epsiode 9

The Four Minute Relationship

I remember when my single friends talked about speed dating. It was all the rage, a few years back when I wasn’t allowed to go. But now I could and although perhaps less popular there seems to be an abundance of speed dating events still. So, what did I have to lose, (and don’t say my dignity because that had gone into hiding long ago). Besides, speed dating makes sense. You meet about twenty single members of the opposite sex in one evening, which isn’t bad as it took me months to meet hardly any at all. And professional people don’t have as much time these days, so cramming a month or so worth of meeting new people into one evening is highly efficient.
In this day and age people who meet via non-traditional methods should be able to continue without worrying about the stigma that is sometimes attached. It’s not easy to meet people, and for some it’s near impossible. The internet (yeah I know my experience wasn’t great but others have found love), speed dating, dinner clubs, a whole host of help is available. You just have to be big enough to ask for it. So, before I continue, I am going to applaud those who instead of moaning they can’t meet anyone, go out (or stay in) and proactively search. End of lecture; especially as there is no way you’ll catch me internet dating again.
Back to speed dating. I got a friend to come with me and we dressed nicely and set off. The first mistake was stopping for a glass of wine on the way. Merely because we were the last to arrive and those who arrived last (us) were seated at the bar. If only the organisers had known who they were dealing with.
The room was dark, (ambience or just to ensure you couldn’t see too clearly?) We were given stickers with our names and our number on, (not too classy), and after a short talk about how it works, (women sit, men move, you have four minutes, they ring a bell), we were ready to go.
My friend and I had ordered our second large glass of wine of the evening, and pen poised to make notes, we started meeting men. One of my initial fears was that four minutes would feel like a long time, but in reality it flew by. And the men were all, on the whole, OK. Professional, polite, and as far as I can remember, intelligent. Or at least not really stupid.
You see the problem was that it all started out so well. The questions were predictable and repetitive of course. Everyone wanted to know what everyone did, some asked about books and movies, and a couple even made me laugh. Architects, doctors, bankers, IT, builders, and so on, a wide variety of men sat opposite me until the bell sounded.
Some were more notable than others. One guy was a doctor who could give Botox but was uninsured to do so, (I considered proposing there and then). Another told me he was a builder, but when I said I was a writer he wanted to start again.
‘What do you do?’ I asked, politely humouring him.
‘I’m a dolphin trainer.’ He then went on to name his dolphins which I thought was cute.
When given the chance to compare notes with my friend, I found that although she met the same men as me (she was before me), she’d had a couple of interesting interactions. One guy said that all the girls there were ugly; he obviously was implying ‘up until now.’ Another was Indian and when she asked him where in India he was from he spent the remainder of the four minutes drawing a map of his homeland.
So where did it go wrong? I think on about the tenth man, at the half-way mark. You see, when they told us to take a break and go and get a drink, I’d already had more than my fair share, (a lot of men took the opportunity when talking to me to buy a drink, most also seemed to feel obliged to buy me one too and I seemed to feel obliged to accept).
The bell sounded again and a nice man sat opposite me.
‘The bell really pisses me off,’ I said.
‘It’s annoying,’ he agreed.
‘Makes me feel like I’m at school, and by the end of the evening I’m probably going to have to shove it up someone’s arse.’
He laughed, in that slightly hysterical way you do when the person you’re talking to is scary.
And then something weird happened. Most of my memory was erased. I remember giving someone my number and kissing him goodbye, (a little too enthusiastically), as my friend insisted we leave, and we made our way out of the bar, but that was it.

I woke the next day and head throbbing tried to recount the evening. Again, there was a blank space. My friend wasn’t much help either so we turned to our notes. Her comments centered on if they smelt nice, and one poor guy she had decided was gay, and mine, well after the tenth or eleventh man they were either illegible or just littered with ‘don’t knows,’ and question marks and a couple of ‘X’s’. And as for the man who I gave my number too, shamefully I couldn’t even remember his name or obviously hold a pen to write anything.
But that’s OK, because he sent me a text saying he thought I was fabulous. And he signed it, which was terribly kind of him. I replied and after lots of text banter we arranged a date. Now, I have to say that although I knew his name, and I had technically kissed him, and apparently he had enjoyed it, I had no idea what he looked like.
Shamefully, Saturday night was to be my first blind date.

Next Week: The blind (drunk) date