My First Date – by Cookie, aged 37 and a Half.

The date hasn’t happened yet, by the way.

And yes, despite having married two men and had more boyfriends than you’ve had hot dinners, I have never been on a ‘date-date’.

You know, a proper date where you get taken somewhere other than the pub with all your friends in tow, or spend the evening sitting in a grotty bedsit drinking cheap lager, or making small talk on their Mum’s sofa. An actual just two people going out together date.

I worked out that the first time I was ever actually properly alone with my latest husband (it’s like a revolving door here now), was the day after we moved in together. Well we were until he invited two of his friends over a few hours later, which had been a recurring theme since I met him.

Do you want to go to the pub?” was always followed quickly by, “Great, I’ll see who else is free“.

Back-up, Back-up!

I went home once and he didn’t even realise I was gone. Oh, the romance!

Ages ago I was asked to write something for an online magazine about the most perfect date I had ever been on.

Rather than just make shit up like I normally do for proper writing gigs, I was honest. I wasn’t really in a good frame of mind and I was in one of my “let’s have a breakdown and commit career suicide” phases, so I emailed the editor:

Can’t do I’m afraid. I’ve only ever had ‘relationships’ with pricks who were either too skint to leave the house or didn’t like me enough to actually spend a couple of hours alone with me without back-up“,  I typed as I swigged from a bottle of vodka and counted out the paracetamol (relax, I’m joking. I don’t like vodka).

Funnily enough, I heard nothing back.

Until a couple of days ago.

The long and short of it is, I am going on a date with a stranger. An actual leave the house and do something without back up kind of date. That he choses.

Yes that’s right – I am going on my first ever proper date. 

Okay, so it’s for the purposes of an article for a shite magazine . All I know is that he’s 45 and is a journalist, so most likely either a Tory wanker or a leftie tree hugger, but beggars can’t be choosers, and it’s not like I have to shag the bloke.

I made sure they didn’t expect shagging. She went quiet and now she thinks I am odd for even asking. Don’t worry, I astound myself with my kamikaze attitude to my so called career sometimes. 

What’s the chances that he brings three of his mates with him?






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