I might not be every manās cup of tea, but I give good email. In fact, I give such good email that Iām always worried I donāt measure up in real life. At least Iām not alone, though.
On Monday I met The Banker. Although he didnāt look my type, I agreed to the date because his quirky messages made me laugh. Some of his texts even seemed deliberately stern, so I thought there was a chance heād picked up on the subtle hints in my vanilla dating profile. Considering only three men have managed this, I was somewhat ambitious in my expectations.
He showed a complete lack of balls by choosing a French lunchy-pastry place that didnāt serve much booze and kicked you out before 8pm. Weāre all in the same boat, us online daters. Thereās always the worry youāll end up seated in front of Alan Partridge or Charles Manson and need to make a quick getaway, but to be so brazen about it, well itās a bit clumsy, isnāt it?
We arrived at the same time as each other and in a fit of nerves he chose the only coffee table in the room ā a very tiny, incredibly low coffee table ā even though he wanted us to eat. Iām a trooper, so I struggled through by leaning low and shoveling bits of loaded baguette in my gob, giving him an unavoidably first-class view of my bosom.
Despite being rabidly feminist, Iāve a penchant for playing the little lady and waited for him to order some wine until I finally caved and discovered he doesnāt drink. So it was water for him and a glass of fizz for me, followed by a barrage of questions that made me feel like a novelty. I tried to find out more about him, but all I discovered was that he didnāt really didnāt do much outside of finance and taking his niece to see the odd play.
When he asked me about the most interesting writing project Iāve ever done, I answered truthfully because Iām an idiot. He seemed concerned that writing for a posh escort agency might equate with me being a hooker. To reassure him, I mentioned a few details in as PG a way as possible before the staff asked us to leave because they wanted to go home. As Iām British, I agreed to go for another drink somewhere else.Ā
Over a stiff soda, he told me he was muslim.Ā This wouldnāt have been a deal-breaker for a sexually deviant muslim with bags of personality, a progressive view on escort agencies and a love of debating the existence of God with a card-carrying atheist, but that wasnāt quite him.
So many unanswered questions.
Like why, of all the profiles in all the internet did he opt for the freaky-deeky atheist who referenced Secretary in her profile, along with a bunch of weird crap heād never heard of? Why the woman wearing a dubiously shiny shirt in one of her photos?
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