Date Disaster #54371

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Remember my last post when I got all confident because my friend and I got chatted up by ‘not weirdos’ in the old fashioned way and it was great? Yeah, I take that back.

I went on a date with one of the non-weirdos at the weekend. The evening was going well, really well in fact. We had a couple of cocktails and relived how we met the previous weekend when I was just about out of the door of the bar before I recognised his friend and blah blah got talking, got a drink, blah. So all going swimmingly…until he decided to spill his life story and make me metaphorically run for the hills.

‘I’ve only been single for a couple of weeks’, he starts with a long inhalation, I knew he was about to produce a story worthy of a pity party.

Turns out his ex found some messages on his phone. Alarm bells went off for me at that moment, but I thought I’d hear him out, mainly because I had no choice. She subsequently kicked him out after reading the messages which ‘were innocent, but didn’t read well’. He goes on to tell me how she’s quite ill in a self inflicted kind of way as opposed to a terminally poorly way, and that he’s saved her life a few times.

He’s telling me all this to justify the fact that ‘if we see a crazy blonde Irish woman running towards us, just run’. Oh fabulous, because running in Louboutins is my favourite version of high intensity exercise/just what I planned on doing on a Friday night date in JLT. NOT.

She also owed him some money which she was keeping for him.. because he had a gambling addiction ‘but not made a bet for 4 months now’. Reassuring.

The rest of the evening was spent trying to resist looking over my shoulder all night for an angry blonde while simultaneously keeping an eye on my handbag. But I’m a nice person so I thought I may as well spend the rest of the night being as supportive as possible, giving unprofessional advice while trying not to down my gin.

So my date turned into a bit of a psychiatry session. I think I should start a new profession- agony aunt extraordinaire.

Suffice to say there won’t be a second date, mainly because I quite like the idea of keeping my hair on my head as opposed to in another womans hands.