Let me ask you a series of very important questions.
- Is my life destined along the path of single-hood-dom for ever and ever and ever?
- Has my life already been mapped out by Mr and Mrs Fate (notice how they are a couple. The Fate's can be cruel- I recommend learning that lesson sooner than it's taken me)?
- Does my name act as a date repellent? After all, Mildred screams one word: OLD.
- Why does it seem to be that the harder I try, the more likely it is that something will go wrong?
- Why oh why do I go to pieces on a date?
I wish I knew the answers, but I don't. What I can tell you is the reason I am asking these questions.
Yesterday, I went on a date.
Yesterday, I went out with Raymond.
Yesterday, I made a complete t*t of myself.
My story begins after a meagre and unsatisfying day of procrastination and job-hunting. (I'm sad to say, there was no success story here- I have not yet found employment). At about 4 p.m. I decided to begin the 'pre-date ritual' routine- something we all do, but keep secret. I had a fabulously long shower (22 minutes to be precise, but forget I told you that...), did some crucial leg maintenance as they tend to go into hibernation during the winter months and then tweezed my eyebrows into respectability. Then, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and thought 'hmmmm', how can I improve this pale and un-interesting body of mine? Alas, the answer was not in my bedroom, but buried deep in the murky depths of the bottom drawer in the bathroom drawer-thingy. That's right, against my better judgement I decided to fake tan. Well, I can tell you: that was my down-fall.
When Raymond and I were chatting, he said that he thought I was a classic 'English rose'... basically a polite way of saying pale and interesting (or un-interesting as the case may be). However, I wanted to improve my appearance, because that would greatly improve my chances of a post-date kiss. In honesty, I should have stayed as I was because there was no post-date kiss and I was orange.
On Sunday, I was an English Rose.
On Wednesday, I was an English Dandelion.
Today, as I write this, I am the colour of a satsuma.
Oh heck. This is not good. Hang on, hang on a minute.
......
I'm back. Blast! I've just consulted the fake tan bottle and it says that it takes up to 48 hours to reach your optimum shade... Well that's one good thing I guess: my colour has peaked, so things can only get better, right? Wrong. This fake tan says that it expired seven years ago and in the small print at the bottom, it says that after time, the formula becomes more concentrated, leading to a more intense colour. (Breathe deeply Mildred, just breathe deeply). I want to cry. I am orange. I want to be pale and interesting once more. I never want to eat a satsuma again.
But anyway, you're probably wondering what damage limitation measures I applied? Well, I dressed as though I were going to a funeral. Top to toe, I wore black; black shoes, black tights, black dress, black coat. I even worse black mascara. From a distance, I resembled a nun. You see, I had styled my hair to include a fringe that covered most of my face, but unfortunately this proved to be too impractical and I had to have a rethink as the curtains of hair would not stay open.
I asked my Mum if I looked okay: her silence spoke volumes.
I asked my Dad if I looked okay: his silence spoke volumes.
When I arrived in my car at Raymond's flat, I asked him if I looked okay: his silence spoke volumes.
Ladies and gents, we can conclude that I did NOT look okay.
After reaching this unsettling result, I drove us to the American diner that we had decided on. There, I immediately ordered myself a 'Little Drop of Heaven' (a drink, in case you were wondering). I thought it would be appropriate, but turns out it wasn't. I thought I would drink it and feel ephemeral. That never happened, because all I could think was 'eugh, Heaven tastes gross!' So very kindly, Raymond swapped his equally as icky tasting (but more masculine sounding) 'Ageing Rocker; The Jagger' cocktail for mine.
Understandably hoping to get this date over with ASAP, I ordered a classic American staple: the BBQ beef burger. I skipped the starters and later on, I skipped the desserts for cost purposes more than anything. We were being Dutch and splitting the bill 50/50, so I was trying to save a bit of my dwindling supplies of money. Raymond on the other hand was not. Me, frugal Mildred: £11.55 (including drink). Raymond, spendy Raymond: £27.90 (excluding drink). But the cheeky blighter then added our two bills together and then split it, so I had to pay over £20 when I didn't even eat half of what he did! I was not impressed. On Sunday I thought Raymond was a gentleman. Today, I no longer think that.
By the end of the night, after our lack of interesting conversation, I realised that the Sunday Raymond I saw was different on weekdays. He didn't laugh at my (quite frankly) hilarious jokes, yet he laughed at Gma's (quite frankly) appalling attempts at comedy. He didn't compliment me once, although I suppose I can let him off on this one- he'd really have to have been trying hard to find something good to say, given that I was a living tangerine disguised as a nun. But most importantly, there was no spark there. Our conversations were about as interesting as watching paint dry. And when I say that, I speak from experience. Watching paint dry is not a past-time I'd recommend to anyone, as it really is quite boring. No, scratch that. It's phenomenally dull.
When I dropped him home, curiosity got the better of me. I knew we were never destined to share the same last name, but I asked him anyway what his surname was as I knew it couldn't possibly be Raymond Dreamboat. Although, knowing what it is, I think I'd have preferred to be Mildred Dreamboat...
As it turns out, Raymond has a highly prestigious double-barrelled surname: he is a member of the ancient Cod-Swallop family whose family have roots dating back over 500 years. Obviously, I was somewhat confused. Was the 500 years thing supposed to impress me? Or was that supposed to detract from the fact that when you say his name fast it sounds like 'cods wallop'. To be honest, I wasn't disappointed. I was relieved. I could cross Mr Cod-Swallop off my list of potential suitors, because there's no way I want to be known as Mrs Cod-Swallop. No thank you.
Though my date with Raymond may not have been a success, I did take away some very important morals:
- Find out your date's name before the evening begins to save a lot of time and cods wallop.
- Never use your Grandmother as a replacement for Cupid on his day off.
- Never use fake tan that has passed it's sell-by date, otherwise you will go so fluorescent that you will virtually glow in the dark. I should know, because I'm glowing right now.
- Most importantly, embrace your inner English Rose so you don't have to become an English Dandelion.
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