Rubbish Date (3)

For some reason I can't fathom it was one of those nights that I was feeling miserable. It was probably 3 weeks after Blonde Ex had flown the shores of Blighty to set up life where the sun shone more frequently. I'd been out with a friend earlier in the day and was totally drunk when I got home and my previous flatmates TweedleDon and TweedleDan invited me out along with them.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I went out. And I ended up enjoying myself despite not thinking that I would initially. This was mainly due to meeting some very cute man, who complimented me all evening and was duly rewarded with a snog. After that we exchanged numbers and he promised to call.

Typical Men. Always promise to call and then they never do.

So I called, and left a message. And then left another message. And another.

I think it must have been after 23 messages that I'd left* that he rang back and apologised. Usual story: It's me, not you.

And so I thought that was it.

Until he rang me up a few days later asking if I wanted to go for a coffee. And I said yes.

Do you remember the first time you meet someone, and the romantic, lusty notion you have of them far outweighs the reality? This was one of those occassions.

I arrived 10 minutes late at the agreed destination, just so I didn't appear over eager, and he was sat there in at a table, 2 lattés steaming from bowls (yes, literally bowls) and looked up expectantly at me.

The first thing I thought was 'I don't remember these many wrinkles'

Then we started talking, and then I couldn't drink my latté fast enough to consume the caffeine to keep awake. After about 10 minutes I was desperately wanting to grab a handful of coffee beans and munch them while he droned on. And on. And on.

About Russian revolutionary culture and the Writers Of Vision.

Now I really don't mind having intellectual conversations but when you're being lectured about it and being bored into submission at the same time it really doesn't give one much hope of getting a shag out of a pointless date.

The other thing was that he had some sort of crazy Perspiration Problem. He was wearing this tan coloured shirt that initially showed traces of underarm perspiration that seemed to grow as he was talking animatedly about his favourite subjects and then when I has a few minutes to talk the Perspiration Patches retreated, then grew again when it was his turn to speak.

After a while he noticed that I was now staring unabashedly at aforementioned Perspiration Patches, and apologised for it. Profusely. In fact, that was the main reason why he was so nervous about meeting people, because the fact that he had this endocrine problem just made it worse. It was fine in clubs, because you could dance about and people would expect you to be sweaty anyway.

So, after what seemed like an eternity, I promised to buy all of Oblomov's writings, and that I'd see him soon. He pulled me in for a kiss, grabbing my shirtsleeves in the process and leaving sweaty handmarks.

I think I changed my number after that.

*Nothing to do with the fact that I may have come across a bit psychotic...