It’s nearly five when I’ve finished replying to the work emails. My head is swelling from all the lovely comments I’ve had from readers about my dating experiences, although I’m brought down to earth again by two saying I’m not being fair to the guys I’ve met and that I’m too glass half empty. I make a note to weave a line into the next article to remind my readers that, while I try to be fair to my ‘subjects’, the column can only show my version of events and is not to be taken too seriously.
I check tallgirlnn1 again before I shut down and there are two messages, the first from QuincyJ who’s free on Monday and suggests the White Elephant. He explains he lives in Derbyshire, but works in Northampton’s town centre in the week, lodging round the corner from the White Elephant, so it’s the only pub he knows. It sounds fine to me and, in fact, is likely to be the easiest of all the guys as he’s just ‘passing through’ (and the pub’s another of my locals). I confirm for eight p.m. and move on to the next message.
AlbertE1879 says he thinks I’m gorgeous (which is hilarious as there’s no picture of me) and would like to get to know me better. I look at his profile, which is even barer than QuincyJ’s, and am about to reply, against my better judgement, but I’ve got no one lined up for Friday night, when I notice his location is Africa. I don’t think, even being in credit, that William’s budget will stretch that far. I’m amused by the profile name as I assume the E to stand for Einstein and am suitably impressed when Wikipedia tells me that Mr Einstein was in fact born in 1879. Instead of a proper message, I click on the ‘You’re very kind, but no thanks’ automated reply and log off the computer. I’m rather disappointed that TechnoGeek hasn’t replied but, as the saying goes, tomorrow is another day.
Nipping to Morrison’s to fill up the car with petrol, and me with food, means that by the time I get home, I have to get changed and go straight out again.
Hitman Sam is hilarious and another film that I’m going to get when it comes out on DVD. Because I’ve picked up so many cheap DVDs, the cupboard underneath my TV in the lounge is packed, so sorting out a few to sell at a boot sale would be a good plan for the weekend. I can’t this Sunday morning as I’ve got Callum’s walk, but providing the weather holds out, could be something for the following weekend, especially as it’s another bank holiday.
It’s ten to eight by the time I leave the cinema, but have about a hundred yards to walk, so take my time.
The car park is packed, so I’m glad I parked near the restaurant before the movie. I spot a man who looks very similar to Zeek the Waffler (average height, average build and, in my fussy opinion, average looks) although when I get closer, I see he has the most brilliant green eyes. And I can’t tear myself away.
He steps forward, putting out his left hand. “Hi. I’m Alex.”
“Hello. I’m Izzy.”
“Izzy, yes, right. That’s it, Izzy.”
He opens the door for me and I walk through first, with him repeating my name under his breath. Another fun evening ahead then.
We wait our turn and, when we get to the maître d’s rostrum, I turn to Alex expecting him to say something, but he stays silent.
“What name is it please?” the maître d’ asks.
Of course I don’t have a clue what his surname is. “Alex?”
“Oh.” He looks at me blankly.
“Did you book our table?” I have visions of going to McDonalds next door instead.
“I think so.”
“The name please?” the maître d’ repeats and he looks over my shoulder. I turn round and there’s a queue forming.
“Alex?”
“The name please!” The maître d’s face is getting redder.
“Connor!” Alex blurts back.
We’re shown to a tiny table for two by an emergency exit (I suspect probably not the one we’d originally been intended for) and we sit. We’re about to get up again to help ourselves to food when a waiter comes shuffling over to take our drinks order.
Alex orders a bottle of Peroni Nastro Azzurro beer and I go for a white wine lemonade spritzer. I don’t usually have any alcohol when I’m driving, but knowing how much food I’m about to eat, I figure I’m safe.
We each pick up an empty plate and go in different directions. Alex starts with the salad bar, progressing to the Italian mains, whereas I go straight for the curries, sweet and sours, and rice.
I walk back to the table, but Alex is looking a little lost. I wave at him and point to the table. He still appears vague, but comes over and sits down.
“Hi, I’m Alex.”
