The next day I arranged to meet my second date.
Paul, 30, Marketing Manager
Our messages had been nothing more than playful banter so I didn't have his life story yet but he seemed funny. After the previous night's mild disappointment I thought perhaps, now my nerves had subsided, this date would be better.
Thursday, Trendy Bar, 6.30pm.
Paul was decisive on the venue, a trendy industrial space bar in Liverpool Street. I rather liked the fact that he had already decided where we were going , it showed confidence.
I arrive at 6.20 and head straight for the loo to freshen up and ensure my make up hasn't had a party on my face since I last looked in the mirror.
I am less nervous than last night, and careful not to expect too much from this date. Paul sends me a text to say that he is running late...
Lateness: WTF?! I understand that white knights do not exist and chivalry is all but dead however two dates in two days have been over 10 mins late. Unless this is some ploy of internet dating I'm not aware of then it is just poor manners.
Paul arrives and I have to say I am probably not in the most generous of moods due to the fact that I have been sat on my own like a lemon for ten mins. Warning...this next section will sound cruel...
Paul looks nothing like his photo, Paul looks like someone stamped on his photo with a shitty boot. I'm not even convinced the photo of the attractive smiling man was Paul.
Have I got the right Paul "IS THERE ANOTHER PAUL HERE?!"
Gent's if your hairline is present in your pictures, do be a dear and bring it along on the date, I'd hate to think of it sat at home alone eating beans from a can whilst you're out gallivanting.
Paul is also lot shorter than he said, now I don't really care about height, I have dated someone shorter than me and it never bothered me. What is bothering me is Paul's bullshit profile. I know some men have problems with measurements (the inability to measure 8 inches for example) but this is just taking the piss. If your 5 foot 7 just put that on your bloody profile. You, my friend, are not six foot.
He offers me a drink which I feel bound to accept. There is no way I could be so rude to someone as to say "I'm sorry I know bugger all about your personality but it's looks I am really going for" and so the date begins....
We make banal conversation for what seems like an eternity (realtime 15 mins) we've both recently visited the same UK holiday destination and talk of the pier filled five painful mins.
All the while I am wondering exactly how I can leave when he starts talking (quite randomly) about the pension reform. Now I work in a job which requires some knowledge of pensions, It would not be my mastermind subject, or in fact a subject I would choose to talk about on a date. But apparently that's Paul for you!
What followed was an uncomfortable conversation about the in's and out's of the pension reform and why my opinion was wrong, this then progresses to the Euro and why Britain should not and will never give up the pound. I don't think I have ever been so fucking bored in all my life.
I make a mental note never to get dragged into a conversation regarding politics or religion on a date ever again. Especially by some prick who seems to think it's my idea of a fun evening to listen to him drone on about the squalor state of our beautiful country.
I told you I was getting annoyed...
I hold my own in the conversation but only so far as I can be bothered, frankly I haven't cared what this man thought of me since he walked in and now I am nearing the level of irritation I usually reserve for my siblings at family gatherings.
Now before anyone gets up in arms about this I have a rule. My rule is that if you go on a date and the man buys you a drink, you buy him one back. We wanted all this equality and now, for the most part, we have it. I don't think it is acceptable for a girl to expect a gent to pay for the first date, or for her not to pay her way.
However it is now 8pm, Paul has nursed this first drink for almost two hours. If I buy a round I'm going to have to sit here for another two and I cant, I just plain cant.
I tell him I am going to have to leave unfortunately due to my trains only running every hour in the late evening. Paul tells me he is walking in my direction, could this escape route get any worse?!
As we walk down towards the bank of England I invent a short cut to the station which involves a long walk away from Paul's direction.
Saying goodbye was difficult because Paul refused to take his right hand out of his pocket. Therefore my outstretched hand was left out there alone...embarrassingly Paul made a twitch as if to move toward me, presumably for a peck on the cheek. I then grabbed Paul's left hand, shook it and told him it was nice to meet him, before crossing the road, narrowly avoiding being hit by a cyclist.
Now I am aware I probably sound cruel about him however if Paul were honest in his profile about his height, his current looks as apposed to a photo taken ten years ago he may have met with a woman who appreciated him for Paul for himself. What Paul actually got was a woman who was pissed off that he had kept her waiting, been deceptive in getting her to go out with him and essentially wasted her time.
Next time this little piggy might just stay home...
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