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First Dates, Worst Dates
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Just for fun, let’s have stories of your worst dates.
Mine was my first meeting with a pen friend who was away with the Royal Navy. He sent me flowers and presents and described himself as 6ft 2in and blond, and upon our first - and last - meeting turned out to be one of the ugliest men I’ve ever seen. It was dreadful! Oh, God! I’m sooo shallow!
Mine was my first meeting with a pen friend who was away with the Royal Navy. He sent me flowers and presents and described himself as 6ft 2in and blond, and upon our first - and last - meeting turned out to be one of the ugliest men I’ve ever seen. It was dreadful! Oh, God! I’m sooo shallow!
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I've told this before, so apologies if you remember......
Met a local girl in Llandudno at a party me and a couple of mates had blagged our way into. Agreed to meet her later in the week. We went out for a meal and I took her home. I'd bought her a little teddy as a present and upon reaching into the back seat of the car, I did a rather loud trump.
We never kept in touch.
I think it was Karma, as I'd lied to her about my job and a new car I was getting (Golf GTI).
Met a local girl in Llandudno at a party me and a couple of mates had blagged our way into. Agreed to meet her later in the week. We went out for a meal and I took her home. I'd bought her a little teddy as a present and upon reaching into the back seat of the car, I did a rather loud trump.
We never kept in touch.
I think it was Karma, as I'd lied to her about my job and a new car I was getting (Golf GTI).
It was a blind date arranged by friends.
He was ginger...not really a problem, as I was a red head. But he was at least 6 inches shorter than me and not a very good conversationalist. I just wanted it to end quickly. He did try to kiss me, but only got as far as my chin. I was glad there was no car involved...
He was ginger...not really a problem, as I was a red head. But he was at least 6 inches shorter than me and not a very good conversationalist. I just wanted it to end quickly. He did try to kiss me, but only got as far as my chin. I was glad there was no car involved...
I can't really contribute to the theme of 'first dates, worst dates', but I can relate my first date with my wife. At the time, I was doing National Service in the Army, and I was stationed at a training area in Northumberland. I had, before I was called up, asked her for a date, but she turned me down. I wrote to her, from Northumberland, and said that I would be in Bradford (where we both lived) at the coming weekend, and would she like to go to the pictures with me? I would wait outside a specific shop at a specific time on the Saturday. Lo and behold, she turned up, looking very smart and attractive, and off we went to the pictures. She said, much later, that, as I had not included a return address on my letter, she - being a well-brought up young lady - felt obliged to meet me, but only to say that she did not wish to see me again. She also said - much later in our lives together - that she was convinced that I had deliberately not included my return address deliberately. I knew, she said, that she would turn up to meet me. My saying that I had not included the address because I knew that, by the time she received my letter, she would not have time to write back, cut no ice. But I also knew that I would be elsewhere in England on the following weekend, so there was little point in writing to me in Northumberland. As the evening wore on, she realised that she could, just possibly, just a little bit, get to like me, and that's how it all began. Next week we celebrate our 57th wedding anniversary. And she still thinks that my omission of the address was deliberate!
LOL Zac.
I have pondering about dates, first, successful and those that were a complete waste of time, but I have never humiliated a woman and some women of all shapes and sizes were a complete success and I had a a good time.
You can never tell with women.
I tried this afternoon bored, but with this thread in mind to try and count my "encounters " and I stopped bothering at about 50-60 such meetings.
No regrets.
I have pondering about dates, first, successful and those that were a complete waste of time, but I have never humiliated a woman and some women of all shapes and sizes were a complete success and I had a a good time.
You can never tell with women.
I tried this afternoon bored, but with this thread in mind to try and count my "encounters " and I stopped bothering at about 50-60 such meetings.
No regrets.
True story.
Internet Dating. Being an innately glass half-full kinda guy, I'd agreed a meet-up which involved a 100 mile rail trip. That at least shows commitment. As does the shirt I'd ironed.
I was met at the station by a most attractive petite lady. Originally from London, this was the kind of woman who put the “she” into “chic”. My optimistically ironed shirt and smart black trousers paled. I had been decidedly “out-Vogued”.
I suggested a pub/restaurant lunch, but she offered lunch at her house. Apparently she had something in the oven. By coincidence, this was in my home town. The house was a trendy renovation. I found myself saying that it was lovely, and such a difference from the low-rent neighbourhood I remembered from my youth, before it was gentrified.
