Last year, my shy friend who was sofa-surfing at my place, phoned to say he was in a pub and out on a date with a woman he found on the “Plenty Of Fish” dating app. He said she’d be leaving in an hour but I was to come out and meet her first as he wanted a wingman.
Seriously? I don’t remember Batman getting emergency calls for help like this.
My buddy knows I was a columnist for Dateline and Singles Magazine for 7 years and assumes I’m some kind of dating and relationship guru which, of course, I am. Who knew?
As it turned out, she stayed for a further 3 hours. Nothing to do with my captivating charm and dazzling wit, more to do with her love of free wine and crisps. I definitely wouldn’t want to be behind her in the queue at holy communion – they’d be no wine and no wafers left.
On the plus side, she did say that I was “intelligent and very funny” but, whilst uncomfortably flattering, anything said when alcohol has been consumed I don’t take too seriously and besides, this wasn’t my date.
So, to be honest, I have absolutely no idea why I was there. Especially when their awkward hand and neck massaging started between them in the middle of the pub.
I finally persuaded her to leave but only because I would have had to inflate the slow-leaking airbed at my flat or, embarrassingly, my neighbour’s bouncy castle for her to sleep on.
My friend gentlemanly walked the lovely lady safely to her doorstep before he returned to my sofa.
The next day, his date texted him and asked him to say “hello” to me, which was nice and because she’d clearly mistaken him for Lionel Richie.
She thanked him for a lovely, if not surreal, evening and they never met again, probably because she thought, like I did, that when it comes to dating “Two’s company, three is just plain weird.”
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