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Check out my new page. It’s there to add a little excitement to your visit when you have some time to kill and perhaps I haven’t updated in a while. Push the button and it’ll take you to a random post in my archives; there’s nearly 1 and a half year’s worth of posts to delve into and my journey of thoughts has been interesting to say the least – in that time I have considered relationships (past and present), anxiety attacks, novel writing, body confidence, my time in Newcastle UK, emigrating to Wellington New Zealand, job hunting in a recession and a newly discovered obsession with small and furry critters. Definitely so random.
As cringe worthy as the first admittance of e-dating was, (see A shameful tale, July 2008), it did make for some amusing stories. So, here’s episode 2 of my experience as a desperate dater…
I went on a date with a gorgeous guy named Thomas (no names are protected for the sake of this post – I will name and shame). On our first date, we went for drinks in Durham, sitting out on the terrace at Chase, overlooking the boats on the river. Thomas (or Tom) was quite quiet, but I just thought he was shy and we managed to get through all the usual conversation pieces covering family, work and our life history up to the present, so although there were a few awkward silences, it was an alright date. He had to work though so it was a short and sweet* (*questionable) encounter, but he asked to see me again. And because he was just so pretty, I agreed, thinking that the next time would be better as his shyness should hopefully have waned.
“socially inept… Trying to make conversation was like trying to squeeze blood from a stone”
The next date we went on, I suggested a film at Tyneside Cinema, The Science of Sleep. Within ten minutes of meeting (we met for a drink in the cinema bar before the film), I was relieved that for at least two hours I would be free from the need to talk at (yes; talk at, not to) Tom who, it was becoming increasingly evident, was socially inept and not shy. Trying to make conversation was like trying to squeeze blood from a stone. I talked, he grunted. I tried to ask open ended questions, he still managed to give ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers.
After dying inside for a good half an hour (I can’t stand silence or small talk), we went into the film. It was only once the film had started that he decided it was a good time to open his mouth. The Science of Sleep is in French and Spanish, with subtitles. As it started, Tom practically shouted across the hushed theatre, ‘oh look, they’re not speaking English. That’s funny’ (cue Tom’s inane laugh and audience turning around to stare at us)… Things went downhill from there. Tom practically narrated the movie to me, out loud. If you’ve seen the film, you’ll know it’s a mixture of dreams and reality; it’s a bit mad, but it’s great – I loved it. But not so much with the running commentary – I was slowly sliding down my seat, so far I practically hit the floor, just to hide from the glares of irritated cinema-goers. And it’s not just any cinema-goer at Tyneside. It’s the cool ‘arty’ types who can make you feel very small and very silly with one disapproving eyebrow raise. And it wasn’t just the volume of Tom’s narrative that was creating a scene – it was how unbelievably obvious his statements were; cue halfway through the movie ‘These bits aren’t real. Is it his dreams? That’s a pantomime horse, not a real one.’ Cue me (silently) – *Please let me disappear*…
“I was about to die an awkwardly silent death”
Unfortunately, as with all wishes, I didn’t disappear. The movie had to end at some point, and I didn’t know what was worse – having to try making conversation again, or carrying on watching the film and feel my ears burning. He asked to take me for a drink before going home for the night – it felt rude to turn him down, even though I knew I’d never see him again, and perhaps rudeness would have been the best policy here. But inexplicably I headed to Mr Lynch with him. It was on my way home, and the surroundings provided a conversational point as he’d never been (see Florita’s – Miami or Medley, for an idea of what the bar has to offer). After chatting at Tom yet again, about the similarity between the wallpaper and my Nan’s curtains, how much I loved the mismatched furniture, oh isn’t that a cool chair, wow look at that lampshade, hmmm I wonder where all this stuff comes from and if it’s really vintage, well… soooo… erm…. *crap, I am OUT OF CONVERSATION.* This was a world first for me. I was stumped. And so I thought, fuck it. I refuse to talk anymore, surely he has SOMETHING to say, I will just wait to hear it… No joke, five minutes of silence went by. I was about to die an awkwardly silent death, and so I gave in… “So… Erm…. I think it’s time to go home.”
I practically sprinted out of there.
I’m going to tell you something shameful. I hope you won’t judge me on it, as it was just for the craic at the time. A couple of years ago, I signed up on match.com… I am cringing just talking about it, but I’m open to trying anything once and at the time I was bored, single and ready to mingle (I say that with my tongue firmly in cheek). I’ve already explained that I am a lady who loves a freebie, and what better way to spend an evening enjoying free drinks and talking about my favourite subject – myself. Let’s face it, for a woman, dating is a ticket to indulging at a man’s expense whilst waxing lyrical about your life, hopes and dreams. Don’t get me wrong, I am a modern girl – I offer to pay my half, and who am I to argue when inevitably the offer is turned down. Men love to flash their hard earned cash – a wad of notes is like a peacock’s tail, it’s part of the mating ritual.
