Act one: the set up
Dipped my toe into Tinder’s murky waters for a couple of days. I swear, it’s as addictive as Lays campesina crisps. Or crack. I have partaken of only one of these.
Nice chap, artist, illustrator, cartoonist, educator……… and founder of his own art-based charity to help refugee children. ^does a million swoons^. Like, totes adorbs, right? Of course. A week of chat before we could find a mutually suitable day. Chat ranging from music tastes – very similar, to interest in arts – his professional, mine amateur, to life in general – neither a fan of drama, etc. etc. He says he’s going to marry me, he’s got a good feeling. Bit freaky but roll with it, I think his tongue is firmly in his cheek. He sends me a cute little illustration on the morning of the date. (Which I can no longer look at, due to shame). Read on.
Act two: the date
Meet tiny illustrator, who is very cool, cuter than his photos and doesn’t appear fifty, in any way, shape or form. Have a couple of beers while we chat. He brings gifts….. two books and a selection of artwork from the charity website. ‘Stop it!’, I say, ‘I didn’t bring anything.’ I feel slightly fuzzy due to heavily reduced alcohol intake over the last year. In fact, the date may actually be the first anniversary of my decision to stop being a drunken idiot. Double fabulous. Woohoo! Fuzzy feeling does not stop me consuming red wine while we have a bite to eat…. said bite being a cheese board and little else. Uh oh.
We’re having such fun we decide to not call it a night when the restaurant shuts, and go on to a bar. Lovely. I am very sensible and stick to red wine. Probably glass number three now. Uh oh. And then we move to the last bar, which actually is en route home, as we live very close to each other in the same direction. Dear lord, maybe the stars really are aligned tonight and this is going to be all the lovelies.
Act three: how it ends
In said bar, where I am having glass four of red wine, (I must interject here to say, he too was drinking, now on his third gin) a couple of dodgy looking characters walk in and appear to start giving people drugs. Me being a perennial people watcher, I draw his attention to what’s happening behind him, merely commenting that humans are fascinating and that they are not being terribly discreet. His response, ‘do you want some drugs or something?’ No, of course not, but look at them. Not everyone is as fascinated by these things as me it would seem. Oops.
We leave the bar as things appear to be getting a little rough and continue our walk home. On the corner where we part company, we have a little kiss and he suggests coming to mine. I politely decline and go home and get into bed and write the following texts (in Spanish):
‘If you just want a quick shag, then I am not the woman for you. Fuck you!’ – send
‘But on the other hand, thank you for a lovely evening! It’s been a lot of fun!‘- send
His response, ‘Sorry?’
Me, ‘Oh, OK! Thanks again for a great night!‘
Reader; I married him!
(Of course I didn’t. I never heard from him again) and who can, quite frankly, blame him, when the woman in question appears to be Jekyll and Hyde, with a transition period of a nanosecond……
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how not to date.
If you’re not entirely sure of the message of this post, it is this: don’t be a crazy bitch.
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