I wrote yesterday about how I was going on a first date last night.  Seems a few of you nosey buggers were interested in my love life after all …  *proud face.*

 

So the plan was I’d meet S at my local pub at 8.30pm.  Babysitter was booked, I’d already put my son to bed and I’d even optimistically shaved my legs.  Well, you just never know, right? How about that for positive thinking!

 

And then he rang.  And I thought, here we go again.  Someone else is going to let me down.  (The positive thinking didn’t last long.)

 

Turns out the major tunnel near to where I live was shut and he was a little lost.  And by now, late and lost.  Lateness does not go down well with me.  Hashtag Just Sayin.  Luckily, the vodka I was now drinking was going down well so I let him off.

 

I got a taxi to the pub ten minutes later and saw him waiting for me.  Always a good plan to get there last.  But as I was paying for the taxi, I saw that he was smoking.

 

Literally and metaphorically.

 

The latter is all good, the former, however, has always been a bit of a deal breaker for me – I hate smoking.  Ten points deducted already for being late, and now another twenty for smoking.  (I don’t actually have a points list.  OK, I might have a points list.  Moving on …)

 

He looked pretty much like his photos.  Oh, didn’t I mention?  I hadn’t actually met S before – I met him online.  I’ll get to all of that another time.  So the fact that he actually looked like his photos was a massive bonus cos you just never know, right?!  Actually, he looked better than his photos.  SCORE.

 

I’d worn skinny burgundy jeans, a black sleeveless top and black wedged heels – so I’d kinda gone for the smart/casual/trying to be ever-so-slightly sexy look.   Not sure I pulled it off but got a warm greeting nonetheless.  He didn’t do a runner so I added five points back on.

 

With him being from London, I wasn’t quite sure what he’d make of my ‘small town’ type pub.  Not that I cared really – he’d made the effort to drive down from London so I didn’t think he was really here for the countryside.  And being a Wednesday, everything was that bit more dead.   His request for a Campari was, however, met with a blank stare.  From both the barmaid and me.  Still, we got served quick – win/win.

 

We spent a really nice evening together – chatting, flirting, checking each other out, as you do.  He’s ten years younger but that age gap doesn’t really make much difference – well I don’t think.  Sure, we’re at different stages in our life but when you’re just dating, it’s no biggie.

 

He went to the bar to get another drink and I, very maturely, rang my best friend to report in and gossip.  I literally had three minutes to report everything.

 

Her:            “OK, deets STAT.”

ME:            “Right, he’s a smoker.”

Her:             “Oooh, ten points off right?”

ME:            “Right.”

Her:            “And?”

ME:            “Hot.  Hot and sexy.  Hot, sexy and taller than me.”

Her:            “Excellent.  What does he think of you.”

ME:            “Oooh, no idea.”

Her:            “Ask him.”

ME:            “Are you mental?”

Her:            “I seem to remember that was exactly your advice to me the last time I had a date.”

ME:            “Ah.  Well, then it’s sound advice.  I’ll ask.”

 

And with that he came back round the corner with a vodka and Diet Coke in hand for me, and a J20 for him – the butchest non-alcoholic drink I think you’ll all agree.

 

So I asked him.  I sat there and asked him what he thought of me.  In an utterly cool and devastatingly sexy way obviously.

 

“I’ll tell you what I think of you,” S said, and with that, he got up, walked round to me and kissed me.

 

No tongues mind.

 

Quite frankly, a positive move I thought.

 

We stayed until last orders and talked about what it was like where he lived, his job, his last date  … actually, we talked about him A LOT.  That’s usually how I like it to be honest, at least on a first date – men bloody LOVE talking about themselves and it gives me a chance to sit back and just look cool … *cough.*

 

I don’t know how or why but I just happened to mention that I had some Jamaican rum at home, unopened, because I don’t drink it.  Cue visit to Tescos after the pub to buy Diet Coke, ice cubes and lemons!  (His idea.)

 

We got home, I sorted our drinks out and before you knew it we were having a nice snog in the kitchen.

 

I loves kissing I do.

 

And the kissing was GOOD.

 

(And that’s all you’re getting.  Pretty much what I said to him.  WHAT?  I DID!)

 

 

 

 

 

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Published by Kate Sutton

Writer, Mother, Dater.

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