Last week did not go well as you know. But spurred on by journalistic commitment and a desire to not spend the rest of my waking days alone and gently weeping along to Dashboard Confessional songs, I am persevering with the blind date debacle. I’m scared before even meeting this man. We’ve exchanged some witty emails. The banter was good. He answered my question about what he would do in the event of a zombie holocaust with intelligence and a level of detail that suggested he’d really thought about it. I like that kind of thing. A lot.
So when he asked for my mobile number I gave it up like a fresher at a traffic light party. Obviously I did not realise that he is clearly mental or I wouldn’t have done it. If it takes me more than 20 minutes to reply I get some passive aggressive, stream of consciousness musing on what he possibly could have done to offend me this time.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him last night that long suffering gay flatmate had brought home two 18 year old students and we were making cocktails with witty names like ‘womb punch’. Even worse, around the 1am mark we began yelling out of the window at strangers. Somehow this lead to us inviting a strange French man into our home. It had bad news written all over it, surely disaster would now ensue? Nope. He was just very French. Dark dishevelled hair and stubble, dressed head to toe in black, he spent what felt like forever passionately telling me that Sting writes the most perfect pop songs he’s ever heard.
Flatmate and the kiddies were passed out in various states of disarray while we were still discussing drunken flower picking, my inability to drive and why he hates Manchester. The Frenchman stayed until 5.30am. I got a kiss and he sauntered off into the deserted streets. Leaving me with two questions; does it count as a blind date if you picked them up off the street? Will my actual date this week cut off my limbs and try mounting my torso?
WORDS BY KATIE HICKMOTT
PHOTOGRAPH BY NUNO
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