And another Hot Date on the Tiny Temper front. Lunch this time with Pete from Portreath. Now Pete and I have been chatting online for the last week, and it’s been fun – lots of flirting, and witty retorts. The repartee was sparkling, dahling, and the thought of us meeting had me fizzing like a well-sucked sherbet lemon.
I knew Pete possessed the three qualities I rate in a man – intelligence, sense of humour and a pulse, but I didn’t know what he looked like as he’d posted no photo. Mind you, if I were a sixth form teacher, I wouldn’t wanna be identified as a sadsack on an online dating site, either. God, you might as well parade around school in a pair of pink frilly knickers, with your hands cuffed behind your back, and wearing a peephole bra as ear-muffs. Far less embarrassing.
So anyway, Pete obviously had the advantage because he’d seen my photo; he could’ve taken one look at me in the flesh (so to speak), leapt off the end of the pier and I would have been none the wiser. Abandoned under the clocktower in Porthleven, yellow carnation clamped between my teeth, and feeling a tit, but none the wiser. No change there, then.
Pretty darned trusting of me, really, I think. And stoopid.
Now, I’m not called Tiny for nothing, you know. On a big hair day I’m just about 5 feet tall. So imagine the expression on my face when Pete tugged at my sleeve and introduced himself. I looked down and he was even shorter than me! 😮 Nobody’s shorter than me. Except nine-year-old kids. And by the time they’ve hit double figures, the little sods have morphed into ant-stamping giants, with me as the bleedin’ ant. It wasn’t funny. Really. If we’d been attacked by a gang of rampaging, drug-using, knife-wielding, thugs, I would have had to pop Pete in my handbag for safekeeping and mace ’em with my hairspray.
And it wasn’t just the size thing, he was also…well, a little bit camp. Not in an overly exaggerated ‘Ohmygod! Did you see that skirt she was wearing, dearie? She sooo should have trimmed that muff before leaving the house!’ But he was definitely effeminate when he spoke, or crossed his legs. Crossed his legs! Need I say more?
And stop laughing. It’s not funny.
Lunch was fine once the waitress had settled him on a bolster cushion. But face-to-face we had nothing to talk about. Our date was like a crunched-up sherbet lemon; my citric acid was no longer reacting with his bicarbonate of soda. The fizz had all gone.
And I do like a bit of effervescence in a man…