Angels and Demons

How does one extricate oneself from a bad date? No, let me rephrase that. How does one extricate oneself from a bad date if one is British?
Curse my inherent politeness and the horror into which it leads me. Damn my inability to insult others and my desperate need to please and be liked.

But let's start with the good before we move onto the bad and ugly (one and the same). Friday night was my date with S. We stupidly agreed to meet at Leicester Square and I hate Leicester Square. As I stood outside the neon flea pit of Garfunkels, clutching my bag tightly, pressed against the wall by the throng of frantic tourists, I wished we'd said anywhere else. It doesn't do to meet a date when you're stressed beyond all sense.
Suddenly, pushing through the crowd, came a tall dude wearing a hat that said 'I'm cool, the hat's cool but I couldn't care less' and a very nice pin-striped jacket layered over faded jeans. Our eyes met and I experienced a strange impulse to throw my arms around his neck and hug him. I have been known to be overly demonstrative but not with complete strangers. It became apparent very quickly that he was nervous. Perversley I am instantly at ease when I know someone else is nervous; a low level control thing I would imagine. We hadn't organised to go anywhere which on a Friday night, in Covent Garden and Soho, a week before Christmas was foolhardy in the extreme. Thank goodness it was a mild night because as a result we wandered around for a good 45 minutes trying to find somewhere that didn't have drunk Santas pouring out of it. We found a Mexican bar and drank XO Martinis and we started to click. He was funny. Not just 'I'm laughing on the inside' funny but genuinely, uncontrollably, deliciously funny. The even better part was that I made him laugh in equal measure. We finally found a small Indonesian restaurant with a table and settled down to eat. We spent three and a half hours at that table, sharing a sub-standard set menu and we didn't stop talking. I have to admit, he's a bit of a geek, but the good thing is I have latent geek tendencies and am now past the point in my life where I judge them in others. In fact I admire those that can factor them into their personalities. I found it endearing in S, he is tall and although slim seems strong, plus he removed the hat and I was relieved to find it wasn't covering any bald patches. Oh, I also discovered he plays about seven musical instruments and regularly cooks fabulously complicated and extravagent meals (in fact, on Sunday morning I received a text that simply said 'Smothering a duck in a balsamic maple syrup glaze and thinking largely of you.')
I wasn't sure what vibe I was getting from him until went got into the tube and he unexpectedly kissed me. For a long time, to the sound of caterwalling drunken revellers. It was a very good kiss and it was great to kiss someone taller than me, despite my heels. I missed my tube connection by two minutes so got the night bus from Notting Hill. As I was watching the lights of High Street Kensington whizzing past the bus window, he sent me a text that said 'You're lovely'.

On Saturday morning, I awoke to bright, crisp, winter sunshine and felt amazingly happy. I danced around my bedroom listening to Juice FM reggae and calypso tracks whilst hanging the washing and hoovering. I was slightly nervous about my date with the dark B, but buoyed by two good dates in a row.
The date started innocuously enough. We met at the galleries on the South Bank for the Dali exhibition. He did not look like his pictures. In fact, he looked about two stone heavier and five years older than his photos. Still, I decided to try and see past that, keeping in mind the poetic emails and erotic phone call we'd had (about which I now shudder with horror). After the exhibition we decamped to All Bar One and before I'd even finished my vodka and diet coke, I knew I wanted to get away from this person quickly, but I found that I just couldn't ditch him; I don't have it built into my personality. So, we had two drinks there, then he suggested we go into Soho for more drinks. We hailed a cab and found a tucked away uber-cool bar off Tottenham Court Rd. Oh look, I can't be bothered to write about this properly. It will be quicker to bullet point the horror. Here we go:

1. He constantly muttered with his head turned away and when asked to repeat something, inexplicably wouldn't
2. He talked continuously about his job as a trader and how good he was at it
3. He asked me virtually nothing about myself and when he did, could not have been less interested
4. In the cab on the way to Soho, he started talking about his 'sub-coetaneous' spots and actually used the phrase 'Pop, you bastard'
5. He was rude to the staff in the bar we went to, making ridiculous demands and barely acknowledging them
6. He took his sweater off when we sat down and I got a whiff of sour BO
7. He kept disappearing to the loo and it became quickly apparent he was coked up
8. Despite point 7, he still got very drunk
9. He kept grabbing me round my neck in a really painful way and pulling me towards him which was worryingly aggressive
10. He lunged in to kiss me after about half an hour with no signal from me whatsoever and managed a lip-touch before I pulled away
11. He was obviously very well off but knew it and demonstrated it, a lot
12. He was utterly devoid of humour, except when it was something he'd said
13. His teeth were buck, and the front two were either side of a gap you could have driven a truck through, giving him the appearance of a red-necked sister-fucker.
14. At one point, he actually drooled; a long stream of saliva left his mouth and dripped onto the table and, this is the crucial point, HE DIDN'T EVEN NOTICE
15. He called me a slut with a leering, public-schoolboy grin on his face

Finally, finally we left and despite my obvious revulsion to the point where I'd even given up talking to him in favour of letting him ramble, he insisted on holding my hand on the way to the tube. I instantly made it as limp as a manhandled protestor but to no avail. He attempted another lunge outside the tube but I managed to direct him to my cheek and eventually wrestled free and practically ran down the stairs. Fortunately he didn't 'do' the tube so there was no danger of him following me.

I got home tired, upset and emotionally drained. I ate chicken Super Noodles and a Dime bar and watched Friends in my pyjamas. The only highlight of the evening had been that every time I went to the loo I was texting S. He felt like my lifeline out of the horror of my situation into a kind, happy world. Not to put too fine a point on it - it was him with whom I wanted to be. Granted, having the flesh torn from my bones by a cross-eyed water snake would have been preferable to that evening but still...food for thought.

Oh by the way, the picture has nothing to do with the post, it's just my favourite Dali sculpture; Homage to Terpsichore which I saw on Saturday.