Letting go of my previous date was a must as he had a striking resemblance to my uncle, it was slightly unhinging. I even told him this was the reason why I could not see him again which most men are shocked by when I recount the story: “You told him?! Why didn’t you make something up? You’ve probably given him a complex for life!”
Maybe I’m too truthful for my own good, what should I have said? The mutual rapport was so easy with him and never dull, clicking on so many levels, hours of telephone conversations but in person, that spark, it just wasn’t there. It was disappointing, I thought I’d found my Prince of Persia but failure at the first hurdle loomed as face to face, all I could think about was my uncle. Place his profile side by side with an image of my father’s younger brother and it was outrageously uncanny, they may as well have been separated at birth twenty years apart. By Freudian standards, this was by the furthest far, a crime against a retarded version of the Electra complex. The gods were not favouring me and Cupid was arching me bogey arrows.
My new potential Romeo (ladies and gentlemen, we do not really want a Romeo, he is fickle as he is selfish) was the third person I met up with in as many weeks and let me tell you, third time lucky played no charm in this reprisal against misfortune.
Initially, I was feeling fairly excited about my upcoming rendezvous. Profiles and photographs had been thoroughly checked and re-checked to ensure family resemblances would not play a part in the destruction of the evening. Although, perhaps the glaringly obvious fact that Date’s profile was only five lines long should have been a clear indicator at the offing. Perhaps further warnings such as he’d had a failed relationship with the mother of his child, he was three years my junior and he was in the business of car trading would have been pointed parameters of apparent incompatibility.
The list should have switched on the orange rotating siren of an RAC rescue tow truck inside my head. But of course, I am not one to judge until I know a person better and although I was slightly apprehensive about the Ex and the Child, the plus point was that he did not live at home with his parents, which is usually part and parcel of South Asian culture – so, to conclude, I was not too fazed. Maybe the independent, affable, witty man with a spark in his eye and a dance in his step (well, look how happy Happy Feet was before you attempt any remonstrations) for whom I had been searching, was he.
Date had explained the reasons for which the relationship tipped breaking point of his own accord without me prompting details (which is good as I’m not the prying type) and he sounded quite lovely and well-spoken and responsible when we upgraded our relationship to speaking via telephone and there was no requirement at this stage to send him away like Lady Gaga. The orange siren was submarined into the depths of my psyche and I managed to keep my I’m-not-going-to-make-assumptions-and-give-him-a-chance hat firmly on my head. I selflessly propagate the Don’t-Judge-Book-Cover ensemble; I also have acute instinct and keen intuition. I chose to be b.l.i.n.d to both of these on this occasion for the sole purpose of What if…?
It was a warm Autumn evening, the peach-setting sun was spilling over the leafless branches on to the horizon, tattooing hopeful shadows into my wondering reverie. I had flowers and butterflies on my mind as I made my journey home. The office had not been too wired and I had achieved and completed a great deal of my immeasurable eternal workload. Date confirmed he would pick me up from my apartment at 1930HRS. This was a good time. It meant I didn’t have to rush around like a lunatic trying to get ready and gave some context to the evening in that dinner could be completed by a respectable 2200HRS which incidentally, is a good get-out clause if the evening did not bode well. Plus, I had a 0630HRS snooze button to contend with the next morning.
I received an SMS at 1830HRS courteously advising that he was running late due to circumstances beyond his control regarding some car reparations or other at the garage. Gut feeling, I knew this was not a good thing. Do not trust boys at garages! Never ever! Ever! Boy will stay at Garage and warp into a non-parallel non-defined non-dimensional portal: a Missing Persons report typically needs to be filed and hey presto, I would see him at breakfast tomorrow morning on the back of a milk carton. However, I bestowed Date with the benefit-of-the-doubt (at least he had given it some thought to provide notice of said lateness), I responded in kind requesting the rescheduled ETA: approximately one hour. “No worries” replied I by SMS casually.
