He wasn’t called James. Or John. Or Jack. His name didn’t even begin with J. He wasn’t a doctor either, well not exactly a doctor, he was an assistant anaesthetist. But fortunately he wasn’t in nature what he was by trade and neither he, nor his chat put me to sleep. Indeed, as first dates go, and as first, first online dates go, it was rather fantastic.
I arrived 15 minutes early (I really need to sort out my obsessive punctuality), I’d just been at an interview in the RAF Club, Piccadilly and hadn’t gauged my timings very well. Walking briskly up the cobbled street behind Embankment tube, it wasn’t until I arrived outside the pub and checked my watch that I realised my faux pas. Arriving 15 minutes early, I mean that looks keen…
It turns out that the Doctor (we’ll stick with that) was keener. He was sat at a table by the bar, drinking a Bulmers, and next to this bottle was a glass of white wine. Surely this was him? I walked towards him slowly and uncertainly gave him a smile; he smiled back…and then to my relief got up. First hurdle done.
What was odd was I wasn’t in the slightest bit mentally nervous, but as I sat down and the first question was fired, I broke into what can only be described as a pre-menopausal hot flush. My whole face started to burn and I had to put my hair up in a desperate attempt to cool my hypothalamus. Dodgy bloody hypothalamus.
I found refuge in the small glass of white wine, which though sickly was cold. “I hope you don’t think I’m stingy, I just didn’t know what to order you,” he said as the majority of the glass disappeared with my second gulp. Phew! At least he agreed that the glass was small, and didn’t think I had an alcohol problem. And at least now it was nearly gone, so I could have a glass of rosé next. A large glass.
The large glass arrived and my body regained a normal temperature. We talked about POF, about previous dates – well his previous dates, all three of which had looked nothing like their photos. Now sporting a sweaty glaze, and perhaps being guilty of some slight online photoshopping tweaks, (oh don’t judge me, we’ve all done it!), I jumped in: “It has been a long day, I do scrub up well!” He laughed and told me I did look like the photos. On one of his dates a woman had said she was 5ft 4 and slender, he arrived to find a 6ft 3 whale. On another he was convinced the woman was on Meth.
“So this is going pretty well, then?” I said. “Yes.” And you know, it really was. For two people who hadn’t met, it was remarkably easy. At not one point had it been awkward, okay well maybe one point, when he asked how long I’d been single…I told him – everything had been going so well until then – and he did look extremely taken aback. “But why?”
Blimey, imagine if I hadn’t knocked off a year! “Um, well…good question…I suppose, well I suppose, I’m a bit of a commitmentphobe.”
We moved on.
The Doctor talked about his job and gave me a brief lesson on the heart; the literal heart – Ventricles, Atriums, Vena Cava – Venus blood deoxygenated, which I found interesting, I’ve always liked Biology.
“So would it be pushing my luck to ask you out again?” he asked.
“No, of course not.”
I had got on really well with him; he was attractive, nice, funny and not an overt psychopathic killer, but do I see myself with him…I’m not sure. After that list, why not? Oh it’s so superficial…it’s that, well it’s that he’s 5ft 9. 5ft 9. You’re not tall though, are you? I hear you say. No, I’m not tall, I’m 5ft 5, but I like tall men…6ft +, it has always been the way.
Will the rest of his attributes be able to sway my height discrimination policy? We’ll have to see at the next date. That’s right the next date.
Before then however, I have another date with a Finance worker…a 6ft Finance worker. It appears I’ve caught the online dating bug.