Love sleeps with the fishes

15th June -

Let’s dive straight in.


VICTORIA’S SECOND DATE - 12/06/09

Ok. So. Right. Second date etiquette? What does a second date mean? What are the second date rules? If a second date falls in a forest and no one’s around, does it still sound like sadness ramming its fist down the throat of loneliness?

I’ve got to admit, having been on a date the night before and having two more lined up this week, I was pretty complacent about this. I mean, she wanted to see me again. Boom. I was a man in demand. She’s going to have to do all the running here. Honestly, my attitude was shocking. Once again I didn’t have any clean clothes but this time I didn’t care. HAH. I think at this juncture it may be becoming obvious why I am single. Anyway, I didn’t care about the lack of clean clothes. Until, that is, I remembered that it was a second date. So. Who knows what might happen? It doesn’t matter on the first date if your pants are a bit skiddy because she’s not going to see them. But. On a second date. She might. I sat on the tube and looked at the man next to me. He met my eye. He understood. He nodded sadly. Yep, he seemed to say, you should have at least changed your pants.

But I hadn’t.

Victoria (remember her? Kids, 2010, fear) suggested we go to a restaurant near her house. How more obvious did she want to make it? Casanova's got nothing on this guy. I considered buying some prophylactics at a newsagents on the way. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t think anything was going to happen, I didn’t want anything to happen. But. These thoughts pass through your mind. I only had £2 on me. I bought some chewing gum and a Lucozade orange instead. I mean, safe sex is one thing. Physical and mental stimulation with minty fresh breath is QUITE ANOTHER. Plus they last longer. Hah. Sex joke.

The evening got off to a good start. I was revelling in the fact that I was blasé to the point of being insulting about the whole situation and she, I imagined smugly, was not. Oh no no, she wanted her a piece of this. And why shouldn't she? Go on then, dear, but you're going to have to do all the running. I didn’t care what happened. If she wanted to see me again she was going to have to really impress. I mean, she’s nice and all that but a third date is a bridge too far. If that was to be on the cards she was going to have to charm my skiddy pants off.

The meal went brilliantly. For me. I sat there oozing charming indifference (well, indifference). Her eyes gave her away. Why isn’t he wooing me? Where’s the romance? I thought he liked me? The more I showed her that I couldn’t give a toss even if she spontaneously combusted over her halloumi, the harder she tried. Not only did I hold all the cards but I was also in possession of pick-up sticks, some marbles and a half complete set of Kerplunk. She flirted like a sailor on shore leave. I did not bite. I would not bite. I was unwilling to take even the smallest of nibbles. Victoria’s attempts to impress me was like watching a clown trying to placate a weeping child. The more she tried the less I cared.

We then went for a drink. It was to be one drink. Then home. Then bye bye, Victoria. Nice to know ya.

And then at that moment, she pulled off the most audacious trick.

I came back from the bar with drinks. And I sat down next to a completely different woman (not literally, keep up). This Victoria did not flirt. Didn’t even smile. She seemed to have no interest in me whatsoever. In fact, she looked bored. I was keeping her from a far more pressing and exciting engagement, that much was certain. This woman certainly did not find me attractive, you could tell. And, my god, she had suddenly become roughly 4000% more attractive. In fact, I thought I loved her. I had to have her. I felt a desperate urge to impress. If I could only make her smile, make her laugh, make her want me somehow. It seemed unnaturally urgent.

Top marks to her, she worked me out pretty quickly. If she carries this on for a couple more weeks I may be forced to propose.

The power shifted so quickly and so violently that I was utterly lost and I run like a monkey gland-enhanced stallion to make up all the ground I had taken from her in the first place.

I think the evening ended in a score draw. She invited me back to hers (2-1). However, soon as we were there she made me feel like not only had I broken into her house but that she had caught me feverishly rifling through her underwear draw and was pocketing my faves. I was soon forced to suggest that I should leave. Yes. She said. You probably should (2-2).

God, she’s good.

But this isn’t love, is it? This isn’t even going to be love. This can’t blossom into something nice and clean and healthy and wholesome and probiotoc. This is just wanting what you can’t have. Is that it then? Is that the sum total of love? It’s hardly not worth all those songs and poems and stuff. Pffft.

The older I get the more it seems to me that love is nothing more than an ark for the coming flood.

No. This isn’t love. I must keep looking.

But I must also see Victoria again because she hasn’t texted for nearly two days and, my word, I can’t resist that.


Date Three tomorrow night. This one’s already given me some abuse during our email exchange. THAT’S how you do it, Vic. Get it in early, get it in first.