No, not that rabbit, although, thinking about it, it’s probably worth investing.  (Again.)  No, I mean the non-stop talking rabbit, rabbit, rabbit.


Yup, I’ve been on another shit date again.


A little background.  I had only spoken to A for a couple of days but he was intelligent, he could spell, (HALLELUJAH!!!) and he was cute.  Perhaps not my usual ‘type’ looks wise but the more I date, the more I realise that actually, I don’t have a type per se.  Just someone not mental would be nice.


We spoke on the phone at lunchtime and got on really well, (as much as you can in a three minute phone call,) and he asked if I was free that night.  Not wanting to come across as desperate, (I’m not, honest,) I said I’d have to check and let him know.  I left it an appropriate amount of time and replied that, hurrah, I was.


I am such a loser.


We agreed that he’d come down to mine as he lives near Croydon and quite frankly, there’s no way I’m ever making that much of an effort to travel.  (I really am a catch, aren’t I.)  My eldest was babysitting anyway so I told him I’d be home by 10pm and went and got ready.  (Yeah, the irony of that role reversal isn’t lost on me.)


I wore a long, black, T shirt dress and flat shoes – comfy, casual, with just the slightest hint of cleavage on show.  Didn’t want to give the poor bloke a heart attack/semi.


Sure enough, I got the obligatory “I’m going to be half an hour late text,” but at least he let me know.  (Just as an aside, isn’t it a sad state of affairs when I’m actually grateful for someone letting me know they’re going to be late.)


I turned up at the pub.  There were three cars in the car park.  I walked in and the entire restaurant was empty and the kitchen was closed.  Not that we were going to eat but talk about lack of atmosphere.  Mind you, it was a Beefeater.


I found him sat downstairs waiting for me.  Sat there, with his PADDED BODYWARMER on.  SO glad I made an effort.


First impressions?  More petite than I’d envisaged.  (Can men be petite?)  A little taller than me, nice face, good stubble length, (these things are important,) and a nice smile.  He seemed, on the surface at least, confident, and after we got a drink and sat down, we started talking.


Or, I should say, he started talking.  And talking.  And talking.  And talking.  I swear, I know I can talk, but this man had chronic verbal diarrhoea (yeah I know that’s probably spelt wrong but I’ve literally now spent five minutes trying to work out how to spell the word and, quite frankly, this cake won’t eat itself.)


And the thing was, he was really interesting.  We both shared a nerdy love of social media, (even though I should have walked out there and then when I found out *gasp* he wasn’t on Instagram,) and his job and main hobby was fascinating.  The trouble is, when one finds oneself having to forcibly interject all the time because, otherwise, you would just sit there in silence, that tells me that perhaps, perhaps, he talks just a little bit too much.


However, it soon became apparent that I could have a potential problem on my hands.  He had his own blog, (we actually talked about WordPress for fifteen minutes – sexy!)  He asked me what my blog name was and I explained that because it’s a very personal blog, I wasn’t really comfortable telling him the name.  Nothing WHATSOEVER to do with the fact that I write about my dates!


We had to get back so my eldest could go back to his Dads so I told A to follow me home as it was only round the corner.


And then I remembered.


I randomly have a bumper sticker with my blog name on the back of my car!!!


We got home and thankfully he didn’t use his common sense and just park behind me on my drive, because as he was parking I was trying frantically to unpick the sticker off the car.  Just as he approached the house, I’d finally managed to get the damn thing off.


Phew!  Crisis averted.  (Or so I thought.)


To be honest, I wasn’t sure I fancied him or not.  Humour is a big aphrodisiac for me and so, resisting the urge to put Gay Network TV on again, I put Girlfri3nds on instead – my latest guilty TV pleasure.  (Btw, I should totally be on that show.)


It was a great opportunity to laugh at other people’s dating misfortunes and it certainly broke the ice.  As did the triple vodka I was now drinking.


He was already sitting next to me, but, used all the usual tricks in the book to get closer to me.  He’d put his drink on the table next to me so he had to reach across to get it.  Until I said it was fine for him to put it on the floor next to him.  Ha.  Did the old stretching the arm up in the air then around my shoulders thing.  What can I say?  I’m irresistible.


As I was sitting there, thinking about how much I want to live in a mansion and date hot men for a living, I glanced across at A.  He wasn’t looking at the TV.  He was looking at the framed certificate from the Guinness Book of World Records (did I mention I’m a WORLD RECORD HOLDER?  NO?) and NOOOOOO!!!!! It had my blog name on it!!!


I needed something to divert his attention quickly, and as I looked down, I realised I had two things that would do the trick.  I just readjusted my dress slightly and … Bingo!  Job done.


There was no build up to what happened next.  Thankfully, he’d calmed down somewhat by the time he’d got to mine and didn’t talk nearly as vociferously as before so we were actually having a decent conversation, but literally mid-conversation he kissed me.  Which would be fine, had there been any build-up or sexual chemistry.  There hadn’t been either.


Put it this way, had I been chewing gum, I’d be choking round about now.   (And boy, would he have loved to have given me the Heimlich Manouevre.)


I so wanted the kiss to be good.


Alas, it was utter shite.


Not quite on the same level as washing-machine manchild, but for the love of God, how difficult can kissing be?!  Seriously!  It’s kissing!  It’s not sub-dividing atomic particles.  It’s lips and tongues meeting.  That’s it!


I persevered for a good few minutes but when he came up for air and asked, “Is that alright?” I lost the will to live.  Again.


“I have to be up early in the morning,” I told him and stood up.  Dating parlance for leave my house immediately.


It’s a shame.  He was a really nice guy.  We had lots in common and, as a friend, he’d be cool to hang with.


But you know what?  The kissing has to be good.  I just can’t settle for less.

kate sutton


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Published by Kate Sutton

Writer, Mother, Dater.

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