After slipping in and out of Narnia some six or seven times, I finally selected my gun-metal grey skinny jeans, black-turquoise-emerald t-bar vest-type-dress, black-suede gold-studded heeled-ankle boots and tailored military army-green jacket accessorising with a black silver-thread scarf and my signature big ear-rings for that extra bit of glamaradary (I have just concocted this word, I hope it trends and becomes a staple part of urban vernacular).
I applied my make-up, natural and glittering (nothing worse than looking like I have just baked a wedding breakfast cupcake on my face) and meticulously styled my unruly-Rihanna punky hair to look somewhat
feminine human. After harsh criticism (I am my own worst enemy) I thought to myself, it shall have to do. Non-hussy-non-up-tight; non-too-construed-non-too-coutured; comfortable and perfectly me. Take me as I am or leave me be. I do not do fakery. I was all prepared for a glitzy three-course meal in Mayfair or a tantalising sorbet in Häagen–Dazs Leicester Square. One would have assumed dinner but assumptions in this story as will be divulged, need not be applicable.
At 1915HRS, I received another SMS advising he had not yet caught up to his rescheduled plan and he would be with me shortly. “Fine. Great, I will just potter around until then. No. Worries.” said the calm little voice inside my head.
On such occasions, I find that I try to potter and I am unable to do so. I tend to suffer from Butterfly Flu before I meet a man who represents a potential romantic interest. I feel flighty, palpitations, positive electrons are escaping my every pore, all a bit über-excitable and generally feel as if I’m skipping on hot coals (or maybe that’s just the iPod music hindering my synapses). Usually I would need something to restore a sense of balanced-thought and logic before I become completely infatuated with instability and dial for Emergency Services to suggest they have me committed.
However, this time around, I found it quite easy to potter. So I did. I called a very good friend, let’s call him Hassan for the sake of anonymity. I explained my predicament and my thoughts regarding the forestalling of events so far fared as I was not too sure whether I should see through meeting-up with Date. I described my grave reservations and how my waters (I’ve never understood this expression, in what ways wee gives cause for the coming of the future I do not know however I adopted the expression regardless) were crystal-balling an evening fuelled with ill planned, undiluted and undiverted catastrophic miasma. Time was passing and I had been speaking to Hassan for over forty-five minutes. The ticking minutes were sending me over the white sheer drop cliffedges of Dover a baby-toe-step at a time.
Solely from Date’s lateness and the business of fixing the car in Garage No-man’s-land when he should have been on his way to pick me up, had me nurturing the following predictions with a mixture of trepidation and dry humour:
i). Date would turn up in a ridiculous car (beginning of the end);
ii.) Date would take me to the petrol station before we even go anywhere (shows inability to plan ahead even through lateness);
iii). Date would not have a plan of action (this is an extremely bad plan);
iv). Date would be a midget (this would just be the frosting on the fairycake of disaster).
As uncontrollable laughter cascaded from the wireless heart of my HTC Desire (quietly brilliant) handset, Hassan reached for his head from across the granite floor which had momentarily rolled off towards the conservatory of his private grounds, and reassured me the evening would be great – after all, what had I to lose? I was quick to point out my sanity was at stake to which the corresponding banterous man told me I had lost it many moons ago,“Thank you so much for the vote of confidence, Hassan…”
My voice trailed off as my phone vibrated mid-conversation. Another SMS arrived in my inbox. More lateness.
