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…