First dates are shockingly stressful.
First dates are shockingly stressful for the simple reason that you don’t know if you are actually on a first date.
You might, in fact, be on the only date.
When you are sitting at a table dead opposite a guy that you suddenly realise is the spitting image of Jason Statham (I well love Jason Statham), the ensuing ‘interview’ process can make one act in ways that, under normal circumstances, would be out of character.
When I say ‘out of character’, I don’t just mean that my behaviour was out of character for me. My behaviour was pretty much out of character for human beings.
As a species.
Yep, I was pretty nervous and when I’m pretty nervous, I talk.
I talk and talk. I talk and talk and talk and talk. I keep talking even when that helpful, yet utterly powerless voice in my head, is bellowing at me to ‘STOP BLOODY TALKING’.
As a result, Handsome-Rob now knows, in vivid detail all about every relationship I have ever had. Every break-up that I have endured (I actually started crying at one point, so carried away was I with the power of my narrative). He is fully apprised of the blow-by-blow details of the births of both my children. He is clear on my political opinions. My opinions on cars. Books I like to read. Books I don’t like to read. Films I like to watch. Films I hated so much that I actually left the cinema.
I talked so much that I entirely forgot to drink my wine. In fact, the only time I paused for breath was when I was emitting a weird, high-pitched cackle that was accompanied by a lot of arm-flapping and an ‘Oh I forgot to tell you that bit’.
It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t pretty at all.
All I really know about Handsome-Rob is that he is a jolly good listener.
I also know that when he is listening, he props his chin on his hand and stares ‘right-atcha’. I don’t know if you have had Jason Statham staring ‘right-atcha’ lately but, let me tell you, I’m blaming that for my badly-timed attack of ‘The-Verbals’.
The whole way home I was mentally rehearsing a ‘breezy’ response to the inevitable “That was fun. I’ll call you soon”.
I was a bit surprised when he switched off his car engine and so, to fill the silence, started talking again. I heard my mouth apologising if I’d talked a bit too much. He then pointed out that he’d heard professional snitches talk less.
I can only put what I did next down to absolute, unadulterated terror bought on by the possibility that he might try to break my two year run as the Ice-Queen, and actually attempt to touch me.
Then I legged it.
Will I ever see him again?
My best guess, at this point, would be a tearful ‘what do you think?’