Déjà vu. “Hi, Alex. We did meet outside.”
“Ah, yes. Sorry.”
“No problem. So, Alex, what is it that you do?”
“I’m a doctor.”
“Wow. GP?”
“Yes, partner in a local…” He trails off as he stares at a woman sitting at a table on the other side of the room.
“Alex?”
‘Sorry. I know her.”
“Really? Friend, or someone famous?” We never see anyone famous in Northampton. We have a couple of local celebs on the paper – a historian called Tony Hind who does our ‘On this day’ and ‘In Hindsight’ columns (and was a consultant for Channel 4’s Time Team) and Percy Thrower’s former PA, Nettie Phillips, who does our weekend gardening pull-out, but apart from panto stars at the Derngate and Royal theatres and visitors to the office for promotional events, I don’t think I’ve ever seen, or at least recognised, anyone famous in the town… with the exception of Alan Moore, who is so normal looking that he doesn’t feel like a celebrity. I’ve always had the impression he’s uncomfortable with his fame.
“Friend. Yes, pretty sure she’s a friend.”
I seriously wonder whether Alex is suffering from Alzheimer’s, when the ‘friend’ who we’ve been staring at stands up and walks in our direction.
“Hello,” she says cheerily.
“Hello,” I say, then look at Alex.
“Hi, Alex,” she says.
He looks at me then back at her. “Hello.” I can almost see his brain whirring.
“You must be Izzy,” she says to me, so I turn back to her and shake the hand that’s offered. “I am. I’m sorry I don’t quite…”
“I’m Oma. A friend of Alex’s here.”
“Oma?” Alex says, clearly still trying to work things out.
She nods.
“Are you German?” I ask her.
“No, Irish.”
“Oh. I thought because Oma means grandmother in German.” It’s probably a European thing but…
“My grandmother’s name was Olive and mine means the colour of olive,” she explains.
“That’s nice. Mine’s religious, Isobel, which didn’t please my mum too much when she found out, because she’s not.”
“But it’s a nice name.”
“Thanks.” It’s an odd conversation to be having on a first date, especially not with my actual date, but I’m getting much more out of her than Alex. “You’re welcome to join us if they’ll let us have a bigger table,” I offer, willing her to say yes.
“Thanks, but I’d better not.”
“Alex, do you mind?” I ask, and he shakes his head slowly, as if unsure what the correct answer is.
“I’m on a table for four – come and join me.”
“That would be great, thanks.” I go to stand up.
Alex, meanwhile, is watching the play unfold and trying to take it in.
Oma attracts the attention of the waiter and tells him what’s going on, while Alex and I move to her table, taking our part-eaten dinners and drinks with us. Her plate is nearly empty, but she has an untouched glass of wine.
Once we’re seated, Oma turns to Alex. “Alex, I’m Oma, your sister-in-law. I’m married to Barry, your brother.”
It takes a second for the penny to drop. “Ah, Oma. I went to the wedding.”
“You did.”
I must be looking as puzzled as I feel because Oma the
n looks at me. “I’m sorry, Izzy. Someone should have explained in the messages to you. Alex suffers from antegrade amnesia.”
I know amnesia, obviously, but the antegrade loses me and I’m curious to know who the ‘someone’ would be.
“He was in a car crash just before Christmas three years ago,” Oma continues, “and hit his head on the dashboard. He can remember pretty much everything up to then, although he’s not good with faces, but his short-term memory only lasts a few minutes.”
“How awful.”
“He remembers where he lives, so he can get home, but I offered to come with him to explain the situation to you in case things got…”
“Tricky.”
“Yes.”
“Thanks, Oma,” Alex says, clearly caught up. “Izzy.”
“Yes, Alex?”
“Sorry.”
“For what?”
“For confusing everything.”
“It’s fine, but it must feel very strange.”
He nods.
“Alex,” Oma chips in. “Your dinner’s cold, why don’t you go and get a new one.” She pulls his plate towards her, puts the contents of hers on top of his, and slides the empty plate under the full one. Considering that most of his was salad, I think it’s an odd thing to say, but soon realise why once he’s out of earshot. “His brother died in the accident…”
“Oh, no!”
