Braving the singles night/Part 2

Last time I wrote, I'd just braved my last taboo – the dreaded singles night. So was it the complete dud I expected or has the last-minute appearance of a rather lovely man forced me to eat my words?....

It’s a little unfortunate that by the time John made his move, I was inebriated enough to have lost the all-important faculty of my memory. But I do have half a dozen or so blurry recollections of that first encounter at ‘Meddlers of Honour’… 1) His bold declaration that as soon as he walked in and saw me, he was determined to talk to me - and only me. 2) The embarrassing ease with which this statement totally bowled me over. 3) The fact that 5 minutes later, we were glued lip-to-lip. 4) His apparent disbelief that he was kissing the most ‘beautiful girl in the room’. 5) My complete disbelief that anyone could think this was the case. And 6) my absolute determination to not allow this to go the way of a one-night stand - there was no way John was coming home with me.

Which I guess is why just a few nights later, I managed to find myself en route to a date with a man I knew nothing about, except his name and the fact that he was a VERY good kisser. I’d taken precautions against the chance of walking straight past him in the pub, when I inevitably failed to recognise him, by asking him to meet me outside. And as I approached, I breathed a sigh of a relief. First of all (and perhaps most importantly) he was there. Secondly, he did not appear to be a) a freak b) short and c) unattractive. So far, so good.

Could it also be significant that my favourite 80s song of all time was playing in the falafel shop next door? I silently thanked Mr Stewart for reminding me that ‘We don’t have to take our clothes off to have a good time’ and headed inside the Lock Tavern with renewed determination to behave myself.

But it wasn’t easy. The first hour or so of our evening was spent reminding ourselves of all the things we’d talked about when we first met but couldn’t remember. Things like the pleasing fact that John had studied music, played piano and guitar, and had been writing songs since he was a nipper. And the not-so-pleasing fact that, at 25, he was more than a little younger than me. As I debated in my mind whether having a passion and skill for music outweighed lacking a few formative years, I inevitably became distracted by more superficial issues ie. how blue his eyes were, how close he was standing, how tall he was, and how I really, really wanted to find out if he was as good a kisser as I remembered. Unfortunately as I had to attend my brother’s band’s single launch party and John had a family meal he was supposed to be attending, it looked as though this question may remain unanswered tonight. Or at least it might have done if I’d let him go…which is why I convinced him to ditch the folks and come with me.

A few hours later, after he’d been forced to endure a particularly insane gig from The Vivians, and the trauma of meeting their larger-than-life frontman, (my wayward older brother), John seemed shockingly unfazed by it all. “Doesn’t it at all worry you that this is only our first date and my brother has just had you in a bear hug for the past five minutes?” I asked, wondering if what I saw in his eyes was bewildered amusement or out-and-out fear. “Nope,” he laughed.

“Or that I’m almost half a decade older than you?” I continued. “Nope,” he assured me, backing me against the wall outside the pub and laying one of those knee-weakening kisses on me.

“Come home with me,” he breathed, as we came up for air. “Nope,” I managed, sliding out from between him and the wall and hailing a cab. “I’ve got to be on a plane to France in a few hours.”

“When are you back?”

“A week.”

“So I’ll see you then?”

“I guess you will,” I agreed, hopping in the car.

As I drove off, it began to sink in that for the first time in London, I’d just met a man who did not appear to be emotionally retarded, or only after one thing, or terrified of committing to anything more than one night in my company. Could this actually be the case? Maybe I hadn’t given ‘Meddlers’ the credit it deserved. Or maybe I was about to get myself into something that would inevitably end as it always did - badly.

‘Beep, beep’ my phone trilled, interrupting my reverie, as a text popped into my inbox. It was him: 'I hate France' was all it said. And it was enough.

Who the hell cared about self-preservation? This was going to be fun…

Braving the singles night...Part 1

Despite having been for all intents and purposes pretty much single for over 5 years now, I have resolutely refused to go down the horrific route of organised dating. Speed-dating events, internet dating sites, singles ‘supper clubs’: you can call it what you want but I’ve long been of the belief that these places are populated by predatory players, sad singletons, and losers of the highest degree.

