However. However! I'll admit it.
I wasn't on top form that Thursday night.
I'd been out for birthday drinks with work friends the night before (for my birthday the following day, so completely justifiable to my mind), and the ravages of my night out, plus getting up at 5am, 5.30am all week, to miss the commuter squish into London, meant I was exhausted by the time I was due to meet KIB at Waterloo under the clock. (His suggestion.)
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| via here |
First we stopped off in a bar near the Festival Hall for a drink (a lemon-lime fizzy soft drink for me, a cola for him – yeaaaah, no product placement here, people!) and chips, which this time I managed to keep in a strong, drop-free trajectory between the bowl and my mouth.
He was, very enthusiastically, telling me about the Radio 4 show he'd been to see recorded, and I was very actively listening. Then he was, also very enthusiastically, telling me about the GoodwoodRevivalProhibitionPartiesambitiontohaveapartyonHMSBelfast... and I was still actively listening.
Mostly.
Because I'd been up since 5.30am and was secretly hoping the sugar in the lemon-lime fizzy drink would wake me up enough to keep up with his very enthusiastic patter. And general puppy-like enthusiasm.
And I'd not even finished my drink when he said, "Shall we go?" I rattled my still-brimming glass meaningfully, and kept drinking. Nothing less alluring than a date with hiccups (and other refinements) and I wasn't about to rush! We got slightly lost on the way to the Gallery but made it eventually! He paid for the tickets, which was very kind... and we went in.
And the Narrating Began.
Now. Intelligence-wise, on a scale between these two girls:
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| The Big Bang Theory's Penny, in case you're wondering via here |
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| TBBT's Amy, also in case you're wondering – and yes, she was 'Blossom'. And the young Bette Midler character in Beaches. But I digress. via here |
But. I read. I can read. I've made a career out of it.
So I can only imagine it was some sort of nervous habit or maybe a throwback to the arts volunteer days that KIB insisted on narrating on almost every single photo in the exhibition.
You know, just in case my eyes had at that moment failed me and I couldn't quite corroborate that, yes, that was Rock Hudson. Or yes, that was a very young Joan Blondell.
There I was, wandering about the exhibit with KIB, quite happy to observe in tandem but in comfortable silence and I'd stop, agog, in front of a quite frankly striking photograph of Katharine Hepburn set in front of a venetian blind so one saw the contrast of Hepburn's freckles and hair versus the stripes of light thrown by the sun through the window... and I'd hear this voice (the voice of KIB, by the way, not the voice of the Ghost of Galleries Past or indeed Katharine Hepburn, in case you wondered):
Ah, that's Katharine Hepburn.
She was great, wasn't she?
She was. I liked her in Little Women. I was never convinced by Winona Ryder as Jo March...
...The light's great, eh?
Yes. Yes, it is. It's such a striking photo.
(Stand. Admire. Then move on to a shot of a young Judy Garland.)
Ah, Judy Garland.
(Yeees. I get that. I read the label. I've also seen The Wizard of Oz more times than I've had Nudges on QuirkersAnonymous.)
She was great, wasn't she?
Mmm.
(Yes, yes she was. Tragic. But great. I know. Everyone knows.)
And… move on to a shot of Marilyn Monroe.
Ah, Marilyn Monroe.
(Yes. Yes, I know. I didn't even need a label for that.)
She was great, wasn't she?
Mmm. Yes!
(And move on. Ooh, a photo of a young Marlon Brando looking swarthy and brooding.)
Ah, Marlon Brando.
(I'm one step ahead of you there, fella-me-lad.)
...
He was great, wasn't he?
(Yes, yes, he was, though I can't say I've ever seen Last Tango so I'm not 100% familiar with his works but he was very convincing, swarthy and brooding in Streetcar. Now, please hush and let me absorb the fabulousness of the exhibit, without added subtitles, whilst obviously also basking in your presence. Please?!?)
…I know. I know.
I'm a terrible, intolerant person.
But I'm also a comparatively quiet person (except maybe under the influence of the previous night's glasses of red wine), and I'm also a person who can read.
KIB had also promoted himself as a Quiet Person in his profile (OK, actually, he wrote 'quite person' but I got his drift). Not so much.
Admittedly, after we left the gallery I decided to chill, and put the extensive Narration down to Second-Date nerves. He was still ridiculously peppy, so my exhaustion and tendency to Walk Away to Enjoy a Photo in Peace for Five Minutes obviously didn't faze him.
As the night progressed I got the feeling he may have been oblivious to some other blatant social cues.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
It was shortly before 9pm by this point, and I was tired and hungry. (Did I mention I'd been up since 5.30am? Did I? Yep, come join my pity party...) and it took us roughly half an hour to find somewhere that wasn't crowded, or closing, or extortionate, to sit for a quick coffee and a cake. We finally settled in Leicester Square, and ordered coffee and a slice of Black Forest Gateau.
His suggestion, to which, again, I was amenable.
