I had a very date related last day of holidays. In the morning I wrote a friend’s dating profile on www.mysinglefriend.com and in the afternoon I had a date.
MySingleFriend is a website where you recommend friends to other people, so you write most of their profile and they get a little reply, generally to tell you off for mentioning the time that they laughed so much milk came out of their nose.
My chum has been going out with some utter berks. She is clever, successful and pleasantly silly. I’ve known her for years. Recently she has lost a lot of weight.
About a year ago her business was doing amazingly well so she decided to buy an Alexander McQueen dress to celebrate. She picked out one she liked but couldn’t fit into it and so collapsed into tears on the changing room floor. She vowed to get into shape and now she is amazingly slim, amazingly so it’s like she is a different person. Oh and she bought the dress and it fits her perfectly.
It’s great stuff all round, and very sweetly she doesn’t quite realise what a catch she is so has been putting up with a lot of nonsense with a couple of unsuitable chaps. It came to ahead over Christmas and ended, I managed to get her sold on the idea of internet dating.
The profile writing didn’t take long and we spent about an hour taking photos of her in a range of poses for the website. It was hillarious, champagne fuelled fun and we clearly got it right because within about 10 minutes of being on the website messages were pinging into her inbox from a range of chaps.
She hasn’t been on any dates yet but it’s only a matter of time. I suspect she will be married off before either of us berks even get a real girlfriend.
I’d arranged to meet a girl for coffee at Bar Italia. I was early and even managed to reserve a couple of seats. The place was rammed as usual, but in a lively way. Lots of men in long camel coloured talks were talking loudly about how they were drinking the ‘best god-damn coffee in Eng-erland’.
The bar smelled of portiguese tarts and coffee creme. It’s well lit and now that I think about it more a man’s coffee place if anything. The woman arrived a little late. She had amazingly straight brown hair, glasses with thick black rims that favoured by ultra-trendy types and shocking red lipstick on.
She was wearing tight jeans, with a black polar neck sweater and a ruffled brown scarf. She looked like a New York hipster, which was what she was.
We talked for a couple of hours. Covering the Holocaust (no seriously), public transport, how she hates her job, London and how she didn’t want to ever have kids. There wasn’t much of a spark, and we disagreed on quite a few important things. Or at least we would have disagreed if I’d managed to say anything.
I’ve never been on a date before when I’ve said almost nothing. By the end of it I could have sat an exam on her family background, political views, history in London and plans for the future. I don’t think she even knew if I’d been waiting long.
Eventually I managed to get a word in edgeways and so I made my excuses and left, uttering the immortal line of ‘it was nice to have met you’ before disappearing into Soho.
In short it was a bit of a damp squib of a date, I think Bar Italia has bad date mojo.
Marriage percentage: 5% – Good lipstick.