Friday, 27 February 2009
I got home last night and was having a glass of wine with C, moaning about Beecham’s-gate and expecting never to hear from the Frenchman again. Next thing you know he’s text asking if I’m around. I was around, but after a long, hard day at work with day old hair and make up that has fallen off this suggestion of spontaneity panics me. But C made me reply to say that I was and he asked me if I fancied having a drink, either right away or later after he has eaten with his friends. So I accepted and suggested meeting later as I needed to ‘finish my dinner’. (i.e run in the shower, wash my hair and put all my make up back on).
So an hour later I’m in my room singing along to music, make-up half on, hair wet, undressed, still got ages to go before I need to be ready. Phone rings. Shit! It’s him! He’s early! Shit. Turn music off. Curse out loud some more before calling him back and putting a breezy voice on. He’s stood outside the bloody door, which is right next to my bedroom. (This is the downfall of getting involved with the next door neighbor.) He wants to borrow a plate to cook a cat in? Pardon? Can’t understand you... I’ll come to the door... (oh shit he’s heard me singing and cursing).
So I quickly shove my mascara on and find some clothes to throw on – no blusher, wet hair – this is not how a first date is supposed to go. Open the door, he’s stood there all tall, dark French and gorgeous. I’m embarrassed.
Frenchman: Hello, *kiss kiss*, I am sorry to knock early, but do you have a dish I can borrow to cook a cat in?
Me: You are cooking a cat?
Fm: No, No! A CAT.
Me: A Cat?!
Fm: No, a Tat, you know *gestures in the air making some kind of shape* a TAT.
Me: A Tat? OH Taters? Potatoes? A tray to roast potatoes?
By this point we stood in the kitchen area and I’m in a panic due to wet hair and half finished make-up, and crouching down pulling all the pots and pans out of that cupboard under the sink making the worst racket in the world ever.
Me: Here’s a roasting tin, is that what you mean?
Fm: (laughing at me) No, No a TART. Like a pie?
Me: OH a Taart. Oh well I don’t have a tart dish sorry. (standing in a pile of every kitchen pot and pan we have).
I was so embarrassed but it was funny also. Anyway then he was laughing, and apologised for creating such a mess and said he would go and get a dish from the pub instead. And then said he’s give me a call when they had finished eating.
It turns out that by the time they had finished eating it was getting so late that we decided to do the drink on another day. Which is funny, because that kind of makes our first date me with wet hair and my head buried in the kitchen cupboard looking for a tray for him to roast a cat in. I'm not sure if that is a good thing, or a bad thing, but one thing is for certain - we will always have something to laugh about if we ever do make it to the pub for a drink.