I may have spoken too soon about the dating thing.
So, a couple of nights ago, I took Dawson’s Creek out on the town – arty album launch, PRs and promoters, pub times, that sort of thing. She and her fellow Americans have only been in town a week, and aren’t too experienced at London style drinking (ie in excess) so I’m helping them adjust.
We hit up the George in London Bridge, and were ID’d on the way in – eh? I was strangely flattered, until the bouncer checked every one of their ID’s, and then stopped and laughed in my face just as I was about to produce mine.
Ah. Guess I’m old then.
After a few pints (Aspall. I shouldn’t be allowed near that magical cider juice) I got a text from the guy I appear to be dating.
DC and her mental mates were adamant that I should go and meet him.
“But he’s gone home!” I protested weakly. “He won’t come here, he has a show tomorrow.”
“Go and see him!” One small and clearly rebellious one advised.
Oh lord. Am I really in a place in my life where I’m taking advice from twenty one year old American girls?
A half hour later, getting off at his stop, I came to the conclusion that, yes. Yes I am.
I wish I could tell you I embarked upon a night of fire and passion to make you squeal with excitement, but it appears this one is a dud.
There is only so much that excessive amounts of ‘Dave’ can do to save a situation…
In the end, the conversation was so lacking that I did what any self respecting woman would do in my place… and jumped him. Thanks to my apparently very effective dexterity, 30 seconds of friction and it was all over.
Frankly, I chose sleep instead of demanding my own turn. And I left the next morning before 10am.
We’re supposed to be going on a date tomorrow night. Let’s just see if he texts then, shall we?
Back to the drawing board Ritzi. Ah well.