I had a date. A proper one. On Friday night.
I had mentioned that I had gone on a coffee date with British Commando Guy last week. Well he rang and asked me on a ‘date’ date. Since the Jew of My Dreams is still being damned elusive, I thought ‘Why not? One can never get too much practice. And I have some divine new FleurT undies.’ I am such a hopeless romantic – or optimist. Whichever. And I haven’t been on an actual date since New Joisey and Israeli Guy.
We emailed and texted, discussing what we should do on the ‘date’, finally deciding to go for a nature walk, call in at the Grotty for a few pints, have a meal, and come back to mine… to play Scrabble of course.
Note to faithful readers: Obviously I am writing in ‘code’ again. Get it? Wink. Wink. Some details must be censored. Christ, or Adonai, knows who is reading my blog by now.
In customary English fashion, it was pouring like a son of a bitch when Steve got to mine, so a nature walk was out of the question. I opened a bottle of Zinfy, put on some mood music, and we chatted…sort of. There were an awful lot of “Sorry?”, “What?”, “What does that mean if you were speaking to an Italian-American who doesn’t speak whatever language it is you’re speaking?”, “Could you repeat that…and s-l-o-w-e-r?” Really. But it was nice.
When the rain slowed down to Category 5 Hurricane status, we walked up Monument Road to the Grotty. A piece of valuable advice: Never have your date in a little town if you live in that little town. Go to a pub in Esher or Woking, where nobody knows your name. First, as we raced through Katherine Howard Close (I was running; he was apparently marching to Rule Brittania or some other patriotic song), we ran into Mad Tommy, and then Mabel and Eve, my old neighbours. I just waved and carried on. When we got to the lane, there was the Irish Lad getting out of his motor. He stopped and waved, and I have a sneaky suspicion that was his mobile flashing through the pelting rain as he got some commemorative snaps.
The Grotty was packed. Stupid me; of course it was packed. It was Friday night. So naturally I had to introduce Steve to like twenty blokes. And whilst we were eating, at least ten people wandered through the Dining Room for no apparent reason except to check us out. I actually heard someone say “Take a look. Jeano has a date and they’re in the Dining Room right now.” That is true. Monkey Joe isn’t that discreet. He came right over and sat down at our table, so he could check Steve out leisurely, asking where he’s from, what he does, etc.
This next part is embarrassing; embarrassing but true. When we walked back to mine, I couldn’t find my house keys. Booboo was working so I rang Terry, but he was out with Bald Rob. I rang Pinkie, but she was in Woking. “Do you have your key to my house” she asked, a little annoyed I think. “Yeah, but it’s in my house with my keys” I told her. “I’ll ring Terry” she said. In the meantime, British Commando Guy was doing a reconnoiter around, probably planning to rappel the wall and come down through the chimney flue. Suddenly, the front door opened and Steve said, “You left the back door open; your keys were in it.” Oops. I quickly rang Pinkie who rang Terry who was in a cab heading to his house to get the bloody spare set of keys.
Note to criminals and ex-friends: I have now hidden another spare set of keys in the third flower pot on the left.
Note to British readers: Terry was at the Volunteer; Terry took a cab from the Volunteer to go home and get the keys. I think you get the point I’m making. It must be at least ten blocks. But I was mortified. And I am handicapped, as you know, and a little confused. And it’s Rheims, not Rouen, Gabrielle…I mean Irish Lad.
Note to the Irish Lad: I’m sorry I said you had a big car and a little brain (even if it was in French and nobody understood it anyway).
British Commando Guy left on Saturday morning (the ‘Scrabble’ was intense) leaving me barely enough time to get dressed and get to synagogue. I rushed home, changed and Lulu picked me up to go shopping at the mall and have a late lunch. Lulu dropped me and all my lovely loot off, (divine undies and drop-dead gorgeous boots; they were on sale-practically free) when Pinkie texted that Pat was meeting us at the Grotty. I quickly changed again, (why do you think I have so many clothes?) and dashed to Pinkie’s to walk up the hill with her for a drink with Pat.
Pat had been across the Pond in the States for absolutely ages. Sadly, it appears that Pat and Mike are moving back to New York. Hopefully, they won’t be leaving for a while.
We had a proper Girls’ Night Out, chatting and laughing and being deliciously bitchy and mean. One drink turned into six or seven, and we didn’t leave until after last call. Yes, Pinkie and I held each other up stumbling down Monument Road. “Do you have your bloody keys” Pinkie asked when we got to hers. I double-checked, just to be sure; I didn’t want Terry to have to take a cab two blocks down the lane at midnight. “Yep” I assured her. “And the spare set is in the third flower pot on the left…on the right…the one closest to the wheelie bin…I think.”
Monkey Joe was at the pub Saturday night. He came over to ‘hug, kiss, knock into sharp object’ me, and said “I liked your boyfriend.” Wow. What a relief. I don’t have to dump British Commando Guy. ‘Sorry but you are hereby dumped. Monkey doesn’t like you.” “He’s not my ‘boyfriend” I told Monkey, “Just a bloke I’m dating until the Jew of My Dreams materializes.”
For some reason, I was not in great shape on Sunday. I begged off dinner at Pinkie’s; I was in my pj’s all day. I didn’t get dressed until Cheese Boy rang to say he and BooBoo Blondie were on their way over to pick me up to go to the Volly.
It must have been “Wear the Absolutely Worst Outfit You Can Think Of” night at the Volly for the Pub Slags and nobody warned BooBoo or me. I begged Lou to take some pictures (he got a new camera and had it with him) but he wouldn’t do it. I don’t think anyone would believe me if I described some of the getups.