Some mothers do ‘ave ’em!
All this internet dating is very expedient but it does bypass the ritual of ‘chancing your arm’. In days past this ancient rite of passage might have been performed by a nervous young chap approaching a girl clutching a dance card and hoping to charm his way into a slot… so to speak.
The modern equivalent is to drink until you are imbued with confidence then stagger over to the girl you have been throwing wanton glances at for the last hour, only to mumble incoherent booze breath into her face.
This weekend I was at a gig with my dad and brother (who is temporarily in the country). Whilst I’m not the springiest of chickens, I was definitely dragging down the average age in the venue! One of the barmaids had been particularly lovely all night and I rather fancied her so I made a completely superfluous trip to the bar to chance my arm.
Fancying girls is fun. I sometimes forget quite how much fun. Fancying a girl you are on a date with is lovely but fancying a girl you would LIKE to go on a date with is rather more exciting, especially if she is reciprocating your light flirting.
So I made my tactical approach to the bar, carefully calculating trajectory and timing to catch her at the opportune moment and to avoid being served by any other of the waiting barstaff.
Buoyed by confidence instilled by the local ale, I popped my question in the most endearing and earnest way I could.
…apparently she had a boyfriend. Blast.
Yes, I realise that you may now be thinking that perhaps she DIDN’T have a boyfriend and was in fact fibbing. This had occurred to me too. A couple of minutes later her colleague motioned me over as I passed the bar and she explained that her colleague didn’t really have a boyfriend but had just moved to the area, was rather shy and would like to for a drink with me really. She offered to pass on my number if I wrote it down. I might also have drawn a smiley face, I don’t remember. I hope this wasn’t a dealbreaker.
So on the face of it my story is “I asked a girl out for a drink and she said no but might call after all’, which is a bit rubbish. However the REAL significance is that I ACTUALLY asked, with no fear of being shot down, and that there was no internet involved with this girl whatsoever. Whether or not a date arises from this, I am rather pleased with myself nevertheless.
The following morning we all went for fried brekky. As we entered the café I was struck by one of the staff: tousled hair, partly dyed green, tattoos, piercings and the kind of look that spelt trouble, but in a sexy way.
I spent my whole meal trying to work out if she was either really hot or really trashy. It’s a very fine line. I don’t actually go for piercings at all but I find I do often go for the KIND of girls that have them.
Unfortunately it emerged that the rather large scary woman also working there was her mother. Whilst Toast and I have recently complained that it is difficult to tell if a girl is going to be mental, one fairly universal truth is that women tend to end up looking like their mothers.
Perhaps that should be the test from now on. Female friends have to vet the girl’s mother before we are allowed to date them. I imagine that this is an entirely practical plan with absolutely no logistical difficulties at all.