The Pint Sized Postman

"I haven't been single for a long time... " The Pint Sized Postman looks down at his pint, "and now... " he spreads his small hands on the table nervously, "...here I am."

Fixing blue eyes on me, I can't help thinking that he does indeed resemble a leprechaun. I think it could be his beard. Or maybe that he has taken to mimicking my accent at every opportunity.

I excuse myself, rush to the loos and send off a quick text to the Nurse.
*Please rescue me!*

I have never had to do this before, never resorted to the tactical emergency that most daters have at one point or another conjured up to get out of a bad date. And granted, I have never been handed an emergency card - several years ago I was simply and quite bluntly, stood up. (A choice selection of Mature Woman porn sent to his work address in a clear cellophane envelope several weeks later may or may not have been my quid pro quo. Hell hath no fury like a Lady scorned.)

I wonder, as I'm stood there, phone in hand what I am really doing there? He had seemed charming and funny, and I tend to have streamlined a pretty good vetting procedure for the easily disturbed or manically depressed.

I make my way back to the table. I don't know what to do when the smiling waitress returns with another round he had ordered in my absence, I was hoping to make my excuses and dash out the door as soon as the last dregs of ale had been emptied.

"So where do you go to pick up men?" He deadpans across the table to me. I am hoping the ground will open up and, oh... I don't know. Swallow me? Swallow him? Swallow the table of teenagers beside us to give us something else to talk about?

I hum and haw, and then stop. I can't remember the last time I went out to *pick up men*. I think I was in my late teens.

I've now started to question whether I am a Sim U Date. Or a rebound. Or if, in truth, he has been single for such a short time that the dating field has upset his meridians.

"I was talking to my buddy the other day, and we were saying we don't know where single men can go to meet single women..."

I think about suggesting the corner of Seymour and Nelson but I don't think he'd understand my humour. So instead, I bite my tongue and make a mental note to make a few more tweaks to that vetting procedure I seem to have so much faith in.

"And I'll bet you like tall men, don't you?"

I can't lie, can I? I mean, The Ex was 6ft7. I like tall men. Always have.

I nod.

He looks a little angry. "Why is that? You're shorter than me!"

I take this opportunity to look down at my phone, feign concern and stop a clever little retort along the lines of "Not when I'm in heels...". But I don't. I am trying to get out of this with dignity.

"I'm sorry", I say, downing my pint. "But look at the time, I do really need to get going...".

He looks disappointed as I try not to run out of Hell's Kitchen with my feet flying. When he leans in for a kiss as we are saying goodbye, I can only do a duck and dive, pull out of a quasi hug with his lips floating in mid air and chalk the whole night up to experience gained.