Chloe prepares to go out on a date
I think I am sweating over it too much. Just because I haven’t been on a date for nearly five months, it doesn’t mean that my whole life should disappear into a wormhole of date-related worries. The recent ones were odd like, what if I farted, or if I snorted like a wild boar at Terrence’s jokes.
I’m well known to be a primary target for brilliant ideas flying out from the creative ether. Today’s one is very useful: I can monitor Terrence’s food preferences and sustain a safe conversation on nutrition, different cuisines and culinary-related TV shows and celebrities.
I’d need to be a total wanker to screw this up.
Who knows what awaits Terrence and me in the future? They say the path to a man’s heart lies via his stomach. Ha! Only if he’s got a massive ulcer.
Humour aside, I need to be prepared.
I’m not used to cheating, but it’s worth studying the menu online to find out everything about the selection of dishes and, most importantly, the wine list. No way am I going to shame myself by mispronouncing a French name.
When the time approaches seven, I have a shot of Scotch at home as Dutch courage and proceed to the rendezvous. I hope Terrence won’t mind me being a little late, considering that it starts raining like mad and I am hopping across freshly-filled puddles on my way to the tube rather than wait for a bus.
Having successfully avoided the downpour, I look around victoriously at less fortunate specimens in the carriage while shaking the raindrops off my umbrella.
Nothing can stop me, I say in my head, looking upwards and defiantly addressing an imaginary Almighty. I’m sure if minds could be read no one would ever date me, unless they were masochists.
On this cheerful thought I exit the train and hurry up the crowded escalator while trying not to nose-bump someone’s ascending arse in front of me. There’s a worry it may fart. What’s this obsession with body gases today?
God, it’s a tedious job to be so self-conscious.