I’ve had to become slightly less vocal with this opinion as more and more of my successful, attractive, and perfectly eligible single friends have opted to give it a go, but still, there’s no way I could accept that was how my story could get sewn up. What about romance, fate, the star-crossed lovers effect? Stumbling across your soul mate in the supermarket. Eyes meeting across a crowded room. Those stomach-flipping moments when you realise you’ve just met the one. I was still set on the fairytale. And in no fairytale I can imagine would there be a door charge, a tick list, or an uncomfortable dinner party with a bunch of overbearing strangers.

Which is why I couldn’t quite fathom what had happened when just a few weeks ago, I found myself roped into attending London‘s newest singles night: ‘Meddlers of Honour’ with the tasteful tag line - ‘the dating night where every single person gets hooked up’. I’d been seduced by the fact that a very good friend of mine had signed up to be a ‘meddler’ ie. one of the matchmakers at the event whose job it was to circulate the room making introductions.

“So, see anyone you like?” she asked hopefully. “Eh no is the short answer to that,” I replied, having scanned the room, taken in the medley of unlikely characters, and retreated to a quiet corner in the hope of avoiding any unwelcome advances. “Give it time,” she instructed. “And get another bottle of wine in.” It looked like it was going to be a long and painful night.

My meddlers buddy Liv was more optimistic having spotted a beefy long-haired chap who bore a vague resemblance to her fantasy husband (one Nathan Follow ill - the entirely unattainable drummer in Kings of Leon). Only this particular attendee was not there in the capacity of singleton; trussed up in a long white coat and holding court in the ‘Love Clinic’, he was one of the ‘Love Doctors’ - one of two self-appointed experts in dating who were there to dish out advice and convince all the undate-able that they were in fact the catch of the century. “I’m going to go talk to him,” she announced. “What shall I say?” “How about ‘Doctor, Doctor, my sex is on fire’ I suggested helpfully. “Only he might just recommend cranberry juice.”

Responding with a raised eyebrow and a shake of her head, she stalked off to stake out her prey, leaving me at the mercy of two over-enthusiastic young men who’d sat down next to us and now set about making their moves. With all the arm touching and knee grazing going on, it was clear they’d been reading up on flirting techniques, thankfully a few well-placed shudders and bored facial expressions were enough to convince them they were fighting a lost cause with me and they skulked off.

I breathed a sigh of relief and set about demolishing the bowl of love heart sweets on the table in front of me, while trying desperately not to make eye contact with anyone. It didn’t work: “Carrie, I’ve found someone who’d really like to meet you!” Laura piped up, appearing beside me with man in tow. “ This is James…” Hmmm, maybe she’d got it right, I thought, giving him a quick once over - battered old jeans, plaid shirt, dishevelled hair artfully arranged to fall over one eye. “Eh hi…” I stuttered. And then, as he flicked his hair out of his face to say hello, I saw it - “Oh!” - the word ‘nose’ seems insufficient to describe the giant pointed beak that took over most of this poor guy’s face and as I desperately tried and failed not to look directly at it (could I turn to a pillar of salt?), he attempted to strike up a conversation. “So Laura tells me you’re a writer, I’m a writer too, I write music reviews for The Times.” In ordinary circumstances, this would indeed have been a reason why he might appeal to me but seriously, was Laura insane? “Maybe I should leave you guys alone to chat…” she offered. Clearly she was insane. “Actually, I was just about to nip to the bar. I’ll catch up with you later yeah,” I responded practically sprinting away.

And the bar was where Liv found me an hour later, when Doctor Love had departed, and I was half way through the second bottle of rose wine and quickly losing my ability to see straight. “Can we please go home now?” I begged. “Let me help you with that bottle first,” she decided, wrestling it out of my iron grip. “He left, no goodbye, no number, nothing.” “I’ll get you a glass,” I answered, turning to hail the barman.

But by the time I’d turned back, she’d been approached by a new man, and simply winked as she walked away with him and - even more upsettingly - with the wine, leaving me proffering an empty glass.

That’s when he made his move. “Hi, I’m John. Looks like you need a drink.”

“You know what John, that’s the most appealing offer I’ve had all night.”

To be continued…