As days go, it's not been too bad on the Mildew-madometer. Traffic was monstrous coming back from a town 13 miles from where I live and what should have taken 25 minutes took 1 1/4 hours, having negotiated 19 sets of traffic lights, all of which were on red. Desperate for the loo when I got in, I ran to my bathroom to do the necessary and, whilst in mid flow and reaching for the loo paper, a whopping spider revealed itself to me, right next to my left thigh. I let out a highly unladylike squawk, fell off the toilet in fright and just about managed to 'contain myself'. Aforesaid spider is now cruising through the Cheshire sewage system on its way to the River Mersey. Divine retribution, I say...
However, sh*t doesn't always happen to me, so sometimes my blogability dries up. I know that none of you want to know about the good things which happen to me, such as finding a tenner in a coat I was just going to throw out, or missing a huge lump of dog poo in my path, so I hold off until things decide to go belly up. But it did come to my attention that I still have a few disastrous dates to tell you about and one that sticks clearly in my memory is a double date with Brian and Wilf.
To clarify, Brian was the official date, and Wilf was his dog. He refused to go anywhere without Wilf, as Wilf was a psycho Rescue Dog and couldn't be left on his own without his personal psychiatrist, for fear of tearing the house apart.
Now, for those of you not in the know, I don't 'do' dogs. I don't like the way they are wet and 'panty'; I don't like their smell; I don't like the way they lick their genitals and then your face; and I certainly don't like the way they try to hump my leg, hip, or my youngest daughter. However, I was feeling in a charitable mood and offered to entertain Wilf as well.
To this end, I chose a pet-friendly pub as our meeting place, and agreed to wait outside in the beer garden for the two males about to make my acquaintance. Brian had informed me that he was 6'3" (Goodo! I can wear my heels again!), 52" chest, 42" waist, and built like a scrum half. This all appealled. I don't like skinny, small blokes, as to me, they just cry out 'Pathetic'. I want a Manly Man: someone to watch over me, attempt to tame me (no chance, really!) and make me feel all gurly-femme...without calling me 'cute' (another post beckons...).
So, I had really gone to town this day. I was super slim at this time: for the Kookai readers amongst you (Linda?) this meant a size 1. I was wearing my new jeans, a rather slinky psychedelic yawn top and a fantastic bright blue suede jacket I had procured for a fiver from our local TK Maxx. I felt good. Indeed, I felt really good, until this tall, fat bloke attached to a dog on a lead rounded the corner of the beer garden and introduced himself to me. At that point, I felt the life blood leaving me.
Ever the optimist, though, I introduced myself gaily, attempted to be nice to the dog, in the manner of a confirmed bachelor who despises kids but can see that the only way into the pants of his latest squeeze is to coo and goo over babies, and offered to get the round in.
He readily accepted.
We commenced our ice breaking. I learned that his limp was due to a near fatal accident when he was a World Famous dragster driver (I am not actually sure he didn't say Drag Queen, to be honest); that he had been madly in love with a gorgeous, successful blonde; that he had built his own mansion with his bare hands; and that the blonde had gone off sh*gging with another bloke and he had left her everything. But he was Not Bitter. No...
I listened attentively, as much as possible, but couldn't help my eyes dropping to the 52" waist, which hadn't defied gravity and had slipped to the belly region. I also couldn't help noticing that 6'3" was a bit on the optimistic side. Wilf was starting to look the better bet...
I was pretty hungry by 6pm and suggested that we had something to eat. For a man as large as he, he demurred, stating that he ate like a bird. Soup, then? I suggested. No, no, nothing for me. I am fine...
Well, I was getting rather bored sitting in the bitter cold beer garden, the only place where I was allowed to smoke, and so I suggested that we adjourned to my house, pre-warning him that I kept a marble rolling pin in the house in the event of any monkey business, which I was certainly not afraid to use, Wilf or no Wilf. He accepted readily and followed me back to my place.
Wilf got out of the car as we arrived and ran straight across my back garden, yelping, yapping and tearing around the rabbits' pen. For once, Lambert (Lambert & Butler, after my brand of fags) had met his match. He generally terrorises Norman and Ollie the cats, whilst his brother, Butler, mildly watches on, but this time, Lambert was petrified himself. So, I took umbrage and booted Wilf. Nobody, and no dog, terrorises my bunnies without a kicking...Luckily, Brian was still getting himself out of his Land Rover and oblivious to the carnage going on.
Upon our entrance in the house, he announced that he was ravenous and could eat a horse. This confused me. Surely, only 15 minutes ago he had said he ate like a bird and didn't want anything from the pub? As I am always a gracious hostess, I dragged out all sorts of vegetables from the fridge and set about making a Pav (pronounced Pow) Bhaji, which is a red hot Hindu vegetarian curry that I learned whilst living in Oman. Brian advised me that he liked his curries as hot as Hades, and as I have a mouth and stomach like asbestos when it comes to spices, I took him at his word, launched in two birds eye chilli peppers, replete with seeds, and an over generous dollop of pav bhaji masala. It was enough to ignite the Olympic Torch.
While we waited for the curry to cook, Brian decided that Wilf needed some exercise (to defacate, really) and set off. Hang on a minute, I thought, this is a poop scoop zone. No dog is going to leave a great big dollop of turds for me to stand in whilst pegging out my washing - Norman does that for me, any time he feels like. So, I banned them from my garden, armed them with a plastic bag, and told them not to rush back. Even though Wilf had only been in the house for ten minutes or so, I could smell dog. I could taste dog...and worst of all, he had shed all over my lovely new carpet. I was not a happy Agnes at all.
When Brian returned, I dished up, we ate up and sweated profusely, and he started to reveal that he was completely skint, hence why he hadn't bought a round nor had he wanted to eat at the pub and was looking for someone to care for him. Alarm bells started going off in my head. No wonder, during our MSN chats, he had been so keen to hear all about my work and what I did, my financial status etc. Here, I had a classic example of a sponger. And I didn't find it endearing. Not One Little Bit.
To be perfectly honest with you, it was when he started bleating that he really missed smoking proper cigarettes rather than roll-ups and asked could he try one of my L&Bs that I took the hump. Too many dates of mine have stated that they want a non-smoker, then approach me for a date - me who trumpets it quite brazenly that I am a smoker and proud of it, and then they scrounge the cigs from me. It's enough to make you want to spit! Fags are now over 20p each in the UK, which is daylight robbery as it is. But I am not having some dole-ite nicking them off me to boot!
I did what all sensible women do in a crisis. I texted a dear friend, asked them to issue a state of emergency by phone and got rid of him and his rotten hound.
The next day, during my daily MSN to Sir Matt Chingduvé, I moaned about the pong of dog in the house and how bloody miserable this rotten internet dating lark was. Sir Matt was as sympathetic as ever, and offered to stick some rotten fruit up Wilf's backside for me, but I refused. I try to avoid cruelty to dumb animals...so that ruled out Brian, too.
Brian was my last ever internet date. It put me off, physically and mentally and I withdrew from every single dating site thereonin. For that, I must thank him profusely. He preserved my sanity...