Anyway, it started from sceptically clicking through one of those flashing adverts on a website, ‘get married and have 2.4 children within 2 months, or your money back.’ I had to see the kinds of geeks and weirdos that signed up to these sites. I searched for profiles in the Newcastle area and had to admit I was pleasantly surprised with what came back. At the time I was a sucker for a shaven headed, blue eyed, bulky muscled, tattooed hunk of manliness (I say ‘at the time’ because Kiwi has an abundance of dark curls, dark eyes and no permanent bodily markings – I guess there’s no accounting for change in taste). So, a particular profile caught my eye – he had it, muscles and all. In fact, several profiles caught my eye – I couldn’t believe it, match.com was a sea of hot, eligible men. And they weren’t all socially retarded – a few guys were back from years of travelling and were new to the area and wanted to meet people; a few were musicians who worked weekend nights and didn’t get the chance to properly meet people. Anyway, yes I am trying to justify the fact that I became one of the supposed geeks and weirdos, by signing up.
“get married and have 2.4 children within 2 months, or your money back”
I gave the aforementioned muscly skinhead (let’s call him Mark, for that was his name), a ‘wink’. A ‘wink’ is effectively just a nudge in someone’s direction, encouraging them to check out your profile. Mark checked mine out, liked what he saw and we exchanged messages. Much like meeting in a bar and chatting, with the bonus of knowing a few key pointers which may make or break an initial interest before conversing. (More justifying of my inexplicable new penchant for e-meeting men). Mark was 30, he was a Property Developer, we seemingly had a few things in common and to cut a long story short, we arranged a date.
This is where I forewarn you of the perils of Internet dating, for I was in for disappointment. I met Mark in Osbornes, Jesmond. I did a double take because the man I met was significantly smaller than the man in the photos I had seen (the hot, topless, holiday pics in which he was a tanned and toned Adonis). I could be forgiven for thinking that I had met up with his older, scrawnier brother. He wasn’t 30, as it turned out he forgot to add a ‘-’ in the middle of the ‘0′. He was 38. Oh dear. He wasn’t a sexy skinhead, he was balding. Oh dear, oh dear. Not to be rude, I decided that the night was young and although I most definitely had no plans for anything more than a platonic night of friendly conversation, he was a man with stories to tell and he may even teach me a thing or two. Mark had a unique plan for our night too, which I found irresistible. After finishing up a few drinks in Osbornes, he took me to Zonzo’s in Sandyford, where we had a starter, on what would be a 3 course meal across 3 restaurants. We enjoyed some beautiful rosemary bread, glistening with olive oil and with ample amounts of rock salt and rosemary leaves; along with the best seafood salad I have experienced. No batter, no breadcrumbs, just fresh squid (and not the rings – the whole baby squid, tentacles and all), dressed to perfection. I’m no food critic, but I recommend it.
“I couldn’t help but feel like I was out with the Phil Mitchell of Tyneside”
The conversation flowed and amongst other things I learnt that Mark owned properties abroad and a motorcycle on which he had travelled across Thailand. He had some amazing tales, and I never once (after the initial shock, and before the night drew to a not-so great end), felt like the night was a mistake, or awkward in the company of a man 18 years my senior – I was enthralled to begin with. Next stop was a ride into town to El Torero, the tapas restaurant on Side. Here we shared a main course of several tapas dishes, and plentiful amounts of wine. Mark was a wine connoisseur, and throughout the night the alcohol was flowing – I mixed far too many cocktails, vino, liqueurs and spirits that night. A bar crawl through the Toon followed the main course, on which it seemed that Mark knew every bouncer in Newcastle, and I picked up a slightly Mafia-ish lifestyle of which I’m not sure I would have liked to have known the details. As the date went on I couldn’t help but feel like I was out with the Phil Mitchell of Tyneside.
We finally finished the night around 2am, in an Indian restaurant on Quayside, where Mark chose an aperitif of eastern light bites, instead of a dessert. I just sat patiently, finger tapping and hinting at tiredness, as he was at the stage where he had had far too much to drink and was beginning to irritate me, as I couldn’t make much sense out of his inane drunken mumblings. Not forgetting to be a Gent, even under the influence, Mark caught a taxi home and dropped me off on the way. As we sat in the taxi outside my house, I had gotten my bag strap caught up in my seatbelt and frustratingly fought with it for a few minutes, getting more and more tangled (I was slightly tipsy afterall). Mark just looked at me, as if to say ‘what?’ and I asked him if he was planning to help me out. He looked me deadly serious, in the eye, thought for a moment and said ‘I think you’re a bit mad.’ Well, that was it for me – I tore my bag out of the taxi and slammed the door. I’m not patient when it comes to drunken rudeness.
“you’re a bit mad”
The following day, Mark tried ringing me several times. He then emailed me, asking if I’d got home alright as he’d had a ‘whitey’ and had forgotten half the night. I told him I had, thanks for an enjoyable night but I wouldn’t be seeing him again. He apologised for his drunkenness and said he’d like to make up for his behaviour. I told him to find someone his own age. And so, that was the beginning of my experience with match.com. I won’t say it was the end, because that would be a lie, there are a few more comedy tales to tell – and one nice tale, which could have gone somewhere, if we didn’t live such different lives.
He said, then she said...