‘It’s okay. I’m fine!’ he says, still clutching the over-sized plant in front of him protectively, like I’m going to attack him at any moment. ‘Are you alright?’
‘Yeah. Just embarrassed is all. I really am very, very sorry.’
He finally puts the pot plant down, having decided I’m not about to jump on him like a rabid spider monkey.
As he stands up, there’s a light of recognition in his eyes.
‘Hey! Weren’t you at that stupid speed dating thing down The Cheetah Lounge last month?’
Oh terrific!
Humiliation piled on humiliation.
Not only does this bloke – who I’m starting to realise is really quite attractive, despite his obsession with potted green flora – think I’m a lunatic with a ballistic moped, he also knows that I’m a hideously single lunatic with a ballistic moped.
‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘I remember you too. Glen Artichoke, isn’t it?’
‘Ah… that might have been a bit of a fib.’ He extends a hand. ‘My name’s actually Jamie Newman.’
I offer a smile still laced with apology and take his hand. ‘Laura McIntyre. I wondered if that was a made up name at the time.’
‘Yeah. Call it an insurance policy against any psychopathic women out there.’
That’s a very nice smile you’ve got, Jamie Newman. Congratulations.
‘We never got a chance to talk did we?’ I say, remembering how the awful evening had ended.
‘No.’ Jamie looks a bit guilty. ‘That may have been my fault. I set the sprinklers off having a fag in the toilets.’ Guilt changes to pride. ‘That was my last cigarette, actually. It seemed appropriate to quit at that point.’
Jamie Newman and I spend a good ten minutes at the side of the road chatting, before I have to stifle a yawn.
Much as I’m enjoying speaking to what appears to be an intelligent, charming man, I am now virtually dead on my feet from near exhaustion. I can also feel blood trickling down my leg from the scrape and I need to get home to apply some TCP as soon as possible.
Not wanting to let this fish off the hook I decide to take a chance.
‘Look, I have to get home before I fall asleep in the street, but maybe I could buy you a drink sometime?’ I ask. ‘You know, by way of an apology for nearly killing you with a doll’s house?’
The smile he gives me makes my heart beat faster.
‘That’d be lovely.’
I give him my number, which he programs into his mobile. He promises to give me a call in the next few days.
‘Will you be okay riding home on that thing?’ he asks, pointing at the moped, which now has a lovely fresh dent down one side to go along with all the others Charlie has inflicted on it.
‘Oh yes. I’ll be fine!’ I reply with more than a touch of bravado, and jump back onto the infernal contraption.
I just hope I can ride away without crashing into the nearest lamppost…
Having cinched the crash helmet up as tight as it’ll go, I turn the key in the ignition and look back at Jamie, who is once again holding his rubber plant. It doesn’t look like he’s planning on throwing it at me this time though.
I give him a wave, which he returns awkwardly - and I pray to all the gods in the universe that the moped behaves itself as I twist the throttle and ride away.
Happy thoughts manage keep the Vespa upright all the way back to the flat.
I barely notice the car horns and screeching tyres that mark my uncertain progress.
I’m fortunate the local constabulary aren’t out in force. Any copper would probably run out of ink in his pen filling out all the penalty notices it would take to cover everything I’m doing wrong.
So there you go Mum.
I thought you had to dress like a high class prostitute and go clubbing to find a man - when all it really takes is a day old set of work clothes, a knackered moped and a hit and run.
Whether Jamie Newman calls me or not is another thing. Let’s just hope he can see past the attempted murder and bright red crash helmet.
Love and miss you, Mum.
Your tired but happy daughter, Laura.
xx
Jamie’s Blog
Tuesday 24 May
Today finds Jamie Newman in an astoundingly good mood my web-based friends, for I have had the best night out I’ve experienced in a long time.
First dates have always been something of a trial for me – even the ones that have resulted in a relationship – but the two hours spent in the company of the lovely Laura McIntyre last night at The Barley Corn pub were far more pleasurable than I expected them to be.
It started, as these things always do, with THE PHONE CALL.
I’m using capital letters for extra added emphasis to indicate just how important THE PHONE CALL is.
There are many times when you call a girl during the course of a relationship, but there is only ever one THE PHONE CALL - and it’s always the first one you make.
This call will determine the rest of your life.
Those few brief moments you spend speaking into a small electronic device can have ramifications on your future so profound it’s hard to put into words.
People with beards can bleat on about chaos theory and the ‘butterfly effect’ all they like, but they pale into insignificance alongside the seismic shifts that happen in the universe based on what transpires during THE PHONE CALL.
The biggest part of the call is establishing whether the young lady in question is still interested in meeting up with you. This is never, ever a certainty.
Just because she drunkenly scrawled down her number in lipstick on a beer coaster, it doesn’t mean she actually wants anything more to do with you three days later, when she’s sober and watching Eastenders.
