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!

Warm up texts

The dreaded double-date with Miss Fifi is tonight, as if we weren’t worried enough about it, the text exchange from this afternoon as been far from reassuring:

SSP: “I bet you girls didn’t sleep a wink last night…Don’t forget 7:30 at Farringdon Station. We’ve been drinking since midday! Also, bring your bikinis as we may have a late night pool party.”

MASSIVE ALARM BELLS RINGING

Miss P to Miss Fifi: “…he just sent a message saying they’d both been drinking since midday and they're threatening a late night pool plan. Can’t work out if it’s a joke or not. Shit.”

Miss Fifi to Miss P: “FUCK I DON’T WANT TO PLAY ANYMORE!! Maybe we shouldn’t go!”

Miss P to Miss Fifi: “It’s going to be bad….so bad.”

Miss Fifi to Miss P: “I’m so scared…I’ve just poured myself a gin. ”

Miss P to Miss Fifi: “Good girl. I might have wine at my desk for this evening’s conference call.”

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!

Double-Dinner Fun

The Shameless Self-Promoter saga continues:

Miss P: “So, you want the good news or the bad news? The good news is that Miss Fifi would actually play that game, and it sounds pretty hilarious to me, so I would say it’s a goer. The bad news – she’s a genuine hottie I’m afraid. No mingers for your inattentive friend this time round. Sorry!”

The SSP: “That IS both good and bad news. Ok, we have the green-light. Are you ladies free next Friday evening for double-dinner fun?”

Miss P (having checked and freted about it with Miss Fifi”: “Apparently Miss Fifi has to work the next day, so had kept next Friday night free for sensible behaviour. Fortunately, she caves like a chocolate teapot at the best of times, and the promise of entertainment and drinking was enough to sway her, and I’ve got work drinks that are fairly avoidable, so we’re in. I can’t work out if this is going to be hilarious of an utter disaster. Only one way to find out I guess!”

Good God, what have I done?!

Double dates

Something awful has happened – the very first person that I contacted via MSF has replied to me. Now, this should be a good thing, surely? Unfortunately, I was attempting to use this effort as an icebreaker to ease me into the game, and I was not anticipating a response, especially when you consider the approach I took.

            I was man-window-shopping (selecting hotties to bookmark and refer back to once I was feeling a little braver) and I stumbled across a profile that was hilariously written, but clearly describing an essentially ‘non’ sort of chap. However, at the end of the profile (the section written by the ‘friend’ was the comment: “Also I can promise that I am 200x better than him in every way so if things don’t work out with him why not date me, bet you didn’t see that one coming, eh Dave!”

                  I felt a bit bad for Dave, but at the same time, interested in finding out more about the comic writer, so I clicked through, was more interested with his profile and sent him a message:

Miss P: “I stumbled across your profile after your shameless self-promotion on your friend David's profile. To be honest, it's a pretty solid form of advertising, and one that I have a horrible feeling my friend *Miss Fifi has tried to replicate with my 'description', although slightly less blatantly!
So, you're 200 times better than good-friend-David in every way? Dare I ask how so?”

The Shameless Self Promoter: “Ha, brilliant. 
In fact I went for a drink with him yesterday and he hadn't even read what I had written, what a buffoon!
He got a bit angry but I have managed to placate him by promising that if any girls emailed me on the basis of reading that line I would only go on a first date with them if it was a double date and he is included. Deal? You can bring Miss Fifi (PLEASE tell me she mings...)
s x”

You want to know the best thing about this? Miss Fifi has agreed to play the game. Online-double-dating…what.the.hell!

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!

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! 

Miss Fifi Update 5

After a very dreary Monday, which I lived through in a haze nearing full-on coma, came today, the not so joyous day of love! As much as my dark and murderous mood today can be blamed on schmultzy card manufacturers and Fitness First (who insist of covering the gym of all places, in red heart decorations, why?!?) yesterday's torturous state was most definitely self-inflicted. More specifically, from repeatedly getting rather too tipsy over the weekend...

Amongst the sea of 'booze blues' that I'm still recovering from, I have a story of fun to report. On Friday, with my work buddy and new found partner in crime,  I finally sampled Maddisons Bar, located up in the rafters of One New Change. In summary: lovely bar, stunning view, lots of suits. Unfortunately, the partner in crime and I were soon cornered by two of the most tedious and racist men I have ever met (racist against English people- surely the first rule of flirting is to know your audience?!)

Thankfully, we were soon rescued and whisked to the dance floor by our knights in shining armour...or the modern day equivalent, men in well cut suits. I'm yet to hear the partner in crime's debrief of her rescuer, but mine from bleary memory appeared friendly, humorous (possibly) and an enthusiastic dancer. He was also 35. A real, certified grown-up!

Age is something we've been discussing numerous time at The Slutty Suppers Club - just how old (or young, in SugarM's case!) would you go? But, as The Grown-Up had already texted me by the time I'd stumbled home, treasured chicken McSandwich in hand, it struck me that meeting an older bloke may offer pleasant novelties. Perhaps in his world there's less game playing, with minimal concern to the silly politics of who texts who first, how long to wait before sending a reply etc. An enticing possibility indeed that this crap ceases to exist when you're over 30...