Hassan sensed he stood before the eye of the storm, plasticky muffled interference could probably be heard as I silently screamed and jigged a jumping-jack dance of frustrated fury in my lounge. Hassan attempted to palatably placate the situation but seen as though I’d had enough by this point (lest we not forget that I had been waiting an hour and a half by now for the foolhardy boy to turn up) I took a resolute decision. Hassan could hear me tapping away on my touchscreen saying the words to myself out loud as I was typing them in my so-not-impressed-voice…
“L e t ’ s l e a v e t h i s f o r a n o t h e r d a y a s i t’ s n o w q u i t e l a t e a n d I d o n ’ t w a n t y o u t o r u s h a r o u n d…”
(Yes, I can intertwine sarcasm and irony and make it sound genuine, I’m talented don’t you know!) to which I received a Call Waiting tone. Do-dut, do-dut, do-dut, “One second Hassan, let me call you back, it’s him…”
Date’s number flashed on the Caller ID underneath my little green android avatar. After the exchange of pleasant pleasantries, Date said, “I’m so sorry I’m late. I really want to take you out in London, I will be with you very shortly, we will have the best time!”
In the back of my wishful thinking mind, I thought he had planned ahead and did not wish to cancel reservations. I should have been brave, hindsight really is a wondrous process but What if…? was dealing the deck of fateful cards tonight. Reluctantly and against my better judgment, I agreed.
Some time later, it was 2100HRS. The little green android avatar advised me that Date had f.i.n.a.l.l.y. landed. I glanced out of the skylight and saw a car patiently waiting between the trunk of the humongous tree and the lamp-post. It was not the shapely beauty of a black Bentley coupe I was hoping for, nor was it a serenely sexy white Audi R8 or a delectably orgasmic Bugatti Veyron. The lamp-post was not doing its job properly and not nearly illuminating half as much as it should have been (public sector cutbacks, who knows?). Had the lamp-post been at brightness maximus, I would have explained to Date that I was suddenly overcome by an unfortunate spontaneous life-threatening malade of discontent. I, however, did not have the luxury of choice at this stage.
I switched off all the lights in my apartment and locked the door, merrily skipping down a two-storey staircase to the front door and then walked quite normally to the vehicle (so as to appear like a normal person in a normal world who was not at all affected by dates or dates being late). However, by opening the passenger door, I wondered which kind of world I had stepped into…
Perhaps it was more shock than anything, my visual cortex did not want to register the object before me.
“Houston – we have a problem!” appeared like a Windows screensaver in my mind’s eye.
Please report the problem, over!
“Occipital lobe failure, over”
Please explain, over!
“Suppression of some kind, over!”
Further details required, over!
”My brain is telling me to do something I do not want to do, over!”
My heart was racing and I was momentarily hesitant as to whether I should step into this vehicle before me, nonchalantly laugh hysterically into the stranger’s face exclaiming “Sorry! This is just not happening!” and return to my apartment for a nice evening with Gerard Butler instead. However, automated normal person functions once again set in and forced me to feign some level of dating etiquette.
I kid thee not patient reader, it was like swallowing tablets (I can’t swallow tablets!). I coerced myself into the vehicular Pumpkin of Pompous Parody under such disillusionment and disdain, I thought I might pass out from the wonderment. All manner of butterflies and flowers were emptied and drained from the giant sieve in my mind, “Am I having a Hallow’s Eve nightmare?” I felt like Cinderella upside-down-back-to-front-magic-spell-gone-insanely-wrong. “Fairy Godmother, how could you do this to me?”
The interior light reflected outwardly towards and externally from the windscreen, light rays bouncing around like Gummi Bears (‘here and there and e.v.e.r.y.w.h.e.r.e’). “Pull yourself together!” I thought, now is not the time for trolls and Gummiberry juice though in fact it would have made a very nice exit strategy. What I saw before me would stop the sun in its orbit for fear of total eclipse. I could not keep my eyes from wandering to the orange bonnet. My visual cortex was now working in perfect unison with my occipital lobe. “Too little, too late brain”, I addressed both my hemispheres and my conscience as I closed the passenger door. I was trapped inside a radioactive carrot on wheels which would have been all very well if I was a rabbit on acid.
And this was just the beginning.
