Dinner

The Trader.

/ Alicia Sarah / 1 Comment

Last time, I talked about my list of desirable qualities and attributes for the men I date. Now whilst my list is relatively small compared to most of my girls I still find it near impossible to find one that is aptly and suitably qualified. I have been looking for quite a while and have not yet found one who fits the bill. On paper, The Trader seemed to be perfect…

The Trader was one of my Tinder finds. His profile read ‘Generic public schoolboy, 6’ 3’’ rugby playing Cambridge graduate working as a trader’. Some potential there I thought and despite the fact he looked a bit like Sue Perkins from The Great British Bake Off in his photographs I thought he was worth a try and took a gamble on a right swipe…

After a brief exchange of a few flirty messages and voice notes we arranged to meet for dinner. We went for 28-50 on Maddox Street; the place itself is a hidden gem. It’s got this intimate, cosy, warm vibe going on. The restaurant calls itself a ‘wine workshop’ and it has a choice of over 50 wines and champagnes and it had a special ‘truffle menu’. I’m honestly obsessed with truffle anything, the smell itself is amazing and it makes food taste like it has been made by the angels (opposed to the grumpy, sweary, sweaty chefs and their illegal immigrants helpers that you find in most of the kitchens in London ). I recon the Italian farmers should do away with using pigs to snuffle them out and just employ me instead. Although it is possible I’d eat more of the truffles than the pigs so it might be counterproductive and more cost effective to keep the pigs as the snufflers.

He met me on time, dressed in a tailored dark blue suit, kissed me on the cheek, held the door open and took my jacket. Oh, I was on to a winner here. I was already smitten.

We got on really well on the date itself; he was down to earth, funny, intelligent, charming, he joked about the Sue Perkins resemblance I’d picked up on. He even swore as much as me, which is fairly rare. The only over person to use the F and C words to the same extent I do is my sister, when we’re together you could be mistaken for it being a conversation between two sailors.

The accent was spot on, the marriage material one, posh with the London twang coming through. He explained that he was a scholarship boy at a public school and his normal East London accent had been refined over time. Although, I think he thought I was slightly disturbed when I asked him to read the slowly menu and deliberately whilst I closed my eyes, then sighed loudly at the end. I wondered to myself if this date went well and we progressed to relationship stage if I could get away with making him read me bedside stories or is that just fucked up on a whole new level?

The truffle menu was unreal and I proceeded to eat four courses, he did look a tad horrified about this as presumably other girls he had taken on dates had picked at salads. My ability to eat tends to shock most men and at times it even shocks myself. How I maintain my current weight and dress size I will never know because I eat as much as a very large man; I know this because my ex was 6’ 5’’ and 21 stone and I ate similar portions to him. On a recent bad hangover Sunday I consumed two double sausage and egg mcMuffins with hash browns for breakfast, a large dominos stuffed crust pizza with dough ball and chicken strip sides. Then tucked into a bag of Haribos, skittles and a giant bar of galaxy whilst I did a Netflix marathon. Then just to finish my night off had a couple of slices of toast… all in all about 8000kcal or about 5 days’ worth of food. Not that I’m complaining about my metabolism. I love food and would be buggered and clinically obese if I was built like a normal human and I suppose being a major stress head has to have some benefits attached.

But after 4 courses of the said truffle menu (oink) and 2 bottles of wine between us, I was ready to bear The Trader’s children. I was ready to have tiny, little Sue Perkins.

It he hadn’t nailed the first date already, he ordered me a taxi, (He splashed out the extra tenner for an Uber Lux as he obviously recognised I’m not the type of girl who can be sitting in back of a Yaris)* put me in it with another kiss on the cheek and text me half an hour later to say he’d had a lovely evening and check I’d got home ok. I honestly though that this guy had just popped out of a Disney film and  I wondered whether to rank him above or below Ryan Gosling on the guys’ list, just underneath Channing Tatum and Chuck Bass.

I couldn’t have written a better first date if I’d tried. I got home and raved to my housemates that I’d met the most perfect man, that I was in love and would be sadly have to move out soon as me and The Trader would certainly would be getting married in the very near future.

Over the next couple of days I waited for him to get in touch. Nothing. A week went by. Nothing. Two weeks. Nothing… I was mortified about it. How had I judged it so wrong? Do I look completely different in my pictures than I do in reality? Did he think I was a foul, greedy, truffle eating pig? Whatever the reason, the boy had not sent me a single message and I was too mortifieod by the whole ordeal to text first. Then out the blue, nearly three weeks later I got a text…

‘FFS what did I do wrong? Was our date really that shit?’…

*Uber is a London Taxi Company, your standard ones are little Toyota Yaris’,If you upgrade to a Lux you get a Mercedes, free bottle of water and the driver doesn’t huff and puff when you ask can you bluetooth your Spotify. These things all matter.

Knightsbridge Opera Guy.