We texted quite a few times on Saturday, and he wasn't even perturbed by my texting-misspelt rubbish to him at 4am on Sunday morning, when he was sensibly fast asleep after a night of Ovaltine and Top Gear (or so he said!). Communications have gone rather quiet today, possibly in part due to the evil V Day throwing an elephant into the room, but we'll see!

Miss Fifi Update 4

I can report that I had a lovely time the other evening enjoying fine wine, delicious food and good chat with a boy…disappointingly though, this man wasn’t sourced from militant trawls through POF, but my old friend The Faux Boyfriend.

We have that rarity of male and female friendship that for over 6 years, has not once been marred by as much as an accidental snog or drunken groping. Despite getting on like a house on fire, we have a mutual understanding that however many M&S meals for two we share, or Sunday’s spent with eggs benedict in Clapham’s coffee shops, we will never be anything but good friends. The Faux Boyfriend, like many of my good friends, has been unusually keen to meet up recently – clearly, to mock my internet dating exploits!

So, I filled him in on my less than perfect dates with The Cute Geek and The Weird Fish – stories which left The Faux Boyfriend spluttering out his glass of merlot with laughter. I also confessed to him an incident from last Saturday, when I was kissed (note who’s the perpetrator), by a suave stranger on a snowy Battersea street at 1am. Admittedly, this was not my finest hour, as said stranger later casually mentioned a live-in girlfriend. The Faux boyfriend tutted and shook his head at this escapade, whilst demanding access to my POF messages as punishment for my ridiculous behaviour.

For your viewing pleasure, here are a few of our favourites – crimes against punctuation, spelling and common decency are the author’s own:

1. Hi hun, saw your profile and thought I’d send you a message to say hi. So about me, I’m 27 and live in south London too. I like keeping fit as well – in fact, I think my biggest achievement was losing 10 stone over last year. Perhaps we could meet up and get sweaty? LOL x


2. hi there i just looked at your profile and liked what i saw and wondered if you would like to chat sometime if not its cool. Do you like the pic of my baby chantel? Be nice if you could maybe meat her somtime. anyway i wish you all the be on here and hope you find your mr right soon take care hun. xx


3. Hi, so say we lived together and you walked past my room and saw me w***ing what would you say? Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx


Er..so I hardly need to mention that none of the above received a response. After reading these and the other "interesting" messages I received, The Faux Boyfriend was clearly caught somewhere between absolute horror and crippling laughter.
           "Fi, you REALLY need to get off this site" he said emphatically, as he emptied the wine into our glasses. I think he may have point! 

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.

Miss Fifi Update 2

Time to update on what has happened since I took the plunge and targeted all the reasonably normal sounding men on POF  (N=2, by the way, should you be curious!) and asked them out for drinks.

I write this wearily on the train to work after Date Number 1. We shall call him The Cute Geek - a good-looking, nice, shy lad who works in software engineering. Overall, I would term the whole date 'pleasant' - although I know as well as anybody, that really that adjective's only acceptable usage is when describing an afternoon spent with relatives.

            I faithfully followed my dating expert friend 'the Guru's' advice: I must stick to sipping gin and tonics as a way of combating my tendency of getting too tipsy (AKA smashed!) on first dates. Firstly, we had the typical chat about all the get-to-know you stuff. It was pretty clear to me from early on, that although he was a lovely guy and obviously somewhat shy and/or nervous (cue panic that I literally terrify men!), we had about as much chemistry together as the leads in a very poorly made rom-com.

So, what did we talk about? One word, SMARTPHONES (despite the fact I had confessed early on I was a complete technophobe). Who knew there was so much to discuss?  I began to wish I'd followed my usual routine of downing a bottle of shiraz...

Again though, I will reiterate, that despite the predominance of technological chat, it was a pleasant evening. Although there was a distinct lack of sparks, it definitely hasn't put me off the whole internet dating thing as he was very nice. As we were leaving and making our way awkwardly to the station (eeek, how's it going to end?!? We're both silently asking and fearing!), I sneaked a text to Miss P telling her I'd debrief her about the date in the morning.

When the cute geek and I arrived at the station, my auto-pilot response kicked in and I began desperately scanning the timetable screens for the next train home. Unfortunately, there was a train in three minutes, which I blame for the awkward "kiss and run" which followed. I literally pecked him on the cheek and without thinking, legged it to the opposite end of the concourse with a cursory "Byeeee, see you soon!" called after me.

As I slumped onto the train just in the nick of time, I received a text from Miss P in response to my promise I'd debrief her on the whole date debacle in the morning. It read: "I assume this means there was no "de-briefing" action tonight then? Ha!"

This led me to reflect on 3 things:


1. Worryingly, Miss P's text was the wittiest thing I'd heard all evening.


2.  Given my recent antics with other Oxbridge alumni, this comment was justified. Oh the shame!


3. I realised that I was actually quite out of breath from my sprint across the station. Poor guy, I literally had run away from him! 



Oh even more shame!