sauna

Saunas, adrenaline sports, and anything interesting weren’t even up for joking about.

It’s usually quite rare that a ‘Part twos’ predecessor comes a year before a post. But, as I live and drink…

Was I that undateable that I was actually reliving a year ago. Apparently so. There was a distinct lack of men in my social diary, so I’d retreated to a date from the past. Someone that I couldn’t remember pieing me out four times, I was now giving a second chance. What I had remembered about our first date, was that it went kind of well (albeit potentially more bland than a garden salad) and he was a good kisser – this was all before things fizzled out. So here I was meeting up with him again, for what I call a ‘refresher date’. This is where y0u spend most of the date refreshing the details from when you last met because it’s been so long. And sure you may call me shallow for distinctly remembering that he also had his own place and a nice car – but when he suddenly messages me out of the blue after seeing my latest body pics on Grindr – what does that make him?

Anyway, I had my inklings that he was a tad posh (compared to me anyway), and then… There I was drinking my bottle of cider while she sat there with her red wine. As if I was on a date with someone that drank red wine other than at church. (Or to get completely spannered for less than a tenner).

He begins telling me a story from last weekend, an “impromptu gathering” *pompus laugh* where him and his two friends drank six bottles of wine and a bottle of gin. I’m sitting there thinking, Oh my God this reminds me of the time we had an impromptu chill out and sniffed six grams of k and four grams of coke. No… Wait, actually this is nothing like that. You stayed up ’til five in the morning singing karaoke, and we stayed up ’til 5pm two days later trying to figure out why there was a little Arabian girl in our fireplace and how we’d been on a magic carpet ride to Egypt without getting off the sofa.

We moved on to the discussion of his 30th birthday next year. “I just wanna sit on a beach for the whole week” he proposed as an idea.
“But you’d wanna go out at least one night out of that week?”
“No?”
Zzzzzzzz….
“We’ll you’d wanna do something adrenaline in the day – jet skis? Or, a bunjee jump?”
“No way. Why would I risk my life?!”
Zzzzzzzz…. I mean it obviously wouldn’t be as thrilling as singing Dolly Parton and sipping on Bombay Sapphire but it might give you a little more personality than Jameelia Jamil.

I know this sounds like I’m going in hard, and in all fairness the date wasn’t actually awful – we’re just two (very) different people. For instance, one of us is duller than dust mites and the other one is Carrie Bradshaw on crack. We also came on to the topic of saunas – and being the light-hearted joker I am, I cracked a joke about how much fun they were when I was 18. Yeah okay the lube-covered baby mats are crawling with chlamydia and most of the clientele have less hair than a Tesco’s own brand potato, but I stand by my point, if you can sniff nine grams of meph and throw shade at flabby gargoyles while gurning your cunt off in a customised towel skirt, and still tell me that you’re not having fun – you must be dead inside honey boo! 

But you know what, sometimes opposites attract. We don’t have to be into the same things to be compatible. I was mature enough to see past the fact that while I was stoned watching Family Guy, he’d probably be watching Antiques Roadshow in the other room, gradually discolouring his teeth with an expensive Merlot. I was mature enough to see past the fact that he’d refuse to come to Matinee for my friends birthday but would try and drag me kicking and screaming to sip gin while watching Madame Butterfly or some babble babble opera bullshit. And I was certainly mature enough to overlook that we’d never be snorting trough-loads of drugs and putting on neon pink wigs while blaring house music. So it was totally fine. Until…

“Eurgh, I hate Vauxhall. It’s where what I call the disgusting gays go…”

Sorry, we’re from two different worlds. *Grabs coat and leaves*

Okay, so I didn’t actually leave. But whatever interest I had left in the conversation, did. I mean, did I look like I sat around in wine bars talking about Shakespeare? Girl, the only reason I wasn’t cunted when you picked me up was because it was mid-Tuesday. When we left we got into his car for him to drop me home. And you know when the man offers you gum she’s going in for the tongue!
*Sings “C’mon and kiss de gurl…” (Sebastian from The Little Mermaid style).
And, as I remembered he was still a great kisser. But does a good kisser automatically equal a good shag? Was I even attracted to him sexually? I don’t even know. But I’m pretty sure I’m over sleeping with someone just because there’s a glint of a spark. And because they work in TV. As tempting as getting my kecks off for the slight possibility of my CV getting passed on (and then rejected) from someone in the media industry, I dunno if I can subject my body to someone who despises Vauxhallites. Yep. ‘Cause I’m so loyal. Just kidding, I’d sell out my South London roots for a good job in a heartbeat, but I flipped a coin and it said don’t bother, not yet anyway.