Lost in Translation

29 Oct 2017

In the absence of any recent dates i’ll tell you about one from a few weeks ago. Never fear I have a date lined up this week, so you’ll hear about it soon enough.

So the last date was with a promising sounding fellow but it didn’t begin well. For a start the pub he’d chosen had closed down. I loitered outside for 5 minutes before getting a text from him saying he was going to be another 15 mins late. Given the pub wasn’t in the most salubrious of surroundings (under a bridge and next to a grotty tattoo parlour) and the fact I was wearing killer heels, I went and found a nearby bar to avoid being mistaken for a prostitute. I was not impressed.

Frankly things didn’t get any better when he showed up.

I suppose it’s inevitable that I would come across someone I’ve already spoken to online and dismissed before getting to the date stage. This guy appeared to have a photographic memory and remember every detail of our previous conversation. Which wouldn’t necessarily have been a problem, if it’s wasn’t for my monumentally shit memory.

He asked me if I remembered him. Do I fess up and say no? Surely this either suggests that he’s so dull and uninteresting to be unmemorable. Or that I’m a massive hussy who speaks to so many guys I’m unable to differentiate between them all.

I fudged it. ‘You sure?’ He explained he never forgot a face and there are some rather distinctive things in my online profile. Shit. Busted….

The date went downhill from there. As a musician he had this annoying habit of singing along to the bar’s playlist out loud. The problem was the music had been turned up really loud so I could barely hear what he was saying. When I leaned in I was never sure whether he was answering my question or crooning along to the music (you want to do what to me tonight?!).

As if that wasn’t confusing enough he then claimed to have an utterly knockout story, that could kick the arse of any of my stories (well that’s what I think he said. It was something about stories and arses).

He proceeded to talk at me for about 20 minutes, gesticulating for emphasis. The loud music really didn’t help and I admit most of the time I sat there thinking ‘did he really just say ‘Hasselhoff’ and ‘erection’ in the same sentence?’

He finished and peered at me, no doubt expecting a standing ovation. ‘Excellent story’. ‘Well done’ I said. Not knowing whether to appear amused or horrified. I stared at him and realised he had particularly hairy nostrils.

He looked disappointed, muttered something about me being hard work and disappeared towards the bar.

I cut my losses. On his return I said I had to go and I made a quick escape after finishing my drink. I’m sure there’s someone out there for him but i’m saving the killer heels for someone else. (This week’s date!) stay tuned to hear how it went…

1 thought on “Lost in Translation”

  1. Is it wrong to laugh at another’s misfortune?
    Great story, well told (way better than his, whatever it was…)
    Good luck this week.

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