I hate it when you proffer up a cheek and they go in for a full-on pash. Then, as they try to kiss you, you recoil in slow-motion horror. All that’s missing is a nightmarish cry of ‘noooooo!’ as they lick your face like a dog. Well, that’s exactly what happened on this date. As I said goodbye, this bloke mistook my Continental peck for the real deal.
As for the rendezvous itself, for starters, he looked nothing like his profile pictures. But then I guess I should’ve bargained for that, what with him being a professional photographer. Online he looked like a suave older guy. In reality he was the bizarre love-child of Ken Dodd and Bucky O’Hare – too many teeth, not enough mouth. But credit where credit’s due he was really nicely turned out. Quite a dapper dresser, actually – stripy French top, cream chinos, brogues and a flash of colour courtesy of fuchsia socks.
Okay, so being totally objective, it was one a piece on the pros ’n’ cons front at this point. So what swung things out of his favour? A couple of issues. Number one, he was camper than a row of pink, diamante-encrusted tents at a Liza Minelli-themed jamboree. Number two, he didn’t drink – and I don’t trust people who don’t drink.
Thankfully, because of his job, he had loads of his photos on his iPhone which provided some much-needed conversation. But just when I thought I was out of there, he unleashed that clam-mouth kiss. Horrific. Just horrific.