Not even my wildest imagination could have invented how this date went.
I arrived fashionably 5 minutes late and nearly walked past the person claiming to be the guy I’d been messaging for the past week. 5ft 10? I don’t think so. Anyway, luckily my photos didn’t lie and he recognised me. I also didn’t recognise him because he was holding a drink. Oh, so you ordered without me? I’d have judged you more favourably had you bought me a drink and guessed what I’d like rather than just getting yourself a pint. Score so far? -2.
So we get a seat outside (its a nice summer’s evening) and conversation is surprisingly easy. There are a couple of false starts where we both begin talking at the same time (a verbal version of when you walk down the street and move to the left to let someone past but they move the same way at the same time and you do this awkward, ridiculous little dance and mumble sheepish apologies that Hugh Grant would envy). As we struggle to find similar interests I ask him, in a most rare open frame of mind, to explain to me why he likes heavy metal (FYI men who like heavy metal are two a penny online…no comment). Well, I learnt that the guitarist in Black Sabbath lost the tips of his fingers in some kind of machinery accident which influenced the brooding sound of their music and that the riffs in heavy metal have their roots in Blues. Who knew?
Redeemed to a neutral nil point I decide it’s time to call it a night. In modern gentlemanly fashion he walks me back to where I left my bike. Suddenly my bicycle transforms into an invaluable sidekick as it became a handy obstacle between me and him, preventing any lunges for unwanted goodnight hugs/kisses. NB bike must accompany me on any future dates. I turn to leave and before I set off I cast a fleeting glance behind and me and BAM!
He’s got no hair! Being polite I’d spent the whole evening gazing attentively at his face and not once had I noticed the blindingly obvious (especially with the streetlights reflecting off it) bald patch on the back of his head. FML it was like a monk’s tonsure. Did he lie about his age too? What the hell? Have I reached the age where I am now doomed to pick from a selection of receding hairlines and dentures? I ought to apologise as this is a very unforgiving portrayal but it came as a complete shock.