/ Alicia Sarah / 6 Comments

The morning after I’d been stopped in the street by Hugo (The Knightsbridge Opera dude) I got a text message…

‘So my Liverpudlian princess, how are you fixed for the opera tomorrow evening? X’

Bugger, I had flat viewings.

“It’s a no-go tomorrow I’m afraid.”

Opera Guy was keen because 10 seconds later I got another message. ‘Well the day after then. No opera but let’s do The Tate. I like art and get bored with dinner dates. Meet me at 6pm outside the entrance.”

Forceful, direct… I liked it. And after all it had to be better than sitting round the bar getting mistaken for being a prostitute again.

“Plan.” I text back, “I will see you then. X”

And that’s how I ended up going on a date with Knightsbridge Opera Guy.

The day of the date arrived and as usual I wore five inch heels. Completely inappropriate for a date traipsing around The Tate Gallery but I was hoping it would make Opera Guy slightly frustrated and he would decide to call the gallery time short and he take me to my spiritual home (a bar) instead.

Opera Guy arrived, floppy haired and over coated. We must have looked like a right odd couple; typical Chelsea boy and a girl who looked like she could be on the next series of TOWIE, opposites attract hey?

Except for me there was no attraction. Physically he was so far removed from my normal type it was unreal and I suspect, for him, I was simply an experiment with ‘slumming it’ ( after being in London for over nine months I’ve since discovered that many London posh boys like to slum it with us Scouse birds. I’ve been on dates with men from Eton, Harrow as well as half of Cambridge University circa 2004-2010) But there we were; looking  like cast members for some surreal Made in Chelsea/ Desperate Scousewives hybrid TV show.

It was October time, the weather was dismal, Opera Guy had brought along what he referred to as ‘a brolly’. Suddenly, he launched into a dramatic Rendition of the ‘Singing in the Rain’ song and dance. Tap dancing his way into the entrance of the gallery. Whilst at the same time he was belting out a bit of Gene Kelly in a ridiculously loud baritone.

Men, women and children stared in our direction. Pigeons scattered and flew away and a nearby boat sailing along the Thames honked back in reply; presumably believing my date’s singing voice was in fact some sort of warning horn or alarm from another ship.

I cringed so badly that my face resembled the little emoji with the teeth clenched. I think Opera Guy spied this and stopped his dramatics.

“So, the voice?”  I asked him once inside the gallery.

“I’m an opera singer darling. I thought I had told you that.”

Damn it, he hadn’t. I had just assumed he was an opera goer opposed to an opera singer. I certainly did not think he was such a fan of opera that he would launch into public recitals.

“Oh how interesting, an opera singer. Do you often rehearse publically?”

“Hahahaha” he bellowed, “I’m notorious for it darlinggg.”

I didn’t know whether to run, cry or leap head first into the Thames and swim for St Paul’s and claim sanctuary.

As it turns out I did none of the above, I stayed on the date with opera guy. The next 90 minutes of my life consisted of an unbearably embarrassing ordeal of listening to Opera Guy sing at full blast about what he thought of the various exhibitions.

There is a toss up for the worst part of the date. It may have been when we arrived in the ‘nude’ room (a room full of paintings and sculptures of the female form.) Where Opera Guy suddenly made up his own lyrics to Nessum Dorma and sung them, very loudly, to the tourists observing the art.

“Huge great big tittiesss,

Everywhere I seeee

Huge great big tittiessss

Never looked so lovelyyyy…”

Or it may have been the time when we were in a pitch black room observing a light instillation.

The room, pitch black, apart from some LCD lights which faded on and off allowed Opera Guy a new found anonymity which he used to his advantage. He decided that he would creep up behind the other gallery goers and make a series of hisses, whistles and growls millimeters away from their ears whilst stroking their arm. In his mind his behaviour was hilarious; the type of behaviour that would certainly impress his date. To the outside world he appeared like a lunatic who had just escaped Bedlam. I smiled apologetically, in the darkness, at the gallery goers whilst secretly thanking God no-one could see my face.

To make matters worse Opera guy must have thought I was amenable to his behaviour. “Oh, you are so much fun to be around. It’s rare to get a girl who gets you and likes to be silly.”

He obviously hadn’t picked up on my non-verbal clues that I was not having fun in the slightest and that idea about jumping into the Thames and swimming for safety was becoming more and more plausible by the second.

After perusing the installations for over an hour and a half (possible the most uncomfortable 90 minutes of my life) Opera Guy decided to call time on the art gallery.

“So cocktails?”

Now everyone I have ever met will tell you I’m not the type of girl to turn down a cocktail, so it left me in torn: drinks with the lunatic or make my excuses and leave. Surely one drink with the lunatic wouldn’t hurt, would it? After all it’s not every day that you meet someone who is genuinely deranged.