“Please don’t say anything. He doesn’t remember.”
“Of course. What happened?”
“He and Barry were business partners and had been to a work’s function. While Alex stuck to orange juice, Barry was knocking back Buck’s Fizz, which obviously looks the same, so Alex didn’t notice. Barry insisted on driving home and…”
“How awful.”
“Apart from the bump to his head, Alex walked away without a scratch. And we’ve been trying to lead as normal a life for him as possible ever since.”
The conversation ends as Alex returns with a fresh plate of food.
“I’m so hungry. Oh, hello, Oma, who’s your friend?”
“Alex, this is Isobel.”
“Hi, Isobel.” He looks at my plate. “That looks nice. I think I’ll have that next time.”
I look at his plate which is more or less a replica of his previous one, and smile.
After that we chat, eat and have another round of drinks each. With the exception of a couple of re-introductions, you’d never know there was anything untoward. We split the bill when it comes and chat briefly in the car park.
“It was lovely to meet you, Izzy,” Oma says, while Alex catches us up from a visit to the gents. “And I’m sorry about… you know.”
“God, no, don’t apologise. It’s been enlightening.”
“Hi!” Alex thrusts out his left hand, and I shake it warmly.
“Hello, you must be Alex.”
“I am.” He looks questioningly at Oma.
“Alex, this is a good friend, Isobel.”
“Hello, Isobel. Oma, you kept her quiet.”
Oma and I smile at each other, before she leads him to the driver’s door. “I’ll tell you all about her on the way home. Thanks, Izzy, for everything. You could have left when you had the chance.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it. He’s so lucky to have you. I’m not sure I would have the patience.”
“He’s Barry’s brother, his twin. He reminds me of my husband every day, the good side, and some wives don’t get that. I’m the lucky one.”
Driving home I think about what’s happened. The whole scenario reminds me of the theme of the film 50 First Dates and I can appreciate how difficult it must be for Alex’s family to break the news to him every time the subject of his brother is mentioned.
Again, I’m reminded how wonderfully uncomplicated my life is, and for the umpteenth time, I’m looking forward to writing my next article and telling Donna, and my readers, in differing proportions, of a charming man and his devoted sister-in-law.
Chapter 18 – Dodge at the Romany
What did I learn from last night? That dedication comes in all shapes and sizes. Last night I met a couple living their day-to-day lives, but in very extraordinary circumstances. An accident had changed their existence beyond all recognition. They’d lost a loved one and were living with the consequences. The man I met last night suffered from antegrade amnesia, giving him short-term memory loss. He remembers everything up to the accident and fragments thereafter, but building new memories proves impossible, with anything learned soon forgotten: people, places and so on. If you’ve seen the film ‘50 First Dates’ you’ll know what I mean.
The gentleman and I met at one of my favourite restaurants. I’m a big fan of buffets, and, after a complex start, we were joined by his sister-in-law who explained the situation. They were both charming, upbeat, and inspirational, and I will cherish meeting them.
I have been reminded by a couple of readers that I should perhaps be more objective about the men I meet. Like any review, I don’t reveal who I am and why I’m meeting them and while that may seem rather unfair, I don’t ask or agree to see them again. I’m sure there won’t be any hearts on Northamptonshire floors just because I didn’t want to, or couldn’t, get to know them better. So, this article has been designed as a warts-and-all guide to online dating; to show you the Dos and Don’ts, and for me to be like a big sister who chaperones you before leaving you to your own devices.
I’m in serious need of a cup of tea. I’ve come into the office early, which is not like me, and people are filtering in.
