(Continued from this rambling piece of shite).
“Listen, dickhead. I am all for skipping this charade, writing this via email and going home early but I was promised a date. So let’s fucking have one.”
“Fucking hell.” said the Superdry wearing, bespectacled journalist, “maybe this is why no one wants to take you out. You’re a fucking nightmare. Fine, I just thought we could get paid for doing jack shit, it’s only for an online mag. Let’s go to the pub then.”
“NO!” I shrieked, as half of Covent Garden spun round expecting to see a fight, “Something proper. Not the fucking pub that you know your colleagues will be in. Pretend this is a proper date, like you are supposed to.”
“If this was a proper date, I’d fake a stomach bug.”
“Fuck you. Take me out. We’ve got a budget to burn through.”
We went to the pub.
We bashed out some daft his perspective/her perspective article on the fictitious date in twenty minutes (dinner and bowling – it was all either of us could think of) and took a couple of happy looking selfies to go along with it.
The publication had given us a £50 budget. We were in Covent Garden. It was gone in half an hour.
We shook hands, I apologised for calling him a dickhead. He said I was quite attractive in a bonkers sort of way (still trying to work that one out) and we parted ways.
Well, we would have parted ways but being the idiot that I am, I walked off in the wrong direction, meaning that I had to do that awful double backing thing and ended up walking behind him. Awkward.
I can’t even do a fake date right. What chance do I have in the real world?