The Local Bore

Mid-May 2010:
Agreeing to a date on a whim… because the guy lives locally.

How I discovered that this in itself is NOT reason enough to meet up with a perfect stranger.

Inbox: an email from Andy, a 5’11” brunette, 24 year old in ‘property’. I cringe at the thought of dating an estate agent, but suggest a coffee date as:
A. He looks pretty cute in his photos,
B. Based on said photos, he has done his fair share of traveling(very important! After all, this frequent flyer is not looking for someone who prefers the comfort and safety of Mummy’s bosom to an international adventure.)
C. He actually lives within walking distance, and in London this is a bonus in itself!

Sounds like a decent plan, right? Not-so-much, and here’s why.

I had a busy weekend planned, so squeezed Andy in for a Saturday afternoon coffee; between first date with Sam on Friday night and friends on Saturday night.

Friday night comes and goes, and the first date with Sam is everything I hoped it would be and more. Beep, Beep, Beep- the buzzing alarm clock (Snooze button) on a rainy, windy Saturday morning, and all I want to do is cuddle my duvet and relive the previous night’s intricacies and analyse every minute detail (down to a fault).

Forcing my lazy legs out from under my down-feathered friend, I will my sleepy body into the shower and reassure myself that even though the previous night had been the best first date I’d had in Ages, it was just that: a First. And every seasoned Datress knows that there are any number of reasons why and how a great First could have been a fluke, so I really should give Local Andy a chance. As well as the knowledge that it is far too late to cancel now… In my books anyways, and this is the 1940’s Etiquette book unearthed at the family cottage 5 years ago. Contrast that with “Why Men Marry Bitches” and “It’s just a Fucking Date” and you’ve got my dating style.

Trusty ‘afternoon coffee/ beer at a pub’ date outfit on: skinny dark jeans, cute white tee, fitted v-neck long cardigan, and one bigass sparkly necklace. The footwear is dependent on weather, and on today’s rainy day the choice was knee high black boots. And off I trot up Devonshire, singing Miley Cyrus’ “Party in the USA” to myself on my way to meet Local Andy. It’s been an unshaken presence in my head ever since Griff told me he thinks Miley sounds Jamaican while singing “…nodding my head like Yeaaah, moving my hips like Yeaaah” last week, and now it’s all I can hear (damn Miley, I can’t stand you, but why you gotta be so catchy?)

I see him standing across the street and as I stride the zebra crossing (yes, the same one I crossed to meet Doctor Dick, different black boots) my first thought is “nice from afar…” As we greet, I am subjected to an awkward kiss-meant-for-the-cheek-ending-up-on-the-ear and think to myself (fuck!). This 24 year old is not very smooth and I remind myself why I don’t date guys my age- immature and generally without game (or at least the kind of game I wanna play). We walk towards the suggested café and from the sideways glances, my internal light bulb clicks on; He is an exact blend of two guys I work with! Seriously if ‘Russ’ and ‘Don’ were to mate, Local Andy (L.A.) would be their offspring. This is somewhat unsettling considering I had previously dated ‘Russ’ *shudder. And as my instincts are saying Game Over, that damn Etiquette book is coming back to haunt me and I politely agree to order food along with our coffees (I am starving, and it is just a sandwich, can’t be that painful, right?).

I have a pretty good idea of how this date is going to go (awkwardly-awfully) and the pin-dropping silence that ensues whilst we read the menu is killing me. I remain silent mostly out of curiosity to see how long L.A. is going to remain mute, for I had been the one to keep the conversation flowing up until this point, and hey, this is a two way street young stuff…
Tic.
Toc.
Tic.
Toc.
(I have chosen my BLT…with cheese)
Tic.
Toc.
Tic.
Toc.
(I have re-read and re-considered… perhaps a Club… with cheese)
Tic.
Toc.
Tic.
Toc.
(No, no, I really just want a BLT… with cheese)
Tic.
Toc.
Tic.
SILENCE BROKEN!

“So… what are you getting?”

Seriously?! Really? Truly?! You’ve had almost 4 minutes to come up with something to say and you really want me to explain to you why the BLT shouldn’t even exist without the accompaniment of an ample slice of cheese between the lightly toasted bread?!

My large double-shot Americano arrives. (And not a moment too soon)Two brown sugars in. Stir. Stop. Pour (milk). Stir. Sip.
This poor kid is sinking.
So am I, but at least now that I have sipped my first sip of my blessed hyper-caffeinated coffee, I am feeling slightly more human, and my sympathetic side begins to twinge.

I begin to ask him questions.
Questions about his work. He explains, but is finding it hard to maintain eye contact and repeatedly glances as my left shoulder.
His living situation. 3 Flatmates, and the eyes continue darting to my left shoulder.
(Is this the new, “I’ll pretend I’m looking at her shoulder but really am glancing at her cleavage”?)
His family. Two brothers, Mum and Dad all live close,
(No, mustn’t be, my boobs are a B cup and completely covered!)
His travels. Very limited apart from typical lads holidays to Menorca and Tenerife.
(I check my shoulder to make sure my bra strap isn’t on display. It isn’t.)
And questions about pretty much everything else I can think of to make the time pass faster…

The food comes out and I play ‘good little hostess’ (as if I don’t do that enough at work?!) by continuing to play question and answer with him. And as I race through every bite of my favourite sandwich (usually every bite savoured), I realise that I am playing therapist. I am on a date with an insecure child. Sexy. And seeing as he’s a child, I probably won’t even get a free lunch for my services.

Food done, L.A. asks if I would like to go somewhere else for a drink, I hasten to say I need to head home and collect my things for a dinner party tonight (which is in fact HOURS off). Up we get to pay, and as the cashier says £17.49, I notice he pulls out a Tenner… and motions to hand it to the cashier. I politely say, “Do you want to split it?” (Clueing in that perhaps he recognizes we Won’t be seeing each other again, phew! It’s not just me!) “Yeah, if that’s OK…” Underwhelmed, and not unexpected, I pay up, with another Tenner and he insists I keep the change… What a gentleman. Wait, make that a boy.

We walk outside and I need to walk South, knowing he is North-bound. So I make the departure short and sweet, a quick hug, “nice to meet ya”, and turning on my heel to quickly return to the comfort of my duvet.

All I can think is: ‘what a waste of a Tenner!’ The BLT was hardly anything to write home about, and I can make a better latte on my Nespresso at home. Oh well at least I think he got the hint at the end…

Down Devonshire, “nodding my head like Yeaaah, moving my hips like Yeaaah”…

Fast-forward a few hours, a debrief fag with Griff and a text from L.A. arrives.

“Had a really great time with you today, would love to meet up for another drink around town sometime.”

Were we on the same date?! Perhaps his favourite female body part is the full clothed shoulder and his ideal date is an awkward one-way therapy session, but to me that spells a creepy- disaster. Ignored.

I never did find out what was so special about my left shoulder, however, in my obstination I have certainly gained an affinity for my Right, and I begin to imagine the potential for a joint dating/therapy website. www.Date-a-Debbie-Downer.com.