The drink itself was quite scenic; we went to Duck and Waffle which has spectacular views over East London and The City. Opera Guy had decided he was sick of his RP accent and was now pretending he was Russell Brand; he had even started imitating Russell’s distinctive, verbose speaking style and Russell’s camp mannerisms were also beginning to creep in. Now Russell Brand for me is The One, and I just couldn’t bear to hear this idiot imitating him (Imitating him badly, embarrassingly and loudly may I add). So I had to politely decline his offer of a second round with the excuse of, ‘up early to view flats’.

Opera Guy did send a few text messages over the next few weeks; one even asked what he did wrong. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was a complete and utter freakazoid and the date had almost caused me to have public anxiety attacks because of the shame of being associated with him. (Thought honesty to that extent was a bit harsh and mean). So I told him I had started dating someone else; which technically was true as I was, just the ‘someone else’ was ‘someone else (s)’

Only very recently I got another message from Opera Guy ‘Ciao Bella, greetings from Roma’. My Italian is quite poor but Ciao means ‘goodbye’ as well as ‘hello’ and the latter meaning sat with me much better than the first. ‘Ciao Opera guy’ I replied and blocked his number. Next…

Touchdown in London Town: Knightsbridge Adventure

/ Alicia Sarah / Leave a comment

I hadn’t been in London very long before I experienced what it was like to date in the city. In fact, I hadn’t yet moved to London at all; I was down to view houses and visit my sister.

My sister and I where sharing a rather lovely room in The Mandarin Oriental in Knightsbridge; fabulous place but soft girl kept leaving me by myself whilst she went off on various fashion and magazine shoots and meetings.

I tend to get cabin fever if I’m left by myself for too long and as opulent and well-furnished the rooms in The Mandarin are I just felt the need to be around people. So I decided to take a trip to the downstairs bar (did I mention I may have slightly alcoholic tendencies) where I ordered myself a glass of fizz and some nibbles. Thirty minutes and one glass of champagne down there was still no sign of the sis so proceeded to order glass number two.

Now being from Liverpool, I’m not the type of girl who leaves the house looking anything less than perfect. My hair is always blow dried; my makeup and fake tan applied; I like to dress well and being a short arse I always ensure I have on my highest heels.  Also, being a single girl and in a nice hotel, I thought I should dress particularly well because Mr Right might have been kicking about in reception or hiding behind some of the orchids in the bar.

Also, when I was little, My nan told me never to leave the house without some clean knickers and a matching bra on in case I get hit by a bus and had to go to hospital. I heeded her advice, whilst maybe not in case I got hit by a bus (although with my Green Cross Code skills that is an extremely likely prospect. I’ve had various near death experiences with buses mainly because I’m constantly glued to my phone and I have little concept of what is going on outside of  IWorld).

The point I’m trying to make here is: I was dressed to the nines.

The bar was busy. Various staff and guests were hustling and bustling about their daily business. I played on my Ipad, drank my champagne and reapplied my lipstick a couple of times. It was on delivery of the second glass of champagne that I realized the waitress who had been attending to me had been looking me up and down and trying to figure out my ‘business’ in the hotel. She handed me the glass with a smug smile plastered on her face. “So are you here for a meeting with one of our guests today?” She asked politely but the emphasis on ‘meeting’ and the self-righteous,  ‘I’m better than you are’ grin spread across her mug made me realize she was implying something.

The penny dropped: she thought I was an escort! To be honest I looked like an escort! Sat in a five star hotel in Knightsbridge; drinking champagne alone and applying lip-gloss like it was going out of fashion as I pouted at myself in the mirror. Never have I felt so embarrassed (well that’s a lie but you get the jist of just how mortified I was at her insinuation). Needless to say I necked my glass of champagne, paid up and was away quicker than, well, an escort who is late for her next client.

One of the benefits of being dressed to the nines means that you attract male attention; walking through Knightsbridge I could see I was turning one or two heads. Until suddenly, a slim,dark haired English man in his mid-twenties grabbed my hand as I walked by…

He was not my usual type but he was dressed well and he had one of those RP, Queen’s English accents that make me go weak at the knees.

“Do men stop you in the street a lot my dear? You simply must already be off the market looking as glorious as you do.”

The combination of the accent, the compliments  and the two glasses of champagne ensured my head was feeling a little fuzzy and I pushed aside the fact that ‘Hugo’ (a) wasn’t physically my usual type and (b) had called me ‘my dear’ in the same way someone’s posh, great aunt would.

“N-n-no, no. Single” I stammered.

“Then you simply must let me take you the opera. Do you enjoy the opera?”

“The opera sounds fabulous.”

Expertly, Hugo (let’s just call him Opera Guy) thrust me his number, extracted mine and declared I was his, ‘Liverpudlian angel’ and then vanished back into the ether of Knightsbridge. Whilst I stood there dumbfounded and confused as to what had just happened.

Dating (and getting a date) was very different in London than it was up north. I felt the need to take myself to Harrods to lust over some handbags and maybe indulge in another glass of champagne to celebrate my Pretty Woman moment.  I wonder if Opera Guy will bring diamonds for me to wear on our opera date like Richard Gere did for Julia? One can dream…