Jason had handed me a couple of parcels when I arrived and, as a grateful distraction from all things dating, I unwrap them. I sigh – one is a bundle of PlayStation 3 games and with only one that appeals, I put the rest aside to offer to Karen. Her boys always jump at the chance of testing them and are undoubtedly better reviewers of car chases and platform games than I am. Plus they love getting their names in the paper. I’ve always been more of a fan of brain training and simple 2D games like Space Invaders, Jetpac, and more recently FreeCell and Sudoku. The other parcel contains a ‘Storm of London Circuit’ watch, which resembles the front grill of Knight Rider’s car, and all it seems to do is tell the time (in, admittedly, very futuristic vertical red LED lights), but to be able to give my professional opinion, I need to test it fully.
“Ah, Trevor. Just the person.” Although I’m not sure whether watches come under the ‘Homes’ attribute of his ‘Homes and Gardens’ job description.
“Yes, my dear.”
“What do you think of this watch?”
“It’s a watch?”
“Thanks, Trevor, that’s all I need to know.”
No, seriously, I’ll look at it later.
Donna walks past without saying hello, so I walk after her.
“Hello? Earth calling Donna?”
She spins round. “Hello. Sorry.”
“So, spill.”
“I met up with Nick the librarian.”
“And it went well?’
“It did.” Her smile two-folds.
“Very well?”
“Oh yes.”
“Donna Clarke!”
“No, not that well!”
“So you won’t be seeing Walter or Duncan?”
“I will. Nick and I are just going to be friends. I’d better get to my desk. I’ve got a lot to plan with this new project that William’s given me.”
“Sure. Have fun.”
“Always.” She almost dances back to her desk.
I think about properly testing the watch, but before that, I’ve got a shed-load of work to get through. There have been so many emails about my speed-dating article that it takes forever. With the exception of a quick break for lunch and chat with Donna, it’s not quite forever, but ’til half four. I check tallgirlnn1 messages and there’s one. And it’s definitely quality not quantity: TechnoGeek.
He’s sorry it’s short notice, but he’s going on a two-week holiday (boo) at the
weekend, but he’s happy to meet up tomorrow lunchtime if that’s okay (yay). He says he’s dropping off some gadgets in the town centre and he’ll be parked in the Grosvenor Centre car park, so if it’s not too corny, we could meet in the café at the top of the stairs by BHS upper floor.
With no other ‘date’ for Friday and happy to talk shop with a fellow techie, I book him in.
I’ve got ten minutes before I have to go home and prepare for my date at the Romany, so take a peek at one of my favourite websites: gizmodo.com. It’s a (very) honest look at gadgets on the market (mostly in the US) and I’m hooked on their ‘All Barcodes Should Be This Creative’ section. They’re hilarious. They’re barcode designs as you’d never normally see them. Instead of the bog-standard vertical stripes in a conformed rectangle, there’s a sumo wrestler, clapperboard and waterfall. I think the sleeping man is my favourite. I look at the bottom of the boxes I’ve received. One is bog-standard, whereas the other is of a curvy bench with a character reading a book under a tree. How cool is that?
I’m ready for the off. I shut down the PC and gather my things (including the watch in case tonight’s date is a short one). Donna’s slaving away, so I walk to her desk for a quick goodbye. It’s covered in paperwork and magazine cut-outs.
“Hey, Donna.”
“Hi.”
“You look rather overwhelmed.” I’m good at stating the obvious.
“A bit.”
“Anything I can help you with?”
“Thanks, but it’s okay. Tying up some loose ends before I get on with the…” She lowers her voice. “The new thing, you know.” She even winks at me.
I lower my torso and voice and say, “I do. I can come in early tomorrow if that’ll help.”
“Thanks, but another half hour and I should be done.”
“See you.”
Having decided on wearing blue Levi jeans, a simple black top and black loafers, I toast the crust and first slice of last night’s bought seeded batch, while a tin of Heinz tomato soup is rotating in the microwave. It’s a bit of a fiddle as I set it going for a minute, stir it, then set it for another thirty seconds, but it’s done to perfection, and with the butter still melting on the toast and offcuts/oddments of vintage cheese sinking into the dark orange liquid, I put it on a tray and take it through to the lounge. I don’t have time for a DVD, so watch the national then local news.
The Serial Dater Page 20