Fourth date

Facebook. Friend requests. Every so often, a name will crop up… and I will be all ‘who the hell is this?’, until I see that the mutual friends list reads like a who’s who of the first secondary school I attended, and then figure out that this is yet another person that remembers me from way back when, when I haven’t got a Scooby. There are some people that I remember, and have been excited to see pop up on my friend request list. But the majority of people have been less than vaguely familiar. Anyway, I’m rabbiting on…

One of these so people was a guy called Ian. When he first popped up, the usual routine took place… no recognition… but kind of good looking… mutual friends… ahh I see. And then one day we were both online and I got to the bottom of who this guy was. I had gone to the first school with him, but I wasn’t in the same class as him, but he remembered me and my, hadn’t I changed. Of course I’m sitting there scrambling for something similar to say, but when you really do feel like you’ve never clapped eyes on someone before in your life, it’s pretty hard to come out with ‘yeah, your hair is much longer now – erm, no it isn’t’. So I ‘fessed up and admitted that I could not remember him in the slightest, no siree. Poor bugger was slightly crestfallen, and I felt bad, so we exchanged numbers with the idea of catching up at one point or another.

So a flurry of texts later and a chance bumping into each other in a bar by my work (coincidentally I was out with an old school friend from the second school – slutting it up with the nostalgia baby) and we decided to arrange a night out. Now, being the way I am with guys, and by that I mean a bloody idiot, who has the tendency to fall over, or possibly spit food in the eye of the person I am trying to impress, this is often a daunting prospect. I just don’t do this with new people for that precise point. When a relationship fails, I am one of those sad people who just gets back in touch with an ex… they’ve seen it all, they know when I’m most likely to dribble or rip my trousers…. And hence why I am resigned to the fact that I will never settle down, just scurry between a certain few exes and be a lonely spinster with cats who shouts at children when they walk past my window…

Anyhow, we arranged a night where we would start with some drinks and then head to the cinema… a weeknight too, so that we both knew it was home for work the next morning… separately. And I arrived and I’m all hot and bothered and I’m in heels and I can’t walk, and I leave my cigarettes in the first bar, and then our umbrellas in the second bar…. And then we turn up at the cinema and its fully booked, and then we go for more drinks… and I leave the umbrellas again… and then we go to watch the film at the next viewing time… and I realise I’ve left my scarf in the bar too… and then put my foot in the popcorn when I’ve put it on the floor for a moment… and then we leave, to find my scarf under my butt the whole time. And then we go to another bar… and then we go home… and I realise I left the umbrellas in the last bar and really did just leave them this time. So can you imagine my shock when this guy turns around and says that he would like to see me again????

This time round I planned to make it a more mutual thing where his friends are out and my friends are out and at some point during the night we reconvene in the same place. That way, with my divvy lot out too, there’s less chance of me looking like the biggest fool in the place… and forgetting my head or something. Only I don’t factor into the situation that my sister may want to come out too and proceed to get bladdered and dance like a prostitute with anything within 2 ft of her. Resulting in me having to follow her around all night like a neurotic mother to ensure that she doesn’t end up hotfooting it home with a stranger.

Our third date (yes, we got to a third, even though he has met me – a fool – and my sister – a jezebel) was a lot more run of the mill – dinner in a lovely Italian. That is, until we both spotted the karaoke bar across the road. A hastily ended dinner, and several drinks later, we’ve done a duet to Summer Loving, and are singing the closing song of All That Jazz after being coaxed into it by an overly friendly gay bar man called Mike. Nice stuff. Not so nice was the hangover next morning.

So date four. Tonight I am going somewhere of which I have no clue. I have been told to wear casual clothing, no high heels (I reckon this is a pointless part of the plan – the poor bugger has seen me attempt to walk in heels for longer than an hour, its not pretty – imagine a five year old girl walking around a supermarket needing a pee) and that we will need to get drunk beforehand in order to properly enjoy it.

I would say I’m worried. I would say I’m nervous. But after the farce that has occurred on all occasions before, nothing could bother me about this date. Not even if he bought along his mum. Well maybe a little bit… I’ve never really been too good with them….