Exasperdating | Metro Boy
Job: Town planner
I remember being gutted when I had to add this guy to my list of dating disasters. Reason being, I really, really liked him. It all took place when I was living in Paris. We met due to some fast – okay, sneaky – thinking on my part. I first clocked him having a cigarette outside a metro station. I wondered how I could instigate a conversation so I made out that I needed some help navigating the metro. In a BAFTA-worthy performance, I pulled out some choice lines in broken French à la Officer Crabtree in Allo Allo.
Sure enough, my little ruse worked and it wasn’t long before we were sharing a bottle of vin blanc in a nearby café. A string of dates followed, although from the off it wasn’t plain sailing. The first time we were due to meet up he cancelled on the day – apparently he had to go and give his friend some moral support post a break-up. He made good though and engineered a spontaneous date later in the week.
Another ‘moral support’ episode followed – this time half an hour before our rendezvous. After that I asked him outright, ‘are you interested or not, because I’m getting some very mixed messages here’. To which he replied, ‘oh yes, but I know you won’t be here for that much longer so am spacing out our time together’. Which I kind of understood.
A third and final date took place at his pad. I’d forgotten that the majority of Parisians live in matchboxes. There’s nothing wrong with that in itself – except if you’re a hoarder. You couldn’t see the floor of his room for books, clothes, magazines and… pots of Nutella. Honest to God, pots of Nutella. Apparently he ate a jar a week. But my OCDs melted away into this sea of mess the moment he flashed me his cheeky smile.
After that encounter, I decided I’d treat him to a surprise date that would include a bottle of bubbly and three mystery envelopes – the idea being each envelope would contain a romantic Parisian spot where we’d glug the fizz. But my grand gesture was wasted. He texted me to say that he was too busy and tired to meet up and would call me ‘soon’. And, much as I didn’t like to admit it, I knew that ‘soon’ was dating code for ‘never’. C’est la vie.