Before I start this post I should apologise for the excessive use of expletives. But we’re all adults here so I’m sure you can deal with it. If you’re not a grown up, then please stop browsing the internet and get on with your homework.

So after The Trader and I decided the whole texting thing was a misunderstanding and that we were equally as stubborn as each other we decided on date number two.  Date number two consisted of drinks opposed to dinner. Presumably he had decided he couldn’t deal with watching any more of my gluttonous eating habits.

In our textless break, The Trader had become lazy in his dating habits; gone was the gentleman waiting at the door, taking my coat etc and instead I got, “I’ll meet you in the bar underneath my office around 7.30. Greece is a f*****g nightmare and completely f*****g things up for us here. So I may have to f*****g stay late.”

Now as mentioned I am known for using the odd profanity but 4 in 10 seconds, with ‘f*****g’ being used as both an adjective and a verb in the same sentence is particularly impressive.

“Bad day?” I asked.

“F*****g dreadful.” He profaned in reply.

Drinks aren’t actually a bad date when you are getting taken to one of the nicest bars in London so I didn’t mind too much.

Arriving on time, having to wait 20 minutes and buy your own first drink at £15 a pop is not so great. Eventually around 8 O’Clock; sweary Sue Perkins arrived.

“What a bloody nightmare I’ve had today. F*****g Greece need to sort their f*****g act out.”

The conversation about Greece continued for 20 minutes. I sipped on my cocktail and pretended to listen. Although I knew very little about what he was talking about. I made a few ‘umm’ and ‘arr’ noises and said ‘oh no.’, ‘nightmare’ once or twice and he seemed to be content with the fact I was following what was being said. Whilst in fact I was clocking that there were a couple of footballers and a reality TV star in the corner and noticed we were sat next to an elderly Arab male who clearly was entertaining an escort for the evening.

“So how does one become a broker?” I asked when I was finally allowed a word in edgeways, “what was your degree in?” The look that clouded over The Trader’s face was that of absolute contempt. ”What did you just call me?” he asked.

I did wonder whether listening to all his sweariness for the last half an hour or so had made me subconsciously absorb and internalise his distinctive idiolect and rather than ask him the simple question about how he’d got into his chosen profession, I’d actually just declared he was an ‘f***ing C***’.

I tried again tentatively, “erm, I asked how you got to be a broker and what your degree was in?”

“I’m not a f*****g broker, I’m a trader. Brokers are like my bitches. I can’t believe you just called me that, do you know how much I earn compared to those c***s?”

And he proceeded to pull out his bank card, “Coutts sweetheart. Coutts” and waved it about at me, inches from my face.”

Right, for that violent outburst he was going to suffer a little. Dickhead.

“Speak to me that way again ‘Trader’ and I’m leaving and seeing that you earn so much I’ll have a bottle of champagne please.  The Rose not brut. Thanks” I said forcefully, staring him right in the eye. I made a mental note to spill some LPR, ‘accidentally on purpose’ on his tailored suit if his attitude didn’t improve.

Tonight was not going well at all. I wondered at what point over the last month the body snatchers had been in and replaced my lovely Sue Perkins lookalike  with a white Kanye West in training.

He backed down a little a looked a bit sheepish. I often find that with many of these cocky, arrogant men as soon as they are challenged they back down. Especially if they are challenged by someone half their size and weight.

The evening got a little better from that point onward (or maybe it didn’t and I was just happier after indulging in a few glasses of champagne). The Trader seemed more relaxed and the guy I had met on the first date slowly started to reappear. I wondered if he was actually a nice guy underneath it all and it was just working with fellow wankers that had made him into one.

In fact, I began to wonder if this was the case with everyone in London. That perhaps underneath, all of these swaggering traders, bankers and corporate types were in fact decent human beings just corrupted by the people they meet at work and that this cycle was continuous.

1. Arrive in London a normal human.
2. Meet dickheads and wankers on a daily basis.
3. Slowly become a dickhead or wanker.
4. Progress up the career path.
5. Fresh meat from outside London arrives.
6. Corrupt said fresh meat until they too become a dickhead or wanker.

Despite the evening getting better, I knew I had caught, ‘the sickness’, once the sickness has been caught it is near impossible to recover from. The sickness for those of you that don’t know is a dreadful dating/relationship illness were you start to notice irritating and annoying things about the other individual. The sickness, like most other diseases, starts off small but gets increasingly virulent with repeated exposure to the individual in question. The sickness is a tragic disease which has affected many a marriage, relationship and courtship. It is notoriously hard to shift (nigh on impossible) and whilst is probably best to call it a day if the sickness is caught, many couples will try to power through, like relationship martyrs hoping it will miraculously go away. FYI, it doesn’t, get a grip and get out now.

I continued dating The Trader for a while longer, but his sweariness, Coutts card flashing and cancelling and changing dates last minute because of, “arsehole clients” just made the sickness worse and there’s only so much that LPR and UberLuxs can do to help. Sigh.My Prince Charming had turned back into a frog (told you he didn’t exist). So it was time to call it a day on move on.

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