Date with S (and the tooth fairy)

You're saying it, I'm saying it: what the f*ck am I meeting S again for?

A brief flick through earlier posts delivers the reminder that he is a charming womaniser who is 20 years too old and has previously made it painfully clear he doesn't want a relationship with me. To make it worse, I have – in true pushover style – agreed to go for dinner at a Japanese restaurant when I can’t abide Japanese food.

Unfortunately S is also a fantastic kisser, kindly, entertaining, easy company and I fancy the pants off him despite the grandad zip-up cardigans and being, essentially, an only slightly hotter version of Sacha from Holby City (a clear sign that I have got it either "really bad", or just "really wrong"). 

Thus I regress to age 16, step into my semi-gothic charleston outfit, and find myself supping half a barely swallowable blackthorn in a dingy pub in Camden, having arrived early and nervous.

Dinner, S style, consisted of him ordering a banquet of a thousand starters (“to share” – yeah right!) as well as a couple of mains. Some of them were surprisingly edible (not the rubbery fluorescent seaweed which made a gallant effort to resist peristalsis), and the game of blind-testing beers helped me with some of the more inedible items – e.g. gelatinous shitake mushrooms - the clue’s in the first syllable. We also sampled a Colico - "Japan's favourite drink" – but certainly not mine (something akin to an effervescent aspirin).

However, greater culinary problems were to be in store when I realised the crunchy texture of my aubergine was not some crystal of carelessly strewn gravel, but actually my once-again-broken false tooth. Cursing myself for having allowed S to sit "gap-side", I attempted to surreptitiously regurgitate the offending piece of porcelain and its plastic bridge into my napkin and deposit the articles into my handbag (for a fifth super-gluing on the morrow). This manouvre was somewhat impeded by the plate being securely wedged between the roof of my mouth and a large mouthful of semi-masticated soy-flavoured sludge. I battled on. The only consolation of this grotesquery was that S’s dislike of my new haircut was no longer of any consequence!

Should I be generous and believe that S graciously chose not to notice this ineptly executed and – frankly – disgusting performance? Or, in the light of previous posts, would it be more accurate to record that he was too engrossed in the morsels between his chopsticks to notice? You reader, may decide.

Either way (or perhaps it was pity), he unleashed the charm. Sample: “You can have any man you want”;  “You’re really one of the smartest women I've met” (clearly a lie – he lectures at one of the world’s top universities) and – in an infinitely more self-sacrificing gesture – gave me the last lychee.

Over jasmine tea he laid his hand on my arm. Over double cointreaus he took my hand and started playing with my fingers. Although this time I had come fully prepared with my week’s wages in cash, he generously treated me to dinner (for finishing my MA, he said).

“I was hoping you'd be wearing a basque,” he said, a little coyly. Yes, I thought, then I’d really look like your prostitute. “You’ll need to meet me on a Friday instead then.” I deadpanned.

We got up to leave. He pulled me forward for a kiss as I was heading to the bathroom. Then mumbled a sweet nothing into my ear. What were these beautiful words of wooing? Let me record it verbatim: “Those glasses really do absolutely nothing for you.”

In the cold light of the bathroom, I wondered had he also reflected that the newly-acquired Mr Greedy-style potbelly did similarly little for him?

I decided to score points instead through a virtuoso display of crossword-completion on the tube, and treated him to a bag of maltesers on our way back to his.

Oh my! What a lot of toothbrushes you have!

After furnishing me with my own new toothbrush (later I wished I’d checked to see how many he had – I have visions of a full pirate’s chest). 

In bed, I took his glasses off. “I'll put them back on thanks!” My '20s haircut was even "growing on" him. 

Well, I barely slept a wink (two causes both beginning with 'S', the second being "snoring"), but he made reparation by making me comfortable on his shoulder, bringing tea and biscuits in bed, offering to iron my shirt for work, and providing me with a mini-packed lunch.

Feeling confident I later texted: Fancy an encore? 

His reply: Yes please, followed by a standing ovation!

Lavish dinner with S and his repellent table manners!

I was very close to cancelling this after the text/conversation debacle. No point spending an evening with a man who makes you feel 100th on his list and who didn't even have the courtesy to text with the venue until the day itself.  I didn't reply while I deliberated. However, perversely the question "are you having second thoughts?? x" made me resolve to show: at least he had realised I was no longer excessively keen!

I set off in a foul mood, trying to negotiate the dress code of "effortlessly irresistible" and the mental code of "fun yet sceptical" whilst having a bad back, period pain and ladders in all my tights. A prescription codeine later and I was a lot more in the mood!  Dinner was at a reputed vegetarian restaurant in Hammersmith, and I was (unintentionally but not regretfully) late. 

I hear you've been dating my daughter, Comrade Stalin.

First topic of conversation: my new haircut ("quite nice, 20s-ish"). Second topic: Collaborators. I adored this play (seen 3 days earlier) - I love the era, the set, the casting, the resonance with another play I'd seen about Anna Akhmatova, the way it starts off so amusingly and ends so chillingly... I was completely gripped. Someone in the play reminded me of S, could he guess who? I had to stifle a laugh when he asked "the dashing young Jewish intellectual who plays the violin?"  No. It was the genial, crafty, stumpy Stalin who was immensely likeable (in the play at least), prior to the revelation of his macabre side. I said I'd tell him at the end of the night if he remembered to ask. Thankfully he didn't.

During this discussion, it became obvious that S hadn't eaten all day. Or perhaps all week. In his (wholly legitimate) eagerness to remedy this evident starvation, he sucked his starter from both his fork and his knife, whilst spattering the table with oil and vinegar from his vigorously dipped bread. There was something unsavoury, Dickensian, about this; perhaps it was "his avaricious manner of collecting all the eatables about him and devouring some with his eyes while devouring others with his jaws in the same manner".  But the conversation and wine were good... and at least his napkin wasn't tucked into his chin and resting on his pot belly (in the interests of fair reportage - he doesn't have a pot belly). Could I overlook these "minor" infractions?

