blog and think it's made up. I counter that with two arguments.People often read this
One: if I was going to make things up the blog would be a lot more exciting than it is. A lot of the stories in the blog are unremarkable, but that's because I'm just telling you what really happened.
Two: if the blog was made up, I'd make myself look far cooler.
Now I'm going to tell you a story that reinforces theory number two — a story I am embarrassed to tell, even from behind my cloak of anonymity.
And before you expect anything salacious, I should warn you that nothing spectacular happens in this tale, it just simply makes me look pathetic. And I don't really want to share it, but I told some friends the story and they thought it was funny — and everyone yearns to be funny. So...
I met Laura for a date at a stupidly late hour: 11.30pm, at her request. I'd been working late in Soho (nothing seedy) and that's when I was free. I gave her the once-over on her arrival and was slightly disappointed by her physique.
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She seemed quite a nice girl though. She was smart - a psychotherapist, no less - and had a nice face and ample bosom. I guess there's a good blog to be written about going on a date with a psychotherapist. This isn't it though. We didn't get very deep and meaningful; I was just coasting through and not really trying because I wasn't especially attracted to her.
But after a couple of drinks I decided that I wouldn't mind sleeping with her. It was 1am, I'd missed the last tube and she was all right, really. I wasn't sure she shared my enthusiasm for first-date intercourse, but she at least seemed reasonably fond of me.
The bar we were in closed, so we opted to get a quiet drink somewhere else. The problem with Soho at 1am is that this is easier said than done. The only nearby options were booming clubs or other places with extortionate cover charges.
As a Londoner (she was from out of town), the onus was on me to find somewhere to drink. I knew a place, I said. So we headed there, except it became clear after a couple of minutes trudging the dark streets that I wasn't exactly sure where it was. A few minutes later, we were still searching. She had gone quiet.
We carried on searching, intermittently trying and failing to get served at random places we stumbled upon. After about 25 minutes of aimless wandering, any spark in this mediocre date had fizzled out.
Desperate times called for desperate measures: through the window of a Chinese restaurant I spotted someone drinking a beer in a brightly lit room. We went in, and they were still serving. Hooray.
Laura went to the bathroom, but when she returned she said she didn't really fancy a drink anymore and we should just go home. The magic had gone.
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I wasn't really fussed, although I was taken aback at how rapidly I had sunk in her estimation. There are few things more emasculating than leading a woman somewhere and then not being able to find it.
I walked her back to the bus stop, any chemistry now faded and both of us sapped of desire. It was pretty obvious we would never see each other again, and for that reason I thought I may as well see if she wanted to have sex. Recklessly, I went in for the snog.
Surprisingly, she didn't run away. She kissed me back for a few seconds, it was OK. Then we said goodbye and walked to our respective bus stops. All pleasant enough, but I quickly remembered that the whole point of me snogging her was as a precursor to sex, and I hadn't followed up the snog by asking her back for a coffee or something equally clichéd. So, get ready to cringe, I went back.
It was a short walk to her bus stop, which was on the opposite side of Oxford Street. As I approached, with rotten timing (for me), so did her bus. She took her place at the back of the boarding queue and I tapped her on the shoulder. She jumped out of her skin.
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"Oh it's you. You scared me!" she said, then looked straight ahead, towards the door of the bus.
I cleared my throat ready with my hastily prepared, terrible line: "Want some company on the bus ride home?"
But there was a problem: I wasn't getting a chance to utter it, because she was still looking straight ahead at the bus. There were about eight people ahead of her in the queue while she waited, but at no point did she glance in my direction, even though I was standing inches away. And even when she got on the bus, she didn't turn to give the customary wave from inside. Her mind was focused only on escape.
Meanwhile, I stood there like a lemon, realising what I had become - and it was far worse than a lemon.
I had officially become: Creepy Date Guy.
As a single man — indeed, as any man — there is surely nothing worse to become. Laura was genuinely unnerved by my behaviour. She would tell her friends not only that I was a douche who kept getting lost, but also that I was "weird" and possibly even "seedy".
For the pursuit of literally pointless sex, I had surrendered my dignity. And in London's busiest street.
Still think this is made up?