The Ugly Death of Serendipity (A First Date)

A couple of people have asked me how my date went on Friday. Well, I’m going to let Slinkachu help me answer. Click on the image for more clarity.

It didn’t go quite as badly as this…



Nor - thank God - did it go quite as badly as this…



In fact, it actually went quite well. In a way. We certainly got on very well - as well as we had on the phone during the couple of weeks we talked before we actually met. And I certainly found her very attractive - attractive enough to want to vigorously do her until my infinitives split and we both fell to the floor, spent and weeping. So I guess the only thing that went wrong was that just a few days before our date, she met someone else she thinks she might want more.

Funny, huh? It’s like the opposite of serendipity. Shit for luck, I think is the technical, literary name.

So I met up with some friends on Saturday and with the use of various natural and not so natural substances, achieved some really quite epic levels of intoxication. When I explained what had happened on my date, one friend seemed to take great pleasure in pointing out that in a sense, I had been dumped before we’d even met. He found this very amusing. As did all the other men present, who roared with laughter, their heartless, gloating, brutish faces twisted like gargoyles, gargling bile. Men are awful. Men are the reason women exist. I was wondering. Now I realise.

Perhaps the most annoying part of the whole situation is that the woman in question – we should probably give her a name, just in case she pops up again; let’s call her Chlamydia – no, no, that sounds like I’m being mean. Let’s call her Lisa. And let’s say that, like Gillian in Talking It Over, Lisa is a picture restorer. Yes, why not. She kind of is, in a sense. So – perhaps the most annoying part of it is that Lisa isn’t sure whether she wants to pursue this other – younger, better-looking – chap, or not. So I’m kind of left hanging on while she decides.

Which means, as far as I can see, there are now two options available to me.

1. I say, ‘Pshaw! Fuck this. I’m not hanging around like a second-rate dessert on the off-chance that this woman is still hungry enough to stuff me in her beautiful gob when she’s worked her way through the rest of the cake shop. I HAVE MY PRIDE, GODDAMNIT! To hell with her.’

2. I decide to try and sway this woman in my direction with a heady blend of flattering gestures and masculine wiles – not massively easy from 300 miles away, however; not without some sort of multi-platform, geographically-boundless, electronic communication network. Hmmm...

Actually, if she does stop by here and happen upon this gossamer-subtle wile, then she’ll probably be so pissed off that I’ve washed the still-spotless pants of our few hours together in a public forum that that'll be it: decision done. Oh, well. It’s not like I was in love or anything. Even I need more than four and a half hours for that. So.

Next!

Now. If any of you relationship experts out there would like to weigh in with your obvious and slightly condescending advice, I really would love to hear it. Especially you, Anjula Mutanda. I’m prepared to bet that any celebrity psychologist with a gallery on her website must also have a Google vanity alert set up – so when you come across this, drop me a line, let’s do dim sum. I promise I’ll take the bag off my head. In bed. Rrrrr.

In the meantime...



All images are by Slinkachu, whose brilliant book of little people art you should probably most definitely purchase.