Past: Mr. Zippy Car Keys

He was clueless. Totally clueless. You'd think that, as a theatre director, he'd be a little more... decisive. And considerate. And polite. But, as I am swiftly discovering, that is too much to ask from some potential dates.

We'd decided to have an early evening drink on the south bank. So he suggested meeting at Waterloo and walking down together. This was also the most convenient set-up as far as he was concerned, as he was getting the train in from Guildford and Waterloo was his final stop. I was working in soho at the time and was strapped for cash, so to avoid paying for the tube on top of my monthly train ticket I had walked to Charing Cross and got off at Waterloo East. But it hadn't been a problem. When we had made our arrangements it had been apparent that he had no interest in what I was doing that day or where I would be meeting him from, so he had chosen Waterloo to suit him. But it made sense considering where we were going, so that was fine by me.

I must admit that I wasn't too keen on what I saw when he turned up. He was slighter than I thought and looked like Christian Bale's unhygenic brother, complete with underbite and swarthy complexion. He was also wearing a necklace. Reader, I have to explain here that I dislike men's jewellry. The odd family signet ring is marginally acceptable and could even be classed as endearingly quirky but when we're getting into Argos chunky chain territory, a line has been crossed. He was wearing a chunky silver necklace in the form of a zip which met in the middle, giving the impression that it was holding together his grubby T-shirt. I wondered why he had bought this item. What part of his brain had kicked into action on a Tuesday afternoon watching the QVC Pewter Special that had promped him to pick up the phone, pay 35 monthly installments of £12.47 plus postage and packing and then wear the said item for a first date? What kind of bloke wears not just a chain, but a necklace? I was about to find out.

He greeted me with a peck on the cheek, and I asked him if he had anywhere in mind for a drink. He stood and deliberated in silence for about two minutes. It was painful. His eyes affixed themselves to the ceiling. I tried to make a joke about it by waving my hand in front of his face and saying 'Let's just walk down and see where we pass' but it was like time had stood still for him. I looked over his shoulder to see if his batteries had fallen out. Was this a Derren Brown experiment? Surely if he wanted to deliberate about a venue he could have done it on the train! When he finally came round he exclaimed that he had no idea where to go. I felt like his carer. I repeated that we should just walk and see where we fancied. He liked that idea.

We toddled down to the south bank chatting about each others' days. Well, chatting about his day. He had been auditioning for a new musical he had written, and was bitching about the low standard of singers he had seen. He spoke as if he were casting We Will Rock You. I asked him where the musical was to be performed. 'Guildford Community Centre'. I was tempted to tell him that maybe, given the evident lack of budget, he should just be grateful to receive a submission from someone whose tag allowed them out of the house, but decided to nod in sympathy instead. This was not the time to question his chosen medium and express my intense general dislike for contemporary musicals. I should have to bite my tongue.

He had something to slag off about EVERY BAR we passed. I just wanted to get in somewhere so that we could have a drink and a chat. But no. He was so difficult to please. 'That place looks shit', 'I don't like the decor in there', 'The Feng Shui is all wrong in the beer fridge' (OK so I made that one up, but you get the picture). I was beginning to suggest we both just called it a night. I was not having a good time, I'd only been talking to him for half an hour and already I was deciding that I didn't like him. We came back to the stairs at the bottom of the Hungerford Bridge and he said 'Why don't we go across here'. I could have screamed. I had walked from soho to Charing Cross to get the train to Waterloo to meet him, and now not only had we traipsed aimlessly around for half an hour, he was suggesting walking BACK over the river to Charing Cross, where I had originally travelled from. We got to Embankment. He didn't want to go in any of those bars either. We started walking up to Charing Cross.
I said 'I actually got the train from here to Waterloo to meet you.'
'Really?'
'Yeah, I work in soho so I got the train from here'
(I was expecting him to say 'Oh my goodness, how ridiculous, I'm so sorry!')
'Well if you know this area then YOU pick a bar'.
I muttered 'I'm trying'

We ended up in the crappiest pub of the lot. I was beyond caring, and I think even he got to the point where he couldn't moan any more at my suggestions. We got to the bar. I really needed a drink. I knew I didn't want to see him again so there was no attempt to be 'girly': I ordered a pint of Staropramen. He hadn't heard what I ordered, so when his piddly bottle of Becks turned up next to my luscious golden pint, he looked dismayed.
'What did you order?'
'A pint of Staropramen'
'Oh'
'Is that OK?'
'Er. Yeah. It's just that. Yeah. No, I just wish I'd ordered that, that's all'
I looked at him.
'Do you want to swap?'
'Er... No. No, that's OK'
I couldn't believe that he had actually considered swapping drinks. This was going to be a longer night than I thought.

We found a table and sat down. I could see him eyeing my pint like a student at last orders. He placed his car keys on the table with a massive flourish and a wink. I looked at them. Was I supposed to be impressed by car keys? I said 'Oh, did you drive to the station?'
'What?'
'Well, you've got your car keys so I wondered if you'd driven to the station to get the train'.
He looked at me as if I were an idiot. 'No'
'Oh'
'Do I LOOK like I carry a handbag?'
'Pardon?'
'I said DO I LOOK LIKE I CARRY A HANDBAG'
'What do you mean?'
'I left the keys to my flat in my car, BECAUSE I DON'T CARRY A HANDBAG'
'So where were your car keys before you put them on the table?'
'In my pocket'
'But surely you could have just put your flat keys in your pocket instead of your car keys?'
'No, I like to lock my flat keys in my car when I go out.'
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. He had decided to lock his house keys in his car because he couldn't fit his keys in his pocket, despite the fact that it resulted in him having to bring his car keys instead. I had never heard of anything so stupid in my life.
I said 'So if someone manages to break into your car, you have arranged it so that they have free access to rob your flat, and have something to drive it all away with at the same time?'
He looked at me like this idea had never occurred to him. Then, in a way that a 5-year old boy tries to convince his mother that a monster ate the last biscuit, he said 'Ah. But. My car's alarmed. So ner.'