It took all the puissance and mental strength I could muster to keep silent my lips of laughter in regards to the clashing illuminous green t-shirt Date was wearing. My mortification levels were increasing moment-by-magic-moment (if I had a Mastercard, it would have been priceless). The engine was still running and the music (which Date turned off only as I exited my front door) was still pounding in the background except all I could hear and feel was the heavy bassline vibrating from the boot. The car was purring like a little lion roaring to leap out from the tallest safari vegetation in Kenya. I do appreciate hot cars but there is nothing even slightly fantastically fascinating about a tinted-out Tangerine Ford Focus – no matter how limited edition it might be.
I attempted to attain the recovery position, as set back as low down and as far away from the windows as possible so that I could not be seen at any angle. I tried to forget about the fact that I was absorbing so much radioactivity, I felt as though the melanin inside me were cell-splitting at furious rates, I might start browning like minced meat in a minute (who needs a tanning booth?). We drove for a short while, I must have closed my eyes because when I opened them, I found myself on the forecourt of a petrol station under lights that I can only describe as being tantamount to the lights of Broadway, and it would seem that our little Satsuma was the accidental star of the show. I was utterly flummoxed and immeasurably embarrassed and tried to inconspicuously lean further back into the upholstered leather as far as the sport bucket seat would allow me. But suddenly – relief – I remembered that the windows were tinted…my blond moment had a silver lining!
I let myself fall into a false sense of security even though the evening so far was not how I’d imagined, it seems I had accidentally time-travelled back to when I was 19 years old, it was all a sad case of déjà-vu and everything was just about to be blown out of the water all over again. Date switched off the engine and said he would return momentarily, however asked if I required any light refreshments, food or drink. Now, don’t get me wrong but the last time I checked, I could not purchase a mini baked Camembert, Moroccan braised lamb or Bollinger on ice from a Tesco petrol station. I genuinely did not want anything to which he asked again and I replied sweetly “No thank you, I’m fine,” to which he retorted: “I’m not going to bother asking you again so if you want something tell me now!” I was taken aback. “Really? Did you just say that? How £^$%ing rude!” I hasten to add this was my head voice, not my real voice. Once again I replied, “No, thank you.”
“Picture me rolling.” Except I wasn’t. I was trapped as a passenger in a living purgatory between Heaven (home at arm’s length, I was waving goodbye to the flat like the Von Trapp family singing Eidelweiss to the full-capacity auditorium), and Hell (the eternal evening of savagery yawned out realistically before me). After I sufficiently accustomed my retinas to the glaring riot that was Date’s attire, conversation spluttered across the intervening bassline and hooks that he personally painstakingly procured from Limewire, burning them to CD all by himself. I wanted to award him a merit badge.
He liked to have bangin’ remixes that nobody else had: he liked his homies to ask him “Where’d you get that track from blud, it’s sickkk!” It wouldn’t have been so awful had he a good ear for dope dubstep but the remixes my inverted cockatoo was bobbing his head about too were in a word, crap. Pardon my French. I felt all a bit inadequate to be fair, had I known I was going to face a bad-boy-come-good, I would have dressed to impress in a low neck printed Ed Hardy diamante t-shirt, bling hipster jeans with red-giraffe print chunky peep-toe platform stilettos and bangles reaching up to my armpits with a gigantic bow in my hair playing with the diamond glinting in my pierced upper lip/cheek/whatever-that-part-of-the-face-is-called.
Unfortunately, I was formal-me tonight and I could not snap out of it and I remained in a constant state of speechlessness – especially when Date had – the audacity – to tell me – that my language – was not – up to scratch.
I should have poked his eyes out. I refrained. The precious batmobile might have crashed and I would have been dead. Actually, that was probably a good plan and one that I should have carried through because living through this date was like having scurvy, waiting for the next blister to burst and explode: we had only just taken the junction on to the motorway heading towards London and it was already looking to be oh so very tedious indeed.
