That time I took his strong hand

I have to declare before I go any further: this is a blog about dating which means that there may or not be some risqué business regaled on this platform from time to time - as much as I'll try to keep it clean and mostly above board, there are going to be times where, if you are one of my parents, aunts, grandparents, siblings, or otherwise conservative acquaintances, you may want to just stop reading and move right on. Im just saying...it might happen, so dont say I didnt give fair warning.

Anyway, back to PhotoGuy.

I'll have to fast forward through a few not-very-interesting dates because they were, as alluded to, not very interesting. So uninteresting were they that, although I know they happened, I don't actually remember them (thats probably because of the alcohol too....).
Anyway, one evening, we decided to meet at this cute little blue pub in Farringdon (in London...obviously) that I had been to twice before - they served this variety of unfiltered Cattarato wine from Sicily that made my tastebuds sing every time I had it and it was enough of a reason to keep me coming back. I arrived a little early and ordered the wine - and, much to my disgust, it tasted really fucking terrible. I dont know if it was me or the wine, but I reckonit was to be a bad omen.
PhotoGuy arrived a few minutes late, which was fine because Id managed to secure a table outside for us in the meantime - I like sitting outside, even when it is arctic.
The evening was pretty standard - there was talking, laughing, drinking, smoking and then eventually, we had to leave because it was a week night and we had work the next day.
I spent most of the night convincing myself that I liked him, and to this day, I dont know why. I dont know if I was keen to find out that, after being in a committed relationship for so many years before, I still had the skills to pick up men, that I was still loveable, or desirable  - god knows what it was, but I dont imagine this is an uncommon feeling that people (women and men) experience after a break up from a long relationship.
Anyway, we walked to the station and shared a little kiss on the way down the escalator - I should mention that I was a little drunk at this point, and so I have come to realise about myself over the last year that I make my worst decisions when drunk - and those decisions usually include kissing people that I dont actually like.

Of course, I, then, proceeded to become very awkward about it straight afterward and did everything in my power not to look at him, so I made idiotic small talk about escalators, I chuckled at nothing in particular, like an idiot, and then, when we reached the end of the escalator and had to go our separate ways to our trains, quite literally shouted "BYE!!!" and (again, literally) ran off in the direction of my train. For some reason, this guy still wanted to see me after this.

Moving swiftly along by about a week or so, we had agreed to go and watch Bohemian Rhapsody at a local cinema together.
Now, the thing is that I haven't yet mentioned is that PhotoGuy had a weird hand. I dont know if he was born with it like that, or if it was due to an accident - I suspected the latter due to things he said about it on one or two occasions, but my mom raised me to be polite, not to stare and not to ask, so I behaved accordingly. She did not, however, raise me to emotionally process the prospect of having to touch weird hands, so when, on the way to a pub for a pre-drink, he tried to hold my hand with the weird hand, it took everything in me not to run away screaming "Take my strong hand, chiiiiild!"

Im aware that this makes me sound like a complete asshole, but fascinated as we, as a human race, are with anything that is different from the norm, it was just a little bit too much for my level of emotional maturity.

This, obviously, meant that I started on my weird awkward behaviour tirade again and started lamenting about how I was technically having an affair because I was legally still married.
Folks, heres some free advice from me to you: the quickest way to make things go from slightly awkward to pray-for-the-ground-to-open-up-and-swallow-us-whole awkward is to tell the person you may or may not be dating that you are cheating on your ex-husband with them and expect to have a normal and reciprocal conversation afterwards.

Trust me on this one.

Anyway, we watched the movie (can we just take a moment to appreciate Rami Malek again?) and he spent the few hours that the movie went on for with his arm around my back which was really very uncomfortable because I couldn't lean back and relax into the couch for fear of killing the blood supply to his good arm (because he already had one weird hand, amiright!?!?) so, being too chronically awkward to tell him to move his arm, I just sat there pretending to love it.

Afterward, we came back to my house for some wine which meant he was staying over because one must not drink and drive.
It was an innocent night which means that nothing happened except for actual sleeping - on his part. I, on the other hand, had to endure the sound of what I can only describe as a freight train on steroids passing through the very depths of Mordor every time he breathed in. It took everything I had not to suffocate him in his sleep.
In the morning, I woke up categorically annoyed that A. there was someone else in my house and B. that I had to talk to them - and not only did I have to talk to him, he stayed at my house until around 6pm that evening when I finally broke and asked him to leave because I couldnt stand to be around him any longer.

