I’m not a big dater. It isn’t that I’m not incredibly eligible - I’m 22, unemployed and live with my mother - but it’s just not something I normally do. I once took a girl to see Step Up 2: The Streets, and was so engrossed in the film that I completely ignored her. It’s a really good film.
Dating has always seemed odd to me; the idea of appraising someone from the word go - deciding how much you like them, whether or not you can see a future; how long your marriage would last and the effects a divorce would have on your hypothetical children - is more than a little daunting.
But recently, I put on my going-out shirt, brushed my teeth and dabbed on some Old Spice. I was going on a date. I had her number, so I could give directions if she got lost (or spam her if she stood me up) and all the preparations were complete.
I left the house.
On the train however, I sneezed four times in a row, and had a minor panic attack before whipping out my phone.
“Could you bring hayfever tablets? Not a joke” I texted the girl I would soon be meeting, assuming that since she’d be appraising my attractiveness, a dry nose might be preferable to a wet one.
“Er, ok” was the reply.
Off to a good start then, and at least I hopefully wouldn’t spend the whole time crying. (Due to the pollen)
We met at the station, she gave me a hayfever tablet, and we walked to a nearby bar at which I could drink heavily to disguise my social awkwardness.
I walked up the bar and confidently asked for a bottle of Corona.
“This is a Sam Smith Pub” replied the barman. My date looked unimpressed.
“WKD?” I asked.
Once we’d sat down with our pints of Father Jumpy’s Scrumpy Ale (I hate Sam Smith pubs) we began to talk. Well, I began to talk, and she began to watch me talk. Oh how I talked and talked, I talked about music, about contemporary culture, and at one point about the difference between gherkins and pickles. “What is the difference between a gherkin and a pickle?” I asked. She didn’t know.
I then saw her rings, one of which was a fancy affair with a large (fake) gemstone in the middle. I asked to have a look at it, and she reluctantly parted with it in order for me to get a closer look.
“It’s really nice”, I said sliding it onto my middle finger. It slid on easily, like a buttered eel. I admired it for a moment before going to pull it off.
I couldn’t get it off.
“I can’t get it off”, I said.
My date began to laugh nervously as I heaved and strained, but it wouldn’t budge.
“The more you panic, the more your finger swells and the harder it is to get off” she said wisely, as I sat there panicking and swelling. I was mortified, not only because I had an ornate ring stuck on my middle finger, but because there was a chance I might be accidentally mugging a girl I’d only recently met.
Just as I was mulling over my options (disappear off to the toilets and use soap, or ask at the bar for some lard) and tugging at my finger, the ring flew off. The digit looked battered and sad, but at least I wouldn’t be leaving with my date’s jewellery attached to my hand.
“I’m afraid I might have stretched your ring” I said.
There was an uncomfortable silence. We both knew what I’d said, and the discomfort swelled like a giant balloon. It didn’t just swell, it caught fire and exploded - it was The Hindenberg of uncomfortable silences. My unintended double entendre, my unentendre, was out there and there was no escape.
I sat there for a few moments before I laughed and nervously tried to change the subject back to something less controversial.
“Did you know that the latin name for a gherkin is “cucumis sativus?”