Granted, he was not at all what I expected and through his words, body language and general essence of his being, I assuredly knew he was definitely not the one. I wanted to reverse crawl back to my apartment. I even took a fanciful daydream of opening the car door and commando rolling on to the motorway like a ninja just to escape but I quickly snapped out of it and gave my attention to the criminal activities my Date was partaking in: undertaking and overtaking innocent drivers for no apparent reason other than the driver behind shouldn’t have done it in the first place. Tit-for-tat. Many unrepeatable words running through my mind at this stage.
I am a law abiding citizen although I must admit when I used to drive, I found it quite difficult to remain bosom buddies with the motorway national speed limit, and I was very acquainted with shall we say excessive speeds. All the drivers I have ever known, share the same affliction and disposition (I think it’s a disease), it’s just a given (don’t tell Her Majesty though). After adventures sitting in numerous cars with my younger brother, who really is a superhero of driving (he’s like a real-life Johnny Storm (Fantastic Four) travelling at the speed of light like the wizard’s Knight Bus in Harry Potter, I was fearless of any man who thought he could awe me with his driving abilities. I do not squeal or cry at hurtling towards the skyline at a million miles an hour in the pitch darkness at 2200HRS, which incidentally should have been my cue for “Good Night I’ve had such a great evening thank you let me know you reach home safely,” instead it was the commencement of turmoil far beyond my nightmarish nightscapes.
Date was pretending to be Lewis Hamilton, the speedometer was pushing nearly 100mph, “I don’t usually drive this fast but he shouldn’t have undercut me, you think I’m stupid don’t you?”
In my head I was thinking, “Please, I could drive faster than you with onions in my eyes for goodness sake but this is hardly the time or the place to impress me with this pathetic show of kamikaze bravado, it simply needs to cease! Immediately! Before I start throwing rocks. At your head!” I think my silence spoke volumes.
“You’re really quiet aren’t you, you are allowed to speak…” as he turned up the music.
It would seem that my silence was unfortunately wasted on ignorance. “Great!” However, I thought I should at least try and make the best of a bad situation and a shouty conversation resumed over the beats. “What are the plans then, where are we heading?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m not deciding where we’re going, you are. You said you used to live around London, so show me a good time!”
I thought he was jesting.
“I’m ok with wherever we go, and I’m not a tourist guide! Really, where are we going?”
“I will give you some time to think about it.”
Patronising little <coughs> upstart. He was positively enjoying himself. I should have done the backwards somersault flip from the sunnyside-up-egg-of-a-car when I had the chance. Conversation stalled many times, however, the music probably hid the fact quite conveniently. Eventually, we had reached our anonymous destination, there were no plans. He parked the car in a random street in Central London, not far from Piccadilly.
Even with my heels on – which were only two inches, he was a midget. Are. You. Kidding. Me. There’s nothing more disconcerting than being with a man to whom I am the Eiffel Tower, which is difficult since I’m only 5’3-4-ish. All my predictions for the evening were complete. I was now in the big unknown, Lord only knows what was in store for me, my evening was in the small hands of a glow-in-the-dark Oompa Loompa.
I only had one thought in my mind: the date needs to end. The colour intensities of the night so far had seen my appetite grow from strength to strength and my dizziness increase rapidly, I would keel over soon if serious subsistence was not orderly obtained however the dilemma was that I would not enjoy my food, and I wanted to be as far away from Date and this horrid state of affairs as quickly as possible. I would be brave, I would endure the hunger. We were walking in the direction of Leicester Square, heartbeat of tourist city; Thursday really was the new Saturday night. We continued walking freely conversing hapless topics until we arrived outside Pizza Hut. I had already transformed into a schizophrenic, speaking to myself the entire time and at this point, my inner voice was saying “Please do not even suggest we eat here!”
“Do you want to eat here? How about we get some pizza?”
