During my many, many dating years there were some bad experiences some weird dates and some outright shockers. Thus the choice of ‘worst date ever’ is not an easy one to make.
If I have to pick one it’s this.
You know the date is beyond any measure of redemption when he arrives at your door and your heart drops to your knees in three seconds flat.
And the overwhelming temptation is to say, ‘Who are you meeting?’ and when he says your name, answering, ‘No she’s not here’
This was my instinctive thought as the overly nourished comb-over stood expectantly in my doorway.
With supreme effort, I picked my heart up from the flow, the prevalence of polite socialisation and good breeding forcing me to pursue the date, much to my regret.
For a few seconds the shiny blue Beemer parked in the street was a redemptive feature of the evening. Arriving at the restaurant (I picked a good place hoping the food would save me) the parking was quite full minimising our chances of getting a table. So he did the gentlemanly thing, hefting himself upstairs to secure a table, leaving me in the Beemer, keys and all.
I saw this as my chance of self-preservation – with a double purpose. Not only would I escape an insufferable evening, I would instantly acquire a new BMW for my driving pleasure. While I was deep in fantasy, I calculated how far I could travel before he wobbled back to the car, he returned to tell me there was a vacant table.
Shortly after we ordered, I heard about his recently installed lap band and his restricted eating requirements. Nevertheless this failed to hamper his appetite still ably equipped to devour his way through three courses, while mine was lost in a swirl of disgust.
Because of his condition, or using it as a convenient excuse, he farted throughout the meal, while I did some very deep soul searching asking myself and universal Wisdom what I had done to deserve this?