Part of the point of establishing this blog was to get a bit of a kick out of sharing vastly entertaining tales of dates made memorable by their insanity, incredulity, inspiration and any number of other ‘in’ words. It disappoints me then to have to report that my last few dates have been, in a word, meh.
It seems that nice biscuit man from several weeks back was just a sample and as each date goes by I feel I might be collecting enough biscuits to make up one of those special edition jubilee tins. I confess, I may at some point in my life have uttered the phrase “why can’t I just find a nice normal guy” but c’mon, a girl’s gotta get a little bit excited, right? Here’s a sample of my recent biscuit encounters.
We’ll call him library biscuit simply because we met in a decadent library bar in Kensington. In his favour was the fact that he too is South African which, like it or not, does make things easier and we immediately felt at ease within a shared context. He ordered whisky, neat, and I had a G & T. Two, actually. There was a mildly uncomfortable moment when I popped one of the world’s largest olives into my mouth and found myself unable to clutch at its flesh with my teeth. Conundrum – was it too early in the relationship to spit? I went with honesty, hid my mouth with my hand while he patiently waited for me to resolve the issue as delicately as possible. Personally I think the wait staff should be trained to hold back on offering such bulbous beasts to couples – the survival of the species might depend on it.
We did recover from the olive incident and covered the usual topics of home, family, business and holidays but sadly, nice as it all was, that all important spark was missing and we parted ways after a little over an hour.
Conundrum – was it too early in the relationship to spit? I went with honesty, hid my mouth with my hand while he patiently waited for me to resolve the issue as delicately as possible.
Rugby biscuit was a strategic choice. At 6ft2 here was a man who might satisfy my appalling superficial predisposition towards tall men with large hands. As a former rugby player he also promised something a little more rugged than the academic, literary, creative types that one would have thought should float my boat but which in reality have left me consistently disappointed in recent weeks.
But once again, there is was: nice. Talked about music, camping, books and, quelle surprise, rugby. I nursed just one G&T this time – no olives – while he stuck to an adventurous coke. He strikes me as the kind of person who would give very nice bear hugs and be excellent at teaching small children how to whittle animals out of sticks found in the wood but me, I’m not much of a whittler. I was home in time for dinner.
I suppose what concerns me most about my reaction to these and other even less memorable encounters is what it says about my chances of meeting a man who lives up to my seemingly high expectations. And do I really have the right to be so damn picky? I’m not exactly superwoman and yet here I am blithely adding rather ridiculous items to my subconscious list of attributes to look for in a man. My latest involves brown shoes.
Yes, I have determined that only a truly stylish man can successfully carry off a brown shoe with a dark suit. I approve of this and feel it only proper that I find such a man. One who is also tall, has big hands and tempers his cultured side with a good dose of ruggedness, naturally.
This post was written by Jen. Find out more about the Beau Dacious ladies who contribute to this blog HERE.