Saturday morning text

Saturday morning text message.

*Still fancy that drink tonight?*

Fuzzy headed and bleary eyed, I can only assume from the pounding in my head that this is going to be the start of a beautifully painful hangover.

I don't recognise the number.

*What drink?*

A quick scan of my broken memory. Remembering a lovely smile and random chit chat at the bar.
Ah yes. The tall man. Ad manager at ITV. Or ITN. Or channel four. Or five. Or was it the BBC?

*The Vine. Tonight?*

Ah yes. Andrew? Aaron? I can't quite place him. Adrian? Anthony? At least there'll be conversation. Skimming back, I remember him laughing at my jokes. We could only have been talking for a few minutes, surely? Time, however, has a sneaky way of passing when a bit tipsy.

So I agree.

Although it's a Saturday night. And Saturday night is never ever date night. Saturdays are cocktails with the girls, or long boozy dinner party nights. But I found myself in a situation where all my friends seemed to be elsewhere and the Saturday night slot was free.

Now, I can appreciate that some men just don't make an effort to go to work, to go to the pub with their mates and that's fine. I'm really not that materialistic; I choose to dress they way I do because I like it, and just because I choose to wear skirts and dresses 95% of the time that doesn't mean to say that I expect my men to be immaculate all the time as well. I do like a man in jeans and a shirt, I do like a man with stubble and slightly unkempt hair; and contrary to popular belief trainers really do not offend me.

What does put me slightly off, however, is if a man makes no effort whatsoever on the first *date*.
Even if it is just drinks.

And so 8:15, off I trot. Denim skirt, brown boots, nothing too la la, nothing too risque... although I have worn my new matching underwear.

Just in case.

First impressions are made within the first few moments, so surely you want to at least try to make it a good one? A grubby fleece, creased chinos and a pair of the filthiest trainers I have seen (and I live with 3 men) go a long way to telling me a few things.
One is that pride of appearance outside of the office is sincerely lacking. Another is that he doesn't think I'm worth the few seconds it would take to run an iron over his trousers.

And so to drinks. Diet coke for him. *I'm driving...* which always puts me on edge. I'll have to be careful and not drink too much, ramble incoherently, think I am revered dating guru where clearly I am not.

White wine for me, because I'm in that sort of mood. And onto conversation.

Within minutes I know I'm on a date with North London's Dullest Man. I don't remember him being this dull, granted I don't remember much about him but surely surely I wouldn't have handed out my number if his conversation last night had bordered on the painfully boring? Or maybe he was fuelled by alcohol and enough spirit could transform him into a witty, well dressed, charismatically charming man in a way that Diet Coke couldn't?

I lasted an hour. An hour of listening to a monotonous droning on the specialisms of grouting. The painstaking detail of the choosing of his new bathroom. The colour choice of his new kitchen. But before he could get into hardwood vs laminate, I refused his offer of another drink, smiled sweetly, thanked him, said I was late meeting a friend, was nice to meet him.

And hot footed my new underwear out of there.