Every fortnight I’ll be regaling Flavour readers with my dating tales from the Urban Jungle.
The first lesson I learn on this week’s date is not to combine business with pleasure. The thoroughly exuberant and utterly fabulous Fashion Editor I’ve just had a meeting with is egging-me-on to show her my “catwalk walk”. Unable to resist a challenge, I strut my way along the length of the bar in an exaggerated, Naomi Campbell style guise, whilst Fashion-Ed lady whoops and squeals her approval. I raise my hand in a rock-star-esque goodbye gesture, only to swivel on my heels and be greeted by my date, wearing an expression which conveys both worry and amusement. The first ten minutes of our encounter are therefore spent with my hasty explanation of why I was walking like a complete tit and encouraging him to choose a table out of the eye-line of Fashion-Ed lady, who is winking at me from across the bar.
The second lesson is that “you’re really photogenic” is not always a compliment, particularly not in this context. Unfortunately, it was me who found that particular phrase escaping from my lips and then has to backtrack wildly when he says ‘what, you mean I’m butters in the flesh, then?’ whilst wearing a wounded expression. The truth is, he wasn’t all I was expecting. Tall, slim and mixed race, his photos made him look a bit like Marvin from JLS, yet after setting eyes on him in reality, I was feeling fairly confident that my heart would, in fact, beat again. I don’t think he had deliberately tried to deceive me. I just think whoever took his profile shots knew an awful lot about good lighting.
I move the conversation into the safer territory of music (of which his profile has already told me he has an extensive knowledge) meaning I can sit back, sip wine and listen to him talk (and not say any more embarrassing things). However, it’s not long before I realise he must have copied the bands on his profile after Googling ‘who’s cool in music right now?’ and in actual fact has an alarming fondness for generic pop.
There was only one thing for it, and that was to get a little bit drunk. Luckily, he keeps ordering bottle-after-bottle of wine. It dawns on me that his intentions might not be honourable, but I’ve never been the sort of girl to look a gift horse bearing free chardonnay in the mouth and so dutifully glug away. It’s only when I make to stand up that the quantity of alcohol consumed finally dawns on me. He’s had a fair bit too, so we have to walk to the tube station clutching desperately onto one another like the drunken revelers we clearly are. The alcohol has induced a kind of nostalgia in me and I’m finding myself rapidly acquiring a fondness for him, despite the terrible taste in music and the lack of Marvin resemblance. That was shortly before I misjudged where the doors were and walked into the side of a train. He hasn’t called since.
So it’s back to dating HQ for more profile perusal. Check out next fortnight’s column for more antics.
Words by Zowie Edwards