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| Ooh. Gateau. Nom! via here. PS This is not the one I ate. |
If two things bring out the terse intolerant in me it's hunger and tiredness (but then as The Pretenders once famously sang, I'm only human on the insiiiiiiiiiide), so by the time I'd assuaged these by the Healing Powers of Coffee and Cake I was feeling much better and more open-minded, and we were able to chat properly for a while and recover the vibe of the Successful First Date.
Time, like the clock dangling over commuters at Waterloo Station, ticked on. It got late. Ish. We started to plan our journeys (note: plural) home.
We found ourselves at Westminster tube where we could both find the trains we needed.
We said goodbye with a generally polite kissonthecheek.
Next thing I knew – SNOGGAGE.
Yes. It wasn't broad daylight or owt so I wasn't compromising any of the morals with which I'd been raised but yes. SNOGGAGE. And... it was...
Meh.
Yes. Meh.
I wasn't expecting a symphony and fireworks.
I also wasn't expecting to feel so... Meh about someone with whom I'd originally sparked.
But when he suggested we have a quick walk down to the river, I did my usual overanalysis, decided against it in my head, then told myself off severely for being Queen Prissy of Prissingham (or, basically, my usual buttoned-up self) and thought, oh, why not? Let's just see how this pans out.
And then I thought, what if he's actually a psychopath and pushes me into the Thames? I know I said earlier this very year that I could die happy having finally seen Richard Marx live (a noble ambition I'll defend to the death) but hey, I'm not even 33 yet.
And then I thought, oh, stop being irrational. It was a SNOG. People SNOG. They do that. Nothing strange nor startling. Granted it wasn't earth-shattering and granted he'll probably go in for another try and you can always just picture a silent Hugh Jackman or something but... just go with it. So I went with it. And him.
On the way over the bridge, I vaguely remember asking KIB how he found the whole Dating Scene and specifically why he was on it i.e. why was he still single? I expected he'd say he was quite (or quiet) shy... What he did actually say was, he'd met up with people but they always ended up going back to their exes.
OK. Well, given my case history that wasn't likely.
We walked down the steps to the embankment facing the Houses of Parliament. It was a warm night but I was tired so I was chilly. I was also hoping that with a shove of his elbow KIB wouldn't end me in the Thames. Thankfully he didn't.
What he did do was try to find us a free bench. When he finally spotted one it was several yards along the embankment. He sprinted on ahead, peppy-puppy style (and don't make me remind you that I'dbeenupsince5.30andwasabsolutelycrackered) to secure it. A few minutes later I plonked down next to him, smiled gamely, then stared out at the Houses of Parliament which were rather splendidly lit, I did notice...
Not long afterwards came the voice again. You're very quiet. What are you thinking about?
Nothing really. I'm just very very tired.
(And I like to Be Quiet sometimes. Yes. Some People Like Quiet Sometimes.)
After a moment an arm appeared on my shoulder (his, by the way) and I braced myself for more SNOGGAGE. It had to be an improvement... hadn't it?
Nup.
I tried to get into it, I really did, but I actually at one point thought, you're eating my face. Literally.
Now, I'm not saying I'm an expert in the field of snogging. Not a lot to compare it to and I'm sure I could hone my technique considerably... But what was happening felt more like, well, being chewed at than anything remotely passionate.
I retreated if only to recover my breath, which was being sucked from me. And not in a romantic breathless way.
But here came the first misinterpretation of the social cues. He possibly thought this was good. "I got lucky with you," he said, before moving in for another serving of my face. Uhm. OK... Oh dear. That doesn't bode well.
I should mention that in the process of the Snoggage, while one hand was probably around my back or somewhere, his right hand was in my hair.
OK, fine. I have quite thick locks. Easy for a hand to get lost in there. But as the Snoggage continued I became aware that there was some tension and release going on there as he tugged rather earnestly at my tresses. And less earnestly, more fervently. Was I imagining it?
No.
The next thing he said was,
Do you like having your hair pulled?
...
Wait.
WHAT?!??!?!?
Rewind.
Do you like having your hair pulled?
What I should have said was, quite bluntly, "no". Followed by, "YOU'RE A MENTALIST!".
But so taken aback was I that KIB the peppy puppy with the slightly annoying propensity for over-narrating was asking me, on this, our Second Date, essentially if what he was doing was in some way, erm, exciting to me, I think I said something like, "I don't know. I hadn't really thought about it," in what I hoped was my curtest, most taken-aback voice.
Moments later, my instincts, which I should have followed since the Meh kiss outside Westminster tube, kicked in good and proper. I needed to get the chuff out of there. I made my excuses, and he offered to walk me back to the tube.
Once underground, we said a more reserved goodbye -- he went one way, I went another.
But I could not get those words out of my head.
Who does that?! Who asks that on a Second Date?!
And moreover, why on earth would he think that I was the type of girl to do that to and ask that of?!?! Did he mistranslate my fatigue, hunger and annoyance as some sort of... well, fetishistic come-on?!
I was officially freaked out.
And I made the resolution never to indulge in Snoggage again on the Second Date.
Needless to say, KIB (or, the newly dubbed Irish Hair-Puller, IHP) was given a very, very wide berth for quite some time.
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