Breakfast Date

Yes, I know what you're thinking. 'Breakfast date? BREAKFAST date? Surely not...' Because, really, never have two words been so ill-suited for such close snuggling. And yet, at 9 a.m. on Sunday morning, a time useless for anything other than sleeping, in my opinion, I was sitting outside a cafe in Belgravia waiting for my blind date, Mystery Barrister, to arrive. I was miraculously on time, the novelty of rising so early on a Sunday having driven me into a neurotic 7 am alarm setting followed by an equally neurotic over-application of yummy Yin Yang moisturiser to my under-eye area in a probably futile bid to prevent my bags from developing into industrial sacks.

Mystery Barrister, by contrast, was 25 minutes late, which was annoying, and he appeared to be valiantly resisting the modern trend of the metrosexual, his chapped cheeks suggesting that he has never used a moisturiser in his life, let alone a nice-smelling one. He was also 5’7 (an inch shorter than me), bald, yellow of tooth and oddly clad. How my heart sank as he approached my table, wearing tweed and a nervous grin. How it plunged when he pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose vigorously upon it (because, ewww). And how it very nearly died within me when he mentioned that he’d been on a lot of blind dates recently through Match.com. I seethed inwardly and resolved to inflict a hideous revenge upon Becky, who had masterminded this vile mis-match.

Things were not set to improve quickly, either, for anyone involved. The waiter brought my hot chocolate without any cream on it, which I didn’t mind at all, and said so, but Philip insisted on rectifying the situation, to my embarrassment - which he noticed, causing him to attempt to recall the banished beverage by waving his arms about, which only resulted in his knocking his Americano into his danish and my dress. He gasped a series of appalled apologies and out came the awful handkerchief to dab my thighs. I protested (again, EWWW), but he mistook my hankie-fear for affront at his touching my legs, causing a fresh flood of increasingly despairing sorrying that was only stemmed by the distraction of another defective hot chocolate's arrival. Conversation, after this, barely got beyond 'I'm so, so terribly sorry, stupid of me - ' 'No, no, don't be silly, I'm sure it was my fault it got spilled anyway, don't worry at all...' 'Your fault? No no, not at all, uh, god, I'm so sorry, will your dress be alright..?' And so on.

Next, he took me for what ought to have been a lovely walk in Hyde Park to Speaker’s Corner, which he (interestingly, endearingly) likes. It was a good idea, but he tripped twice on the way there (prompting further redness and a coughing attack) and then both speakers were peddling the theory that education makes women bad at sex; a topic that made Philip stutter and me giggle hysterically. And then he was just so odd. Clearly a very intelligent man, with many fascinating life experiences to share, I nevertheless found myself painfully incapable of taking him entirely seriously. Because, at 37, he is taking ice-skating lessons. He saw Troy 6 times in the cinema, and can’t remember how often he’s watched it on DVD. He bemoaned for some yards of Hyde Park walkway the difficulty of finding tap-dancing shoes in his size in London. I almost yearned for Wanker Banker’s irritating obsession with convention, for a moment or two.

The final straw, though, I think for both of us, was when we were chatting amongst the daffodils and, in the process of talking, he spat, emphatically and unignorably, on my face. A terrible moment. I felt the saliva strike, and realised instantly that it had landed on a concealed beast-spot scar, which would complicate safe removal no end. It then occurred to me that there is more bacteria in the mouth of an adult human than in that of a dog, and that my skin was therefore in grave danger of further infection, the only silver lining being that the concealer might offer the pores a shield from the spit. Through these considerations, I became aware of a further threat: the handkerchief. There it was, out of his, presumably very snotty pocket, and moving threateningly towards my face. My involuntary look of disgust, high-pitched squeak and slight step backwards were like an awful, black full-stop on the date as a whole. I fear we both went home depressed, he presumably to blow his nose, and I to Yin Yang my spitty skin into near oblivion. Death.


But I'm giving you the most awful impression of poor Philip, who was actually very, very nice, and told me all sorts of things about Baudelaire and showed me the statue of Byron at Hyde Park corner (who knew!). And then he sent me the sweetest text message, saying he’d like to see me again, but 'would understand if I’d rather not'. Ahhhh! So obviously I said I would – just not for another date. I’m sure he’ll be better at friendly lunches. And as for my Wanker Banker yearnings – I hear through a mutual friend that he went to work defiantly suited all this week and may be in some trouble for bludgeoning several protestors with his briefcase, presumably whilst humming Flight of the Valkyries and imagining himself in Vietnam. Cringe.