…and just because a woman feels guilty about nearly killing you in the high street and gives you her phone number, it does not automatically mean that she’s got the hots for you.
Even if you do find out she is interested, you still have the thorny problem of engaging in a conversation with a complete stranger over the phone without saying anything stupid, offensive - or even worse, boring.
It’s not good enough to simply ask the young lady if she still wants to go out and arrange a time and place before signing off – that’s far too brief and to the point.
Unlike conversations on the phone with other men, women want you to actually have something of substance to say, to prove that you’re worth the time and effort of getting dressed up for.
Therefore you must have a topic of conversation prepared ahead of time for THE PHONE CALL.
Nothing that’ll take an hour to get through (don’t start telling her all about your hopes and dreams for the future, or your opinions on climate change) but something that will engage her interest for a good five minutes, and will make you sound like a charming, upstanding individual.
Avoid mentioning sex, football, cars, your personal hygiene or your mother and you should be fine.
With Laura I elect to ask her if her friend’s child enjoyed the doll’s house she’d battered me with. This shows that I listened properly to her explanation for why she nearly killed me with the bloody thing and demonstrates an interest in something Laura clearly felt was important to her.
In reality, I couldn’t give a shit if the kid had taken one look at the house and vomited into the chimney stack, but this is the type of bullshit you have to engage with if you’re going to secure yourself a date.
…which I did, I’m happy to say!
THE PHONE CALL went fine and we chatted amiably for a good ten minutes.
The girl did like the doll’s house it transpires.
I made the appropriate sympathetic noises when Laura described the nasty graze she’d got on her knee because of the crash, and she was pleased when I told her I had no lasting effects from my fall onto the concrete. I assume this was out of a genuine concern for my health, rather than a desire not to get sued.
It was a bla
tant lie in fact, because I’d actually woken up the next day with a nasty backache, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to admit it.
Backache is the kind of thing only suffered by men who have completely lost their grip on youth.
This is not the impression I want to give Laura at the outset.
She even sounded pleased when I suggested the out of town Barley Corn pub as a location for our date.
This is the riskiest part of THE PHONE CALL. The place you choose says a lot about your personality. The reaction you get says a lot about hers.
A girl like sex monster Isobel would have been deeply disappointed with a quaint, quiet country pub like The Barley Corn I have no doubt, as would Annika the Swedish goddess.
They would probably have both found it far too prosaic and boring.
I took a chance with Laura though. She struck me as being a down-to-earth, easy going kind of girl who’d appreciate the quiet atmosphere a place like The Barley Corn provides – and I was proved right when she sounded genuinely pleased at my suggestion.
Having arranged to meet at seven thirty, I hung up with a huge sigh of relief and instantly began to worry about what the hell I was going to wear…
Laura’s Diary
Tuesday, May 24th
Dear Mum,
Oh my. My luck just might be changing…
I’m not saying last night’s date was necessarily the start of a love affair for the ages, but I can’t remember the last time I walked away from one as happy as this.
I’ve heard people talk about ‘clicking’ with someone before. It always sounded like the worst kind of buzzword bullshit to me, but I’ve got an idea of what they’re talking about now.
Jamie and I just seemed to fit together well and I couldn’t be more pleased.
Blah.
This is disgusting.
I’m a twenty eight year old independent woman with her own business and I sound like a giddy schoolgirl.
Three days after the crash Jamie phoned me.
He’d obviously read all the right dating manuals as this is the accepted time any man should leave before getting in touch. Long enough not to appear desperate, but short enough to seem appropriately interested.
To tell the truth, the call could have come at a better time as I was waxing my legs – something you want to concentrate on as much as possible, with no outside interference.
Besides, when a man calls, you want to feel at least a little bit attractive, even though he can’t see you, for the psychological boost if nothing else.
Being dressed in my fluffy blue dressing gown, biggest period knickers and sporting a set of hairy legs is about as far away from attractive as it’s possible to get.
It’s the kind of look you don’t want a man to associate you with until at least four years into a relationship.
I could tell Jamie was quite nervous by the speed at which he talked.
He was kind enough to ask whether Hayley liked her present or not, though he did call her Katy for some reason. I let it slide as the fact he even remembered who the present was for was surprising in itself.
I suppose the one saving grace of the ridiculous manner in which we bumped into each other was that we had something to talk about in our second conversation.
Jamie asked about the graze on my leg. I neglected to go into detail about the fifteen pitiable minutes I’d prodded at it with TCP soaked cotton wool, tears brimming in my eyes.
He did the typical guy thing of shrugging off being body slammed to the road by a frantic blonde on a Vespa.
I nearly brought up how funny he’d looked hugging his rubber plant like it was about to leave him for another bush, but thought better of it. A man’s ego is fragile enough at times like this and I didn’t want to scare him off.