I had the feeling that I might have given him the impression that I thought he was a bit impractical (ahem), and I had only made a small dent in my drink so I thought I'd flatter him a little. I asked him what kind of car he had. He said 'A VW Polo'. Now, bearing in mind I'd decided to flatter him, what I blurted out next wasn't really the best thing to say. I spluttered on my pint, laughed like a bloke and said 'They're a fortune to insure'. I don't really know why I said it. It's the first thing I think of when someone mentions a VW because when I was looking into buying a car a year ago and did some research, VWs were indeed the most ridiculously expensive to insure. But given that I was now trying to be nice to the guy, why on Earth did I say it? Because he was obviously the worst kind of arrogant bastard. And if he was the type of guy who waved his car keys in front of a girl's nose, he was the type of guy who liked a girl who was easily impressed by a car, and I wasn't going to take the bait.

He seemed to like this kind of masochistic approach. Oh dear. He started to insult me in a bizarre passive-agressive way, saying that I looked like 'a crier' and that I should grow my hair long 'to detract from your height'. I wondered what he thought was wrong with being a 6ft blonde. And I couldn't remember the last time I'd cried. He was evidently expecting some kind of strong reaction to all this and I just shrugged into my drink wondering what to reply. So he changed tack. He told me that I was a lot more fun now that I was drunk (I most certainly was not) and that he was friends with Terence Trent D'Arby and Matt Lucas. I wondered what Terence and Matt would have to say about this. ('WHO?!') It was getting to the point where he was just throwing stuff out there in the hope of hitting some kind of nerve: Whether this nerve involved me throwing my drink over him and running out in tears, or leaning forward in interest and desire, he didn't seem to care. He got neither.

I wanted to leave. I was starving (What is it with these blokes who refuse to acknowledge the fact that human beings need to EAT?) and I knew I didn't like him. He was the worst kind of director: The kind that thinks it's acceptable to -and gets satisfaction from- intimately criticising someone that they have only known for an hour, just because they're in the same business. The last thing I want from a first date, at the end of another hard day getting by with the day-job whilst trying desperately to make headway with an acting career, is criticism. And when that criticism is coming from a moron who takes joy in insulting total strangers and is currently casting a production of his own musical (complete with pop songs penned by him- Why hadn't Terence helped?) to be performed at the Guildford Community Centre, it's not something you want to write down and cherish so much as scrawl in shite and make him eat it.

I was about to make my excuses and get home in time for Corrie, when he downed his bottle, slammed it on the table and shouted 'YOUR ROUND!' I felt like replying 'Well if we're getting personal mate, you're fucking ugly' but decided against it. How bloody rude. He was obviously as tight as a duck's bum. Despite not really caring what he thought, a polite part of myself kicked in and I went to the bar. I think my internal reasoning was that he couldn't complain that I hadn't paid my way. You know, in case he was discussing the evening with Matt Lucas afterwards (HA!)
During the second drink, all he did was shout out names of famous actors and actresses and I told him what I thought of them. He seemed to enjoy this. Mainly because I just so happened to severely dislike most of the names he yelled out. But one can only pass so much time of an evening doing this, and the game soon wore thin. I was definitely leaving this time.

Saying goodbye was a triumphant moment. It had been an utterly unenjoyable date. He had been insulting, patronising and arrogant. I had given as good as I got, but by God it was exhausting. By the time I said goodbye to him at the bottom of the steps leading up to Charing Cross, I was ready for bed. I said it had been nice to meet him. He said 'Yeah, 'bye' and walked away. I muttered 'Hope your car's gone when you get back.'

God must have heard me.

As I was approaching the top of the steep steps up from Embankment to Charing Cross, in a near-sober state I hasten to say, my foot caught on the edge and I fell. Not a lady-like, 'Oops I tripped but I have maintained a very elegant poise and can not only expect to be helped up by a handsomely coiffed stranger but shall reveal no scratches on me but a small cut in the shape of a heart on my delicate palm which the said stranger shall dab with his handkerchief and later remark on at our wedding in his Castle in the Highlands'...
No.
Imagine a rather large, rather ungainly spider being squashed with a potato masher. Wearing boots and carrying an unzipped handbag. Not being helped up, but rather mocked by a group of spotty 16-year-old boys smoking at the top of the stairs in Adidas.

When I did lift my beetroot-red face upwards and gather my limbs, I noticed that I'd left the toe of one boot scraped up the step and my knee had gone through my jeans. Of course. No lady-like falling for me. I was just lucky I hadn't chinned myself. But as I hobbled to the train, my mind raced backwards to when we had said goodbye. It must only have been a minute since we'd parted when I tripped up. PLEASE let him not have seen me? I doubted that he liked me at all, let alone liked me enough to watch me walk towards the station. No. No he hadn't seen me. Somehow that was important; to hang on to the last shred of dignity that I had by the end of the night.

There was one thing I was sure of. It was the perfect end to an imperfect evening.