Welcome to 29 Dates, where we explore the weird, wild and sometimes wonderful world of dating — one date at a time.
When I matched with a 32-year-old Texan musician on a dating app, I was intrigued. We had things in common and he was tall (6ft 7in!), tanned and dirty blonde. A more polished Bradley Cooper in A Star is Born.
He chose our date location: a tiny pub next to London Bridge station, convenient for him as he lived in Blackheath. I lived in north London, one and a half hours away. He was obscure about how to get there. There was a heatwave. I finished work (he didn’t have a job) and got ready at the office before taking the Tube.
Most of my makeup melted off on the way and when I finally arrived at London Bridge, I couldn’t find the godforsaken pub. I called and texted Bradley Cooper for directions but his phone reception was crap. More melting ensued. By the time I arrived — 10 minutes late — my hair was a mess, my makeup was everywhere and I was fed up.
He was outside, looking impatient. I approached him — he was hard to miss as he was built like a giraffe — and apologized for being slightly late. I’d come a long way and there are lots of exits at London Bridge station. He’d previously mentioned that punctuality was important to him. He had the attitude of an irate toddler with his arms crossed and I felt like I was about to be told off. I apologized again. “Well you could’ve given me some warning!”
“I told you I don’t like late people. Why were you late?” he asked.
We grabbed a drink and started chatting normally, but he still had this aura about him. I’m no reiki healer but I know a bad attitude when I see one. What was the problem? Why was he pouting? “I told you I don’t like late people. Why were you late?” At this point I was boiling hot and could feel the sweat oozing from my pores. I erupted.
“I’m sorry I don’t live right beside an obscure indie pub that only sells homemade beer which tastes like it’s made in a bathtub. I’m here on a weeknight in the heat after working for nine hours and you have the cheek to scold me for being 10 minutes late? Fuck this.” I downed my drink, told him good day and stormed off. Barely 10 minutes had passed since I arrived.
He apologized the next day but flipped the script immediately — if I hadn’t been late, he wouldn’t have acted that way. I deleted his number.
Note to self: Never trust good-looking tall musicians with the gift of the gab. In my experience they will be overly sensitive man-babies who’ll just waste your time.
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