Of course we had to talk about the phone call. He had the cheek to genially suggest he'd feared I might become a stalker (the conceit!), but "could see now that it was unlikely". Then he asked about my other dates. "Depends whether you want to consider me a friend, someone you won't see again, or someone with future romantic potential," I said. "Either of the first two and I'm happy to tell you; the latter, no, I think it's a bit crass." He looked aghast. I continued that I'd make it easy and tell him anyway - "The one exactly half your age," I started, "is taking me to a comedy club on Thursday". Apparently the table next to ours were all ears. Perhaps this was also why he'd ordered the second most expensive wine. 

I think I'd prefer to have sat opposite this...

The main course was almost over. He spent a good five minutes picking his teeth in the most gaping-jawed uncouth manner imaginable. I was almost dumbstruck. Even my usual bazooka-style shootdowns (normally only enhanced by wine) were deactivated.  I only managed a limp "Do you always do this on a date?" when what was actually required was the googling of a video of a komodo dragon (toxic saliva strung between teeth, gorging on live goat entrails, covered in gore) and the subsequent thrusting of said video into the offender's face, whilst simultaneously making finger-throat vomit gestures. Anyway, this sealed it - he could never, ever, be my boyfriend, and once that was out of the way the evening significantly perked up.

Two pictures are required to adequately convey my disgust.

I pointed out that despite having table manners which would offend a beast, we had great chemistry (just like you, dear reader, I am subsequently demanding 'How can this be so?!') and should he stop being such a plonker, I might concede to have a short but torrid affair with him. He took my hand, whilst telling me 50 reasons why it wouldn't work: I was too smart; I didn't watch enough TV; I would find his friends boring; he hadn't heard of Anna Akhmatova before; I would want babies soon (the number of times he has brought this up... I cut it off with "yes, and I don't want them all to be deformed")...  

The best and surely most noble of these reasons however, was that he couldn't stop internet dating, even temporarily (my precondition for anything physical between us), as he might miss out on meeting The One.

"The One?!" I spluttered!  "She could have run rings round you five times by now and you wouldn't have noticed! If you carry on like a headless chicken imagining a woman wearing big badge declaring 'woman of S's dreams' on it is about to tap you on the shoulder, you're going to miss - and have already irreparably missed - anything approaching Genuine Love. If you don't grow up and realise that all relationships need work, and that a partner can't be slotted into your existing life like a new piece of furniture, you are going to wake up on your deathbed horribly alone..." 

"But-"

"And besides, (no, my rant was not yet done) even if you did meet someone who so perfectly fit in to your daily routine that not a smidgen of it changed, what on earth would you have to talk about, and how could you have any respect for her?!"

S's ideal wife?

He whined, but accepted I was right.  He's evidently an internet dating addict who is yet to check into a Priory for a necessary spell of abstinence.

Warming to my theme of indignation, I pointed out that there are four men who have taken international flights to see me in the last year hoping for a similar offer (and not all received it, despite the airfare) and that it was quite indicative that the one English resident I'd liked in that time couldn't even be bothered to make it 30 mins down the District Line - and now, here was another such moron!

I apologise for under-dressing.

"But you turned up in non-date clothes!" 

I was wearing an almost backless green silk dress. 

I asked what I was supposed to have worn... Let's just say it was not second date attire. 

You may think this sounds like I was having a bad evening. I wasn't! There was something extremely refreshing about sitting opposite a man to whom I could say whatsoever I wanted, in the knowledge that he would listen, consider it as being probably true and not jump to taking offence, or argue back with the sole aim of protecting his ego and winning points. 


Case in point: when he leant over to kiss me I made a joke to the waiter about 'the old man thinking he was my boyfriend', and all three of us laughed. In normal circumstances I could easily have been the recipient of a slap. I like a man who has the self-assurance not to batter me (or at least sulk) for my errant tongue.

He ordered more wine, negotiated a made-to-order dessert plate (being a practiced glutton does then have some benefits), and, feeling I was on a roll (though not quite sure where I was rolling to), I upped the temperature by discussing al fresco sex (Mary Shelley losing her virginity to Percy on her mother's tomb). 

About as probable (but as enjoyable)

Over three hours after we'd arrived (we also had post-dinner peppermint tea), he kindly picked up the bill saying he didn't want to bankrupt me, and we ambled contentedly back to the station (me contented from the sense I'd won an argument, him seemingly contented because he'd lost one, but was still having fun).

S wanted to get me a taxi home. I suggested instead that he get my tube and take a circuitous route back. I laid on his shoulder and he had his arm round me, all surprisingly fond. He then made the journey even more circuitous by refusing get off at the first Northern Line junction, so I got off at the next one with him and we giggled our way to the end of the platform for a passionate kiss... Something I have subsequently been informed may well appear on Harry Hill's "Tube Snogs". (is this real, or is someone having mean fun with me?!).


Two trains went by. It was hotting up, and - although he may deny it if asked now - he told me I was very "loveable". Then he asked if he could come back to mine (Reader - quick! Do you see what he did there?!). In light of his earlier refusal to even temporarily halt searching for The One, the fact that he kept getting the place I lived in wrong (obviously confusing it with someone else's he'd been back to recently), and perhaps the subconscious realisation that I'd have to transcribe the result for this blog, I said "Sorry, no!" and jumped on the train currently sitting in the station.  The doors pipped  ("You're not seriously leaving on that train?!").  I was. 
I waved goodbye to the astonished man on the platform.