“Truly, I’m not actually that hungry…if you want to eat though, we can get something…”
“I’ll only eat if you eat…”
At this point I felt really quite bad, but I wanted the evening to end imminently and I could not bear the thought of dinner and conversation with him any longer. Additionally, I have a conscience: let me explain. First date dinner is usually paid for by the gentleman against my will, my conscience does not allow for this favour to be unreturned and I would thus ‘treat’ the second date. But I did not want a second date, I was barely coping with this first date! Decisions and suggestions of what we could do were absent from my mind. We discussed cuisines, he loves Chinese and hates Thai – I love Thai and hate Chinese so he suggested we make our way to a Chinese restaurant which he used to frequent. It was a noodle bar about three centimetres big with enough room to swing a bluebottle by its little wings. I said, “If you’re hungry please feel free to eat, but I’m truly not hungry.”
I hope you do not think I am evil , but really, I was dying to return to my most humblest abode just as soon as possible. Date decided against food and we continued to walk through Leicester Square and on to Piccadilly. The super personable friendly happy touts, or promotional staff, were out in their full brigade coaxing us to party with them, Date was so rude and arrogant he did not even respond to their wonderful smiles and questions. I thanked them kindly and advised we were not partying tonight, we were not doing anything tonight, except for walking randomly to nowhere fathoming whether or not our lives would accumulate in happily-ever-after.
Through my Holmes-esque talents, I discovered that Date’s ambition in life was to own an orange Lamborghini, the Ford Focus was obviously a substitution in lieu of such time when his destiny would deliver him this erupting mobile volcano and apparently I was going to make him our millions. “Darling,” I started, “any millions I generate will be mine alone if you haven’t lifted a finger to make them with me”. End of ambition. End of date.
Or so I thought as we meandered through the crayola crowds of people. We arrived at the entrance of Trocadero, an ill building which I am sure is crying out for a complete interior renovation or complete destruction. Time travelling back to the 1980s was not the adventure for which I was hoping, this was not Back to the Future, I was not Marty, this was not Stars in their Eyes (“Tonight Matthew…” I started to say) however, Date’s eyes lit up like two ember bonfires all the same (“…I am Guy Fawkes…” <rapturous applause>).
Even the voice of my unconscious being woke up, dying to splurt out loud words of preventative force to reject the entrance, the force field was not strong enough. I did not have any brighter than fluorescent ideas and I contemplated rather quickly that the quicker we went through the shady smoke, the quicker we were out and the quicker I would reach home sweet home. On an aside, let a man think he is free and he forgets himself and you can usually see behind the façade he may be trying to play, so I let him be and went with the not-so-flowing evening.
After the ascension into hell on earth, Date had clearly found paradise and squealed with joy at his discovery of an entire floor filled with arcade games. I do not jest. I had a first date at the arcades which would not have been so horrendous had I been my nineteen-year-old-self or if it was a #RainyDay out with friends. Date rushed to the change machine (I was praying the contraption was broken, no such luck) and he jumped on to the Yellow Ferrari as if he was about to launch into a wheelspin whilst trying to persuade me to sit in the adjacent red Ferrari so that we could partake in a race.
I could not bring myself to sit in the giant toy, even after all the pleading, I handed back the £1.00 coin detesting him for thinking I required a £1.00 coin in the first place. I realise I could be seen as being a stick-in-the-mud but I was in no mood to play; we were light years away from each other in every whim and fancy. I watched the boy on the machine, enthusiastically trying to beat the odds. I wished so hard I nearly apparated myself into the past arranging that I meet him in London directly so I had bona fide freedom and reason to leave at any given sour grape moment. Another escape plan was hatching seen as though Date had his back to me, I could sneak away and run along all the way to Piccadilly Station, hop and skip with glee on to a tube to Marylebone and scoot on to the overground back to my apartment. Happy days…
Surprisingly, I did not follow through with my excellent jailbreak and Date’s racing game resulted in failure. Keen to procure some notion of winning, the next game saw us perched, literally, inside a mini-jeep and undertaking target practice by committing the murder of giant black spiders trying to devour the very flesh of our hopelessly hyperactive onscreen avatars. I was praying I was not going to have nightmares, spiders – graphic designed or not – and myself do not have the greatest relationship, thank my Mother for that (another story). However, I was quite pleased with myself as I uncovered a hidden talent, the conclusion saw me win the episode and Date’s ego melted on to the black rubber matting.
