I am occasionally a little evil. It was 2am, and I was walking home after a night out. Rather surprised to see a car parked over my drive; as I got closer, I realised that there was a couple in it. And then it registered that they were… *ahem*…. rather busy.
Overcome with mischief, I banged on the passenger’s window.
“Hi!”, I bellowed, “Is everything OK?”
They looked horrified. I’ve never seen two people move so quickly. There was a flurry of zipping up, rearranging clothing, and the car sped off.
I chortled all the way to the front door. Whoever you are, sorry…
In the changing rooms, I hung my white towel on a peg, changed into my costume, and left my glasses in my locker.
I’m extremely short-sighted; I can’t swim in my glasses, obviously, but I can’t see anything without them.
So, I went for a swim—all very pleasant—then back to the changing room for a shower. I grabbed my towel off the peg and started drying with it, instantly realising that something was very wrong. My towel wasn’t the right texture. My towel was, it transpired, actually some lady’s white coat, and she wasn’t very impressed with me.
These days, I wear contact lenses and a pair of goggles while swimming.
We’d been chatting about music for a while. Then, he leaned across the table and said:
“You’re a woman, so how do you know so much about music?” Before I could reply, he continued: “Then again, you’re not really a girly girl, are you? You’re more into the things that the blokes are. I bet you’re still into hair and handbags though.”
I’m a musician (as well as being a writer, it all helps to pay the bills…) and I’ve loved music for as long as I can remember. However, I don’t see music as being something specifically male or female. Frankly, I get annoyed when people try and define interests like that, goggling at the women who likes football or the stay-at-home dad like they’re some freak of nature.
And for the record, I’m not into hair* or handbags**, but so what if I was?
*My hair pretty much does its own thing, it sits on my head, I don’t think about it much beyond that.
**I have one I like, it’s useful for carrying stuff, that’s about the extent of the bag experience for me.
Another internet date. He emailed me several times beforehand to say how nervous he was. (Fair enough, we’ve all been there.) And then the date rolled around:
Me: “Hi, nice to meet you finally. How are you?”
Him: “Still really nervous. This is the first date I’ve been on in twenty years”.
Me: “Well, no worries, we’ve all got to get back in the dating game at some point. When did you and your wife split up?”
Him: “Last month.”
Me: “Oh. Really? Er, OK, but isn’t that a bit soon to be dating, maybe?”
Him: “Well, why not? You never know when you might meet the love of your life! It could be you!”
IT WASN’T ME.
We found each other on some dating site. Turned out we both loved music, so we batted some emails back and forth before he suggested a drink.
Saturday night found me in a bar, staring at my watch. I was on time. I’m always on time. He was late. Really late.
He finally arrived, sweaty and unapologetic. As he slid into the seat opposite me, he said he had to tell me something:
“You know, I’ve never been on a date with someone with kids before. I always knock back the single mothers straight away. I’ve no interest in kids, I don’t even like kids. But your picture was really nice so I thought I’d make an exception for you.”
Ah! Sound the Date-Killer Klaxon; turns out I’m on a date with King Herod.
It was never going to work. I’m a package deal; I come with two kids who are the centre of my universe. I’m never going to date someone who hates the idea of children and being a step-dad. (I made that mistake with another ex, that’s a story for another time.)
At a pub with a friend when a Random Drunk Woman approached me:
Random Drunk Woman: “Are you French?”
RDW: “Are you French?”
Me: “No, I’m not.”
RDW: “You look French.”
Me: “I’m not French”.
RDW: “But you’re all beautiful like a French woman.”
Me: “Thank you.”
RDW: “Don’t wo
rry, I’m not gay or nothing. But you do look French.”
Me: “Why would I be worried? Anyway, I’m definitely not French.”
RDW: (to my friend) “Hey, doesn’t your friend look French?”
I swear, in a parallel universe, I am still having that conversation with her.
Me to Security Guard: “Um, there’s a guy in aisle 4 with his trousers round his ankles, & his bum’s on display”.
SG: “I know”.
Me: “So… are you going to do anything about it?”
SG: “No. Would you want to?”
Me: “No. Fair point.”
In 1998, I was looking for a room to rent in Birmingham. The local paper led me to a house owned by Ben, where he lived with his mate Marcus. They were rather handsome chaps, and I was utterly charmed by both of them. They gave me a tour of the house, then they went off and chatted for a while.
Ben: “Well, Marcus and I would love you to move in, if you want.”
Me: “Oh, that’s great!”
Ben: “Yeah, we reckon you’d be the perfect housemate.”
Me: *starting to preen and puff* “That’s so lovely, thanks!”
Ben: “So, Marcus and I had one rule: we didn’t want to live with anyone that either of us fancied, as that would spoil the house dynamic. And then you came along…”
Me: *rapidly deflating* “Oh?”
Ben: “…and obviously neither of us find you attractive, so welcome to the house!”
It is dark and lonely in the pit of mortification, I can tell you.