I've had relationships in the past. None of them have worked out (obv) but they were fun while they lasted. Apart from Mitch. He was never fun. I don't know what I was thinking. Anyway, those relationships made me who I am. I wouldn't change them. Apart from Mitch. That was a if-I-had-a-time-machine-I'd-go-back-and-never type of relationship.
I'm quite happy being single (really. Mum doesn't believe me either but it's true). It means I get to go on fabulous dates. Although it does mean I get to go on some not-so-fabulous dates too.
Some stinkers have been:
- Being taken on a motorbike ride. Without an extra helmet. We were thankfully pulled up about fifty yards away from my house. Mum was fuming. The neighbours thought I was being arrested.
- The picnic in the park where I was served cheese-slice sandwiches and a warm bottle of coke. There wasn't even cake
- The cinema trip where we were accompanied by the bloke's sister (she'd just broken up with her boyfriend and didn't want to be left alone. When I asked - discreetly - why she couldn't hang out with her mates for the evening, I was told she didn't have any)
- Being set up with the brother-in-law of my sister's boyfriend. He was 22 (I was 26), still had braces on his teeth and he quoted Star Trek or Star Wars (I couldn't tell but they're both as bad as each other) for the entire date
- My first internet date where the bloke turned out to be 59 (he'd told me he was 32). It was my last internet date.
My latest date was with Philippe, which took place last week. I met Philippe in town the week before, when I was out with Lauren and Ryan, my best friends. Ryan was trying to chat up this stunning red-head (he didn't stand a chance, poor sod) and Lauren had gone to fight her way to the bar. Philippe approached, introducing himself with an exquisite French accent. My legs turned to jelly. I love an accent and he was gorgeous. Seriously.
We got chatting (me melting every time he spoke) and we had a dance (the boy had moves) and at the end of the night, I gave Philippe my number - and he actually called me. The next day. We arranged a date (a casual trip to the cinema. Nothing can really go wrong. Unless your dates brings his snivelling, heartbroken sister with him). I was so looking forward to this date. I waxed, plucked, soaked and used my best perfume. I wore my 'good' bra (you know the one, ladies. It gives you a cleavage up to your eyeballs) and slipped on a dress that was tight and low in all the right places without appearing sluttish.
'Your sister's just given me a hard on,' I heard one of my brother's friends whisper (I never know which is which - they're all as unclean as each other) as I passed Justin's bedroom. He whimpered a moment later as Justin evidently thumped him.
'Wow, look at you.' Mum was impressed as I waltzed into the kitchen. I wondered if I should go and change. 'You look very modern. Off out on your "date", are you?' Mum made the quotation marks and everything. 'What was his name again?'
'Philippe. He's French.' I was very proud of that fact. Maybe, if this worked out, I'd get a free holiday to France to visit his parents. I'd always wanted to visit Paris.
'Well, as long as he treats you well. That's all that matters.'
I left then. Mum didn't know a thing about what to look for in a man. She'd married Dad, after all.
I was meeting Philippe at the cinema, which I didn't mind. I'm not one of these girls who wants picking up at her house. It's sometimes better if a date doesn't know where you live until you've sussed him out. I learned this the hard way when I was practically stalked (for three days but it was annoying) by a date I'd decided not to contact again (his teeth had a greenish hue and he smelled of pork).
Philippe was a bit late. I waited for 20 minutes. Then half an hour. Finally, 40 minutes after we'd arranged to meet, Philippe turned up, apologising profusely.
The date went downhill from there.