The next game which I can only describe as resembling football but with hands and hockey pucks, was thrilling. I cannot believe how I have lived my life without the complete exhilaration of sliding metal against metal. Enthralling. Needless to say I thought I might try and make Date slightly happy and let him win this one so as he did not feel deficient of his manliness in any way, shape or form…
I glanced at my watch and was genuinely surprised that an entire hour had passed by so easily, we finally left the Troca-zero and headed out to the life of London nights leaving it all behind to return to the street-with-no-name where the goose-beaked car was unceremoniously trying to court a cutely quirky Mazda MX-5.
I breathed relief knowing we would soon depart one another’s company in the full security that nothing further could possibly occur that would render me utterly speechless. I had been tango’d every step of the way from the second I stepped into my apartment to the moment I would finally emergency eject myself from the less than lush piece of pumpkin pie. However, Fate had played every suited card so far; hearts were surely not beating as one, diamonds were off the list, invisible clubs were used to pulp Date into a semi-conscious mute whilst an ace made a brief appearance in the jeep. The only ‘suit’ not yet played was the Joker, thanking lucky stars…
I was feeling fairly excited about my upcoming rendezvous with my apartment, and as such, conversation betwixt Date and I was rather perky on the return journey discussing the nature of politics and the economy, and it was good(ish) conversation, there is no sarcasm here. I am not quite sure how we ventured on to the subject of death, however, Date recounted a personal story to me regarding a funeral which I felt I already knew. I was confused. Where had I heard this story previously? Who was the original storyteller? For the life of me, I could not recall so I wrote the thought on a sticky-note in my mind so that I could investigate further at a later time. The journey also seemed to disappear into mere minutes, and I was finally uttering my thank yous and an “I’ll see you soon” to cover the strange awkwardness of goodbye. I practically danced up the stairs and suddenly realised I promised Hassan a phonecall to confirm I was still living. Hassan…cogs started turning in my mind as I started to remember the first time my ears absorbed the funeral story…
“Lady, how was your date…?” was the opening line, not even a hello was needed.
“Overwhelmingly brilliant, we are to marry at dusk tomorrow in a satsuma-orange boat!”
“Looks like I am to be the bearer of rings…orange? It’s meant to be pea-green like the colour of money…!”
“That would make you the piggy-wig, that’s hardly the best compliment you’ve given yourself! He turned up, in an orange Ford Focus!”
“Modesty is most attractive and anything for you my darling, ends of the earth! You can’t be serious…”
“Hush, you’re making me blush already! Yes, yes, yes and yes! His name is Imran…”
“…Was he quite short and fair-skinned, recently split up with his wonderful other half and has a child rumour has it?”
“…it’s no longer a rumour, I confirm it! Oh-my-god! You know him!”
“That’s not even his vehicle, it belongs to his brother…!”
The Joker reared his ding-donging bells and bobbling head with his jazz-hands in a flurry of maniacal laughter.
“…I am beyond belief, you could have saved me from the most ridiculous evening of my life…!” I sighed.
“Hey-ho, at least your What if has been conquered…”
“…And that’s another bright button of a remark from you! Your concern is delightfully refreshing, I’m off to sleep to hypnotise-out the events from my fractured mind…”
“Good night, at least I know you are now safe!”
The final date in my trilogy had just permanently stationed itself into the motherboard of my memory. Miraculously, I live to tell the tale even though the vivid colours provided me with migraine sending me into mild dementia for the duration of the entire evening.
Just before I slumbered and with steepled fingers, I whispered a little prayer ‘Please God, if you want to arrange a tango for me in the future, please send me Thomas Crown in a slick tuxedo bearing me Rene Russo’s shimmering gown in a fancy black and cream bow-and-silk-ribboned giftbox…’