Mr #7 - Baffling Barnet

The preamble:

Mr #7 came about from the usual online dating route, as opposed to the postmodern Twitter method of #6. And thank fuck too! There was some moderate chit chat involving common ground including favourite caffeinated beverages and the tickling of funny bones, and within a few relatively formal messages, the date was sorted. I shouldn't be so grateful that some dates just happen without vile twisted drama, but given I'm still fresh from the whole Catfish debarcle, I won't lie, if someone turns up to a date and looks acceptably like their profile photo, I feel the need to perform a small victory jig in public.

The man:

Age: 31

Profession:Working for an online supermarket
Random factoid: Nothing. Literally nothing.

The date:

Mr #7 chose the venue, and once again brownie points, because it was a rather adorably trendy yet unpretentious haunt on Essex Road. 

I arrived to a rather large glass of wine, and an unignorable shock of the most indescribable blonde hair I have ever seen. He seemed a little more nervous than the usual internet date, so I cracked a godawful funny about the reason for my tardiness. It almost worked, so we sat and commenced said date. The nervousness spilled out into the first port of conversation, because I was aware that even after the initial ten minutes, we were still talking about his favourite and least favourite forms of public transport. Fortunately conversation soon moved swiftly and safely on. I say swiftly and safely, which are both clearly fictitious adjectives since conversation had oddly veered towards the so-called "ladyboys" of Bangkok. As you do. I've never been to Thailand, so I hold him entirely responsible. Within the next hour and rather rapid large pinots we'd covered retro sweets, the woes of commuting, a lot of awkward mishearing and the politics of urinals. 

I had also, in my vaguely tipsy vulnerability, had managed to let slip about my stage fright in toilet scenarios. I don't regret it, it's sadly very true.  However, the biggest shock of the night came with my date breaking the shocking news to me that men are more than aware that girls fart whilst they're asleep. At this precise moment, I swore that I would never share a bed with a man again. Never.  Ever. It may thwart this challenge somewhat, but it's a risk worth taking. 

I say thwart, but I probably mean disregard...

Memorable Quotes:
Again, none of note, not unless you count 'I can't pee if I know someone is listening', in which case it's one of mine...I don't think that count, do you?

Events of note:

A large spittle missile striking my arm to a theatrical apology? Okay, maybe a little unfair. Maybe the impromptu arrival of some polenta wedges for carbohydrate type sustenance. Who orders polenta chips? What's wrong with potatoes? Seriously, I love potatoes, I'm not going to judge you. Well, I will judge you, if you order fucking polenta instead of potatoes! And judge you, I did.

The verdict:

Don't get me wrong, Mr #7 was a perfectly lovely man. But conversation was a little too forced at times, and I felt slightly sorry for a man who, when he sensed something funny, felt the need to put his hand over his mouth. This happened all night, and as a result made me feel really rather sad for whichever insecurity he was harbouring...it certainly wasn't his teeth, I had a sneaky peak earlier on and they were perfectly lovely.  But it all just felt a little forced, and the rapidity with which he sprinted to the bus led me to believe that perhaps he was a little to pleased to part my company. It's a shame, as we had an entertaining evening, but not so entertaining that I think we may make contact again. Oh well, back to the drawing board.