Frankly, I was pleased he made light of the accident, just in case the date didn’t work out and he decided to sue me.
The Barley Corn was a bit out of left field for a location, it has to be said.
I’m so used to being invited to coffee houses and city pubs (where there are ample opportunities for the man to end the date early if he doesn’t like the look of me) that the prospect of a quiet drink in one of the more picturesque pubs outside of town seemed like a very nice alternative.
It also meant Jamie would be able to hide my body easily should he prove to be Ted Bundy’s little brother, but I figured the risk was worth it. My first impressions hadn’t set off any alarm bells. Charlie would be instructed to ring me at half past ten anyway and inform the police if I didn’t pick up.
With the date arranged, Jamie said goodbye in a tone of voice that suggested he was glad the call was over. I took this as a sign of nerves, rather than buyer’s remorse, and hung up with a faint smile on my face.
Now the only problem I had was deciding what clothes to wear that would effectively disguise the ugly two inch gash on my right knee…
Jamie’s Blog
Tuesday, 24 May continued…
Somewhat ruining the ambience of our date location is the fact somebody has left graffiti on the pub’s sign so it now reads ‘The Barley Porn’ - which sounds like a skin flick set in the West Country.
Still, it’s a mild Spring evening, I’m wearing my best bib and tucker and there’s a young lady to be wooed, so I don’t let it worry me unduly.
I’ve taken several strong pain killers to mask the agony I’m now in from the body slam into the road last week. The last thing I need is to be moving around like a crippled robot trying not to aggravate my back, so I’m pleased that the pills have taken the edge off.
I figure a bit of Dutch courage is the order of the day, so I make sure to turn up half an hour early at 7pm to drain a swift pint before Laura arrives.
I could’ve taken my time and sipped it as I’d forgotten the first rule of dating: the woman always turns up late.
If I hate one thing about the first stages of a relationship it’s the little games we’re forced to play in order to size up the ‘opposition’. A woman arriving late tests your patience, and gives her a good idea of how keen you are - if you’re prepared to wait around for her that is.
I’m keen enough on Laura to stand at the bar for nearly an hour before she walks in, dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a white vest top that’s tight enough to show off her boobs.
She’d obviously spent a great deal of time on her hair and make-up as she looks very pretty indeed.
…scratch that, she’s beautiful.
The ensemble is only slightly marred by the fact she appears to be limping.
It’s rather like looking at a Ferrari with a puncture.
Mind you, I’m trying my best to hide the fact I can’t move my head independently of my shoulders due to the sharp, stabbing pains I feel every time I try, so who the hell am I to be critical?
‘Hi Laura!’ I say cheerfully as she walks over.
At this point my brain decides to ruin everything. It’s been behaving itself all day, but now decides to throw in a suggestion which could potentially put a spanner in the works.
Why don’t you give her a kiss on the cheek? it suggests, with no regard for my well being whatsoever.
I can’t do that! I argue. It’s way too forward for a first date!
Don’t be a pussy! it replies.
Now I’m stuck in an agony of indecision as Laura heads towards me:
Do I chance a kiss on the cheek?
Will she like it?
Will it put her off?
What’s the dating etiquette here?
Why the hell did I agree to do this?
I want to go home!
I eventually win the argument with my treacherous brain and just go for a brisk hand shake.
‘What can I get you to drink?’ I ask.
Don’t say a pint of mild. Don’t say a pint of mild. Don’t say a pint of mild.
‘Small glass of white wine please. Pinot Grigio if they’ve got it.’
Phew.
I order the
drinks from a barman who is only just able to suppress a smirk as he takes note of the nervous first date tone to my voice. He’s seen this little act play out a thousand times, I’m sure.
Drinks ordered, it’s small talk time…
The options on offer are: Weather, current events, sports, more about the weather, last night’s television.
All are boring, contrived and guaranteed to make me sound like a cretin with nothing to say.
I decide to thrown caution to the wind and go meta.
‘I think this is the point where we’re supposed to engage in small talk, you know,’ I say with a smile. It’s a huge gamble – potential success or otherwise depending on Laura’s sense of humour. She’s either going to find it funny, or think I’m an idiot.
The gamble pays off! She gets the joke and laughs.
The smirking barman returns with our drinks and I hand over the cash.
I pick up Laura’s wine and twist round to give it to her, forgetting my back problems for a brief moment.
A sharp bolt of pain rockets across my shoulder blades.
Don’t let her see! Man up!
I want to let out a contemptible gasp of pain and make a grab for my shoulder, but instead I internalise the agony.
I think I got away with it without Laura noticing…
Picking up my pint with deliberate caution, I suggest we go over and sit in the corner at a quiet table, where the chairs have nice high backs for me to rest against.
As previously stated, the next two hours are fantastic.
…well, other than the fact I have to sit bolt upright all the way through it.
Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy) Page 7