“This is an historic area.”
“er... yes … so it is.”
STRIKE ONE.
Inside, everything was painted white. Even the floor. And the cushions were white. I resolved not to sit down, as I would have clashed. One wall of the kitchen had been stripped of plaster on account of an ongoing damp problem. Of course I was all over this. I went out into the yard to look for the problem. Nothing major. Mostly to do with next door's adjoining lean-to.
“Actually, I think I can tell you what the problem is.”
This didn't go down well. Because it involved next door, she had 2 surveyors; 2 solicitors; a barrister; and Environmental Health all over the issue.
STRIKE TWO.
As we sat at the table, I noticed a loaded water-pistol near her right hand. I tried not to think too much into this. It was a summer afternoon, and the backdoor was open. Halfway through a roast potato, I saw a cat stroll in.
“Get out of here!”
SQUIRT.
The cat took it in the face and ran off.
“Next door's cat. Always sniffing around.”
I had asked for the bathroom. It was one of those places that had taken the term “shabby chic” a little too literally. White paint flaking off, and loose handles everywhere which didn't quite operate.
“It's a lovely house” I lied. “That room through there. Is that your studio? (She's an artist, but aren't they all?)
“I'd love to see some of your work.”
“NOBODY sees my studio. It's where I work and create.”
STRIKE THREE.
The silence over coffee was beginning to hurt my ears. I was only halfway down my first cup..........
“I think I shall have to ask you to leave.”
“Was it something I said?”
“I'm sorry, but I would like you to leave now.”
Feeling more relieved than offended, I happily walked back to the station, and got home in time to tell the tale in the pub.
Internet Dating. Being an innately glass half-full kinda guy, I'd agreed a meet-up which involved a 100 mile rail trip. That at least shows commitment. As does the shirt I'd ironed.
I was met at the station by a most attractive petite lady. Originally from London, this was the kind of woman who put the “she” into “chic”. My optimistically ironed shirt and smart black trousers paled. I had been decidedly “out-Vogued”.
I suggested a pub/restaurant lunch, but she offered lunch at her house. Apparently she had something in the oven. By coincidence, this was in my home town. The house was a trendy renovation. I found myself saying that it was lovely, and such a difference from the low-rent neighbourhood I remembered from my youth, before it was gentrified.
“This is an historic area.”
“er... yes … so it is.”
STRIKE ONE.
Inside, everything was painted white. Even the floor. And the cushions were white. I resolved not to sit down, as I would have clashed. One wall of the kitchen had been stripped of plaster on account of an ongoing damp problem. Of course I was all over this. I went out into the yard to look for the problem. Nothing major. Mostly to do with next door's adjoining lean-to.
“Actually, I think I can tell you what the problem is.”
This didn't go down well. Because it involved next door, she had 2 surveyors; 2 solicitors; a barrister; and Environmental Health all over the issue.
STRIKE TWO.
As we sat at the table, I noticed a loaded water-pistol near her right hand. I tried not to think too much into this. It was a summer afternoon, and the backdoor was open. Halfway through a roast potato, I saw a cat stroll in.
“Get out of here!”
SQUIRT.
The cat took it in the face and ran off.
“Next door's cat. Always sniffing around.”
I had asked for the bathroom. It was one of those places that had taken the term “shabby chic” a little too literally. White paint flaking off, and loose handles everywhere which didn't quite operate.
“It's a lovely house” I lied. “That room through there. Is that your studio? (She's an artist, but aren't they all?)
“I'd love to see some of your work.”
“NOBODY sees my studio. It's where I work and create.”
STRIKE THREE.
The silence over coffee was beginning to hurt my ears. I was only halfway down my first cup..........
“I think I shall have to ask you to leave.”
“Was it something I said?”
“I'm sorry, but I would like you to leave now.”
Feeling more relieved than offended, I happily walked back to the station, and got home in time to tell the tale in the pub.
In the 80s i was going through a lean time with the fairer sex, until a mate said i should try blind dates. So i answered an ad in the LH column in the local rag. She replied, describing herself as medium height for a woman and slim. I waited at the agreed meeting point, saw an overweight short woman and was about to leg it when she spotted me. I put on a brave face, took her to a pub i hadnt been to in ages. Would you believe it the landlord recognised me. The upshot i didnt see her again and havent shown my face in that pub ever since.
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