to struggle with the inner turmoil of having to decide whether to cut and run or be polite and sit out the pain.

- Relief at the fact that the face that eventually arrived and sat next to me was pretty much the same one as the photos I had seen suggested it ought to be.

- Tired. As the wine wore off and the reality of the rather dry company that I was keeping sunk in, I found myself slowly starting to lag and having to fill the time with inane chatter and nonsensical conversational topics. Did you know that the weekend edition of the FT is really rather entertaining with some really cracking regular commentary slots? Yeah, me neither. It's fun to learn new things isn't it?

- Disturbed at slowly discovering that the 29 year old sat next to me was basically the exact same person as my 55 year old uncle; from voice and mannerisms, through to their strongly held convictions regarding a number of decidedly upper class concerns. I am pretty sure that they would have had a more successful meal together and far more to talk about too. I just don't care about the way every single machine in the world works, nor am I so mortally offended by people wearing wellies in the city that I have to turn around and point them out as they work their way around Harrods. 

- Grateful that the 137 bus arrived at the perfect time, and that I got to leap through the doors and drive off well before the awkward goodbye.

-Awkward. I was planning to walk home, but as he was going to be walking the same way for at least 30 minutes, the bus had seemed like a much better choice. That is, until it started getting stuck in traffic and at red lights so much that, having pulled past The Word Smith once, and breathed a sigh of relief at having survived, we then stopped moving, allowing him to catch up with an overtake the bus (a pattern that was repeated a good four times in total) and I hid from him every time. Such a classy lady!

So, in summary, it could have been worse, but it also could have been a whole lot better. I think that now, seeing as the guys that I am meeting up with have all been looking for dates online, I am going to have to assume the worst with each and everyone that comes to my attention. Easy, I just need to find someone that sounds ridiculously perfect on every level, get them to agree to go out with me, and then remember that in reality they are going to be, at best, distinctively average (and hopefully not crazy) when they arrive. Sounds like a fairly good game plan to me!

Miss Fifi Update 3

They say that in life things have a nasty habit of going from bad to worse. Sadly, this can certainly be said for my POFfing tales. Despite the nice-but-dull evening with The Cute Geek, I was feeling surprisingly buoyant as I made my way to date number two on Saturday. I was optimistic about this guy– he looked quite cute from his photos and his messages inspired an image of a carefree personality with sparkling chat and a love of travelling. What could possibly go wrong? Well, the answer to that as I’m sure you’ve already surmised, is plenty.

            He had sent me a text that morning suggesting we meet at the café by The Globe. and informing me that he would be wearing a blue coat so I would know it was definitely him. I assumed The Globe Theatre; he (as I later discovered) had meant The Globe Pub. To add another aspect of panic, whilst waiting impatiently at The Globe (theatre), a man decidedly on the wrong side of 60 in a very blue coat came up to me and tapped me on the shoulder. I began to panic, instantly assuming the ultimate horror had occurred – that I had hit rock bottom and was on a date with an OAP masquerading as a 26 year old! Thankfully, his intent was to alert me to having dropped my glove, not to make true everyone’s nightmare of being caught out by a sad old man with a fake profile.

Anyway, after two confused phone-calls, the boy and I rectified our location-crossed wires and I made my way to meet him at The Globe (pub). In hindsight, I am not entirely sure it was really worth the effort.

What was waiting for me on my arrival was someone who fortunately looked young enough to be his promised 26 year old, but whose charisma was not in keeping with his emails. He was quite sweet, but “weird-fish” as we shall now know him, certainly had what we’d describe in the trade as ‘social-communication difficulties’.

Conversation was stilted, leading me to panic and barrage him with questions in the manner of John Humphrys. Once again, I was left pondering how such odd men appear so nice and socially adept by email… Is there a secret team of witty and charming POF ghost writers out there ruining a girl’s ability to separate the genuinely fun guys from the truly tedious?!

After forcing down two drinks at a rather alarming speed, I made my excuses and legged it (becoming a bit of a habit) to meet my housemate The Banker Beauty and her boyfriend. Whilst we were in the pub watching the rugby, I gave her a blow-by-blow account of the painful 80 minutes I’d just endured. As we chuckled together over another disaster, I received a text from date number 1, The Cute Geek: Hi, nice to have met you the other evening. I kind of got the feeling you won’t want to see me again, but if I have got this wrong, then let me know. X

Ouch. Am I that obvious? Clearly need to work on my manners. I replied with what I hoped was a nice message, explaining that though I thought he was lovely, I didn’t think we were well suited. Seconds later, this was his response: That’s OK. I joined ”My Single Friend” this morning anyway. If you have any friends you think would like to go out with me than let me know! Also, I’m still trying to find your blog….X

You’ve got to admire the man’s determination.