You would think that, by now, Id have realised that things were going nowhere quickly. You would think that, wouldnt you?
Well, you would be wrong, because that was not the last date.

Why? Alcohol, my friends. Alcohol and poor judgement...

That time I got hammered on two glasses of wine

In hindsight, I probably started dating way too soon after I broke things off with the ex-husband - it was towards the end of Summer last year that I hurtled face forward into the London dating scene - I was encapsulated, ensconced and drunk on my new-found freedom.
I'd just moved into the cutest little mid-terrace cottage in the leafy, quiet suburb of Barnet in North London with my cat, and it was her and I against the world. I was single for the first time since my early twenties; I was capable; I was determined; I was free.

I've always had a love of photography and took it up as a hobby a few years ago and, as such, am connected to a fairly large network of photographers via Instagram, where we all follow one another for promotion, inspiration, advice and the like. On one seemingly random day, I received a notification about a new follower - for the sake of privacy (though, I hope he never sees this), I'll refer to him as PhotoGuy (because I did actually refer to him as this IRL for quite a while). After sufficient profile stalking, I sent him a message "complimenting" him on his photography and casually mentioning that I'd be open for a collaboration shoot if he were ever keen.

Now, letsbehonesthere: his photos were okay - fine even - but from the few selfies he had posted on his profile, he looked rather attractive. I was feeling particularly bolshy on that day, and so, message all sent and budabing! All of a sudden, we had a "photo collab" date set for the following Friday evening at South Bank (in London...obviously).

Friday evening rolled around and there I was standing in Waterloo station waiting to meet a guy that I knew almost nothing about. All of a sudden, a colossally tall, very South African man appeared in front of me and introduced himself as "PhotoGuy" (yes, okay, he didnt actually say PhotoGuy, but for the sake of his pride...) who definitely looked like the man in the photo's I'd seen, but my guess is that the photo's were taken from a good angle. He wasnt an aesthetic disaster, but he certainly wasnt as hot as he had looked during my numerous instagram stalking sessions.
Nevertheless, I greeted him back with a weird hug and we walked towards South Bank and awkwardly chatted about being South African, photography and living in London.

Fast forward through a few hours of polite chatter, photo taking, sun setting and walking, and we decided to have a drink at a riverside pub to end off the evening. I had two large glasses of wine, forgetting that I had not eaten the entire day, and proceeded to get progressively and absolutely hammered over the course of the following hour and a half. I couldnt tell you what we discussed (although I believe some if it may have included both of our divorces and how weird it felt to be a divorcee at the age of 32), but by the time we left, I was thoroughly and utterly white-girl-wasted. We got up to leave and walk back towards Waterloo station - not before I almost flipped the picnic table with my legs when I got up - and I remember walking as if my shoes had turned into concrete blocks and my body had turned into a windsock, flailing in the wind and hitting every bannister, low wall and person I walked past, all while trying to maintain a conversation - and an iota of dignity.

Can you even imagine how difficult it is to have a conversation about the virtues of Ramin Djawadi as a modern day composer when you are trying to articulate "modern day composer" with your fat, wine-drunk tongue or remember what a Ramin Djawadi even is.

After what seemed like 13 hours of walking (it was actually 10 minutes), we got to Waterloo, where I retreated like one of those collapsible donkey toys down the stairs to the tube, drooling all the way, and disintegrated into a seat on the train, wondering how in the world I had gotten so drunk on two glasses of wine - and then proceeded to laugh maniacally at being so drunk for about 10 minutes. The giddiness was in part due to the fact that I realised that I had no one to answer to for being so drunk when I got home, and that I could throw my clothes around without retribution all while shoving slices of toast down my throat to soak up the wine and ward off the imminent hangover (which is exactly what I did, before faceplanting into bed).

I spoke to PhotoGuy the next day, who told me that I had in fact not seemed as drunk as I said I was - thank sweet baby jesus - and promptly made plans to hang out again.
In my mind, this guy could have been the father of my future children, but I had just found the freedom and wasnt ready to take on another relationship (and to be honest, he was a little too camp for my liking) - so why, you ask, did I agree to go on another date with him?

Im telling you - alcohol and poor judgement...



PS. all the photos I took that night were also absolute shit.