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Hot date? It wasn’t even tepid…

Wacky emoticon

Image by wstera2 via Flickr

Okay, had my first Hot Date on Friday night.

I didn’t really want to go, to be honest. After a knackering day at work I was more in the mood for a hot bath and pyjamas than making small-talk with a stranger, but I dutifully showered, de-frizzed my hair with half a pot of gel and trowelled on a smiley face.

Heigh ho!

On the site I use, you can choose a specific phrase to describe your body shape – thin, athletic, muscular etc. Well Mike really should’ve picked the ‘carrying a few extra pounds’ box. I’m not sizist. Neither am I much of an oil painting myself; in fact if I were a work of art I’d be hanging in the storeroom, but I’d just like people to be honest. I mean, what else was he denying? A wife? A criminal record? Female genitalia?

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, Mike. Well, he did all the right things – greeted me with a kiss on the cheek, complimented me on my choice of vibrantly turquoise skirt and made eye-contact while we he chatted. And chatted. And talked. And stated. And commented. And declared. And revealed. And said…You get the picture, right? I heard all the grisly details of his marriage, the break-up, the moving out of the family home, the divorce, the custody battle….I know about his parents. And his brothers. And their wives. And their children. And Barney the hamster who accidentally got flushed down the loo in 1997. And Scooby the dog , run over by a bus. Now munching Bonios in the Great Big Dog Kennel in the Sky.

Image via Flickr

Mike took  a breath at half-past nine, so I rushed to the ladies’ and set the alarm on my phone.

He was halfway through the scintillating story of workmate Derrick’s ongoing problems with Irritable Bowel Syndrome when my alarm went off.

Sorry,’ I said, battling to keep the joy from my expression. ‘I must get this text. It could be the kids.’

Oh, you have kids?’

I read the display menu on my mobile.

‘Yep, minor emergency at home. The dog’s just sicked-up a sock. Sorry, but I’m gonna have to go…’

I had just reached the car park when the phone beeped an incoming text.

‘Tiny, I think you’re absolutely lovely. Really enjoyed tonight. You’re so great to talk to! Hope to see you soon xx’

Quite frankly I’d rather catch a large and scabby dose of herpes.


Looking for Mr Right? I’ve found Mr-Not-Right-In-The-Head…

Good news! It’s not just me! All my friends have strange men lurking in their closets, too. Metaphorically speaking, of course… Somewhere around the fourth bottle of ASDA plonk last night, the horror stories started to emerge. It was like something out of a Twilight movie.

Between us we have dated:  

  • Mr-I-Miss-My-Mommy
  • Mr-I-Need-A-Hug
  • Mr-I’m-Only-Interested-In-Flat-Chested-Stick-Insects-With-No-Pubic-Hair-No!-Of-Course-I’m-not-gay!
  • Mr-Eek!-A-Spider-I’m-Weally-Weally-Fwightened
  • Mr-I-Love-You-With-All-My-Heart-Where-Shall-We-Go-On-Our-Second-Date?
  • Mr-I-Can’t-Keep-It-Up-Without-Steel-Pins-And-Superglue.

Oh yes, we’ve all been out with  him. Several times.

I mean, honestly. I know we’re in our forties.  Nobody’s expecting Mr-All-Night-Piston-Penis, but please! Is it too much to ask for Mr-Slightly-More-Tarzan-Than-Jane?

Now, had it just been me, I could’ve understood it; I’m not maturing like a fine wine, for example. No, I’m aging more like that avocado, forgotten in the back of your fridge – squishy, wrinkled and bruised. But my mates are gorgeous, vivacious, intelligent women. They have personality, boobs and everything!

It can’t be them.

No, there’s definitely something weird  going on with middle-aged men; they’re lost and lonely, weedy and needy. For the love of Mars Bars and other things holy, where have all the bastards real men gone?

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