The Blog

A Disastrous Date and a Blast From the Past

It didn't get off the greatest start when we both went to completely separate bars within the same building and when we finally met up we only had half an hour to get acquainted. Initial perceptions weren't great - he was the same height as me and was cut a lean, wiry figure in his hipster garb.

In the least surprising news of the year, the 'avoiding Serge' plan is not going that well. When I confronted him about why he decided to leave me at the flat belonging to a man I'd only known for a few hours, in the middle of the night, he simply shrugged. He said he knew I'd be fine because he'd "known the guy for years" and even went on to suggest I should go out with him.

"He has a good job you know? He'd look after you!" he laughed as I glowered back.

We do seem to have gone back into mate-mode however, which is probably for the best. We had one memorable dinner date where I ended up screaming at him because he played with his three phones throughout the entire thing, taking pictures of the queue, the ceiling and the food like some clueless tourist. That's the thing that bugs me most of all - I only ever get to talk to half a person. That's all he will ever allow me. His mind is always buzzing, there is always somewhere else he has to be, anywhere but with me.

A week later after I slipped out of a party in town into the hot evening, pleasantly drunk on sickly pink cocktails, to meet him. I literally can't keep away. We sat in the balmy darkness outside a Turkish restaurant, my aching feet resting on his beautiful knees. I drank two martinis that I didn't need whilst he sipped mint tea and clucked disapprovingly about my inebriated state. Sometimes I don't know why he agrees to meet me. He told me a propos of nothing that people who work in the media don't wash, and that everyone should just be themselves because 'everyone else is taken'. I guess that's what I love about the time we spend together - he redefines random, and the yawning cultural gap between us fascinates me. He doesn't even really bother trying to seduce me any more but I just can't imagine him not being around.

My poor, patient friends however, took a dimmer view upon hearing I had had fallen back into my old ways and organised a blind date with a guy they swore I would get on with.

Said date finally got in touch and we swapped a few casual emails which sounded promising. He then invited me to an enormously pretentious musical 'happening' (the only way I can describe it as it certainly wasnt a 'gig' in any normal sense) on the South Bank.

It didn't get off the greatest start when we both went to completely separate bars within the same building and when we finally met up we only had half an hour to get acquainted. Initial perceptions weren't great - he was the same height as me and was cut a lean, wiry figure in his hipster garb. He was wearing a tight t-shirt with a low cut v neck which showcased his sunken 'heavage' replete with curly grey chest hairs which made me inwardly recoil. I had gone for a moderately glam look, swathed in a beige silk dress and midi height heels which meant I felt like a lumpen giantess next to him. Due to the time restraint and low-level nerves I downed a huge plastic cup of wine in record time and consequently was desperate for the loo about 10 minutes into the performance. I don't think he was too impressed. Then when I got back to the door they wouldn't let me back in till the current 'song', if you can call it that, was finished.

"I thought you'd run off," he hissed at me when I finally found my seat in the pitch black.

"I wish," I thought to myself, placing my empty cup on what I thought was a ledge but was actually someone's head.

The performance was mercifully short but things got slowly more awful when my date raved about the "minimalist stage set" and I made a crack about it looking like the reception at a Travelodge. I swear there was actual hatred in his eyes as he half-heartedly suggested going on for another drink.

I made my excuses, thanked him and rushed out onto the river. The minute he was out of sight I reached for my phone and rang... well, guess who. The one I always ring when I feel lost or unloved. He was in Chelsea celebrating with a friend who owns a racehorse which had come in at 40-1, and suggested I come and join them. I had more fun with them in an hour than the whole of the date. Needless to say I didn't hear from hipster man again. Cringe.

The next night as I was was licking my wounds chez moi, things got even weirder. I was happily perusing the day's papers online when a messenger alert popped up on screen. It was none other than the long-lost Stuntman, whom I'd pretty much given up on after hustling to get him an invite to a swanky party, which he'd enthused about wildly then gone completely AWOL as per. Enough was enough and even through a veil of low self-esteem I could see that this wasn't acceptable. No bloke has ever disappointed me more than he, and I'd mentally assigned him to (overflowing) man bin ever since.

But here he was, enquiring politely as to the state of my health and offering up massages in what he probably considered to be a sexy come on.

"Unless that position is already filled?" He added.

A wave of long forgotten hurt washed over me and I decided to play the player.

"It is actually," I tapped back. "I'm with someone these days. Someone who worships and respects me," (ie a complete lie).

I wasn't really prepared for what happened next. We had never ever discussed anything icky and meaningful like emotions - hell, we were the ultimate party couple on the rare occasions we actually managed to cross paths. Up for a good time, all the time. But suddenly the screen filled up with declarations of true love and devotion - he'd changed, he'd got a steady job in town, he wanted to rein in the partying and had been thinking about what could be. He sounded so sincere that I almost felt guilty for telling such a whopping lie. I got into my stride however, and painted a picture of a devoted boyfriend who worshipped and supported me, who would lay down his life for me. It worked like a charm and he assured me that he wanted to make a go of things and would always be there for me, that he would provide the same if not greater levels of nurturing and adoration. I was stunned. I would have killed to hear him spout this patter back in the days when I thought we stood even a tiny chance of making a go of things.

"Please promise me you'll sleep on it and consider giving me another chance" was his parting shot. I could almost visualise him sinking back into the sofa, utterly spent with the drama of it all.

"Your track record is less than encouraging," I hit back, feeling slightly crazed with new found power. Finally having the upper hand was nothing less than dizzying. I switched off the laptop, still reeling from what I had read. Terrible memories of the frustration I felt as he let me down or blew me out time and time again flooded back. TWO YEARS of him drifting in and out of my life when he felt bored or horny. I swore I'd never put myself in that situation again. I got to thinking about the picture I painted of my imaginary Mr Wonderful and realised, with a certain sense of closure, that the Stuntman won't ever be that person.