Squashed amongst the sweaty commuters all crammed like sardines into the tube carriage and stuck underneath a stranger’s armpit – it’s at times like this I wish I was tall!
All my hopes of looking halfway decent for this date have evaporated as fast as the guy next to me is perspiring…
Darting out of the tube and gasping for air – my once volumed hair is now limp, lifeless and saturated in someone else’s sweat – what a great start to my date!
Standing outside the venue and looking for my Mr Swing Dance – I’m having serious seconds thoughts as to why I agreed to this date.
Oh dear God, there he is – in full swing dance attire and I, well, I look like I’m dressed for a funeral! He looks nothing like his pictures, not even a smidge of similarity. I wish the pavement would devour me. Going for drinks first is the only part of this date, that I’ve been looking forward too. My plan being that I need to drink as much as possible before the dancing starts, but apparently that’s not happening! We’re going straight into dancing – SOBER!
Standing in a room, full of over-excited, semi-professional looking dancers, I am really regretting not stopping off for a pre-date shot. What have I let myself in for?
I can’t dance, in fact I hate dancing! Unless it’s about 2am and I’ve consumed enough alcohol that I can barely see, which is usually around the point where I begin to believe that I am the best dancer that has ever lived and make a mental note to google ‘Open Cats auditions’. This is also around the same time I decide I’m going to be an actress and vegetarian.
Now would probably be a good time…to let him know that I’m Dyspraxic, which means I have no coordination at all and about as much rhythm as a plank of wood!
Feeling his hands grip around my waist, this is uncomfortable. Oh god, my feet are everywhere. Why, why, why, why, why did I agree to this!!! Gulping in awe as he swings me round, I see everyone else dancing effortlessly. Fuck, these people are all pro’s!
It’s finally over and I can’t wait to escape his exceptionally tight clutches.
His suggestion for drinks is a bit late in the day – that should have been a good hour before this monstrosity of a date – so I make my excuses that it’s time I got back home. Yet he insists on walking me to the tube, which is not helpful as I’m actually lying… I’m not going home, I am in fact running away to my friend’s house party but I am in desperate need of wine to take with me!
So, searching frantically for an Off Licence under the pretence that I just need to pick up some cigarettes, I quickly run and grab as much alcohol as I can possibly carry covertly. Clinking out of the shop, whilst trying to be nonchalant (as though my bag always sounded like that as I walked)…I think I carry it off. I spot the tube, wave goodbye quickly and leg it, with the sound of my bottles clambering all over the place. I’m almost certain he now thinks I have an alcohol problem. Oops!
We have not spoken since.