Sometimes, as soon as a date starts, maybe even before it begins, you know exactly how it’s going to pan out. There’s been a few times I’ve thought, ‘Well, this is a nice surprise’ and one ‘huh, this might be the start of something..?’. According to some sources, some people know within their gut ‘this is my person, this is the one I’m going to marry’. Unfortunately, the majority of my dates have resulted in the opposite, of doom and pessimism at the immediate realisation upon meeting that something has gone array.

R was waiting outside the bar for me. He looked like his pictures, something which happens less than you may want to believe. He hadn’t lied about his height either. He was, in fact 6ft 4in. He had, however, had a relatively sparse profile which meant I wasn’t going into proceedings with much intel. I beamed at him, trying to force my own nerves away (which had been fluttering at the speed and velocity of a hurricane for the last few hours). I got an awkward grimace in response. Once in speaking distance to each other, in warrant of a greeting he said an awkward tale about how he had been on the other side of the road. I’m not quite sure of the rest because I was too distracted by how his voice really didn’t match, well, him.

He was Romanian, and quite thickly accented, which wasn’t a problem. The thing that totally caught me off guard was how high pitched his voice was. Coming out of this broad giant of a man, it was certainly – something…

Whilst not an immediate nail in the coffin, it was something of a perplexing distraction. Which didn’t help that his grasp of English wasn’t particularly strong. Adapting my responses, slowing them down and editing my word choices was vital.

Again, not a problem in itself.

The problem was the stuff he managed to say within the 40 minute window of the singular drink we had before I made my excuses and went to choir.

R was a flirt. Or a man who thought of himself as a flirt. Read: he was bad at it.

He kept talking about how he had a thing for ‘alternative women’, ‘bold women’ and ‘loud women’ – all whilst doing this strange face pull. It took me multiple instances of these references to realise they were directed at me as this was his appraisal of me. Monikers I’m unsure totally fit me or are all that complimentary really. He commented on my rings (I usually wear 3 on each hand) and said, ‘I left mine at home.’ Hearing my noise of surprise, and let’s be honest, intrigue as it was the most interesting thing he’d said yet he continued, ‘Only joking. Men can’t wear more jewellery than a watch.’ I tried to read his face for clues that this was some his unique manner of banter. It was not. It was a serious view he had.

Conversation really didn’t gel from there. It was clear that, whilst we had some similar interests we just weren’t compatible and sang from very different hymn sheets (Choir pun there. Sorry, this date had me feeling the need to explain things and state the obvious…) For a man so awkward, he seemed determined to keep what may generously be called ‘flirting’. At 20 minutes in he gasped and asked if I had freckles, and then peered at me, cms away from my face. When I commented that ‘there may be some, but they really appear in summer’ he responded with ‘well, I’ll have to stick around and see in a couple of months’

My stomach felt like lead at the very notion of spending any more time together outside of this ill-fated evening. Hour.

He started playing with the small tealight candle on our table and said, ‘I don’t really understand why people think candles are romantic. They make me think of death. Remembering someone who has died.’ The singular vibe that had been remaining died then. I won’t bother lighting a candle in its honour.

The final nail in the coffin occurred, conveniently, as I finished up my glass of Rose. We’d been talking about the adventures I’m undertaking this year. He asked for some examples and I mentioned some dance classes. He replied, with total sincerity, ‘Pole dancing?’ and the final vestiges of goodwill within my body dried up. I was now at one with the Sahara.

Making my excuses, that I needed to head to choir, I sat on the bus to Angel starring out the window replaying the last barely-an-hour of my life and wondering how many more dates I can handle at this point.

Answer: None.