Ticking the Boxes

“So in February can I give you a call?” Silence, a pause follows that goes beyond surprised.
“Erm, I hope it goes alright in February.”
“Well it won’t…”
“Ah well, good luck.” He accepts the offer of a limp embrace and I decline the suggestion of a lift home; instead I turn and I run. Never has there been a more apt moment than this one for Jenny in Forest Gump to yell,
“Run Forest, run!!”

It’s 10:30pm, the air is ice cold with a damp frost and the ground is covered in an inch of leftover snow. I’m walking in the middle of the road skipping over the slush and I’m thinking,
“I wish I’d put my wellies on.” There’s no grip on my ankle boots, which is surprising really considering they’re Dr Martens. My fingers are stiff as I poke the screen of my phone, trying to call the person responsible for this misleading encounter that has taken up my entire Saturday night.

Usually on a Saturday night I am curled up on the reclining sofa with my chin tucked into the neck of my pink hoody and a notebook on my knee pretending to edit the novel I finished eleven years ago whilst watching one of the many varieties of Law and Order; preferably Law and Order: Special Victims Unit because you can’t beat a bit of Christopher Meloni on a wintry night in January. Or, if there’s no Law and Order then Take Me Out the Gossip will capture my attention and I’ll laugh at the disastrous dates or place my hand over my heart and say “aw” at the ones that shine a ray of hope in a world that is obsessed with pro-creation. But not tonight. Tonight I have my own disastrous date to laugh at because in the absence of laughter would only be tears.

I jab at the screen of my phone again, the cold air disabling the use of my fingers and thumbs. Craig, Craig, Craig, Craig, his name begins with C, how far down can he be? A few short seconds lapse into a moment that descends into a lifetime of love related flashbacks.

A friend once said,
“I know you didn’t love … but when you do eventually meet someone you’ll know what love is.” She said it in such a way I could feel the steam seeping from my ear holes. But maybe I should have been grateful that she’d had the generosity to slip in the word ‘eventually’, meaning my love life wasn’t completely written off.

Another friend once said,
“You should go on Plenty Of Fish or you might never meet anyone”
Cleverly I ignored the instant pang of pain at the sound of this sentence and created one of my own that I spontaneously recited word perfectly on a whim.
“If I ever get that desperate I’ll fly myself to the Pacific Ocean, parachute into the middle of it and find a fish myself as opposed to attracting another needy weirdo from the internet.”

I’m a literal hopeless romantic, hopelessly in love with the idea of finding a soul mate in a world that has fast become a supermarket where all the shoppers have their GDA sewn to their clothes so that all the other shoppers can read how long they’ve been on the shelf and how long is left on the ‘best before’ sticker.

At school a friend once said,
“You need to ask lads to go with you.”
I said,
“Go where?”
She didn’t mean the supermarket.

At sixth form someone said
“I feel sorry for you.”
And it wasn’t because I’d failed the mock A Level General Studies exam. The lack of male attention was far more worthy of pity.

Years later the final straw was after the comment,
“You don’t help yourself, you have to flirt if you want to get anywhere with men, otherwise you’ll be alone forever.”
I don’t flirt. The concept is alien to me. When you place the word ‘flirt’ and the image of me in the same sentence, it’s not surprising that the two don’t go hand in hand. When I think flirt, I think pretty blonde woman with big hair and a low cut top, immaculate make up and dainty fingers decorated with OPI nail varnish and a childish giggle that wins the heart of every ounce of testosterone passing by. So I said,
“Then I’ll be alone forever.”

Whatever happened to the beautiful losers? Where are the Adrienne’s and their Rocky’s? A geeky librarian and a persistent boxer with one or two slightly damaged brain cells. Does love really have to be a desperate passionate affair? I certainly don’t earn enough money to replace clothes that are ripped off in a moment of simple lust. What’s wrong with conversation and a gentle romance full of daisies and biscuits?
“You dream like a pensioner.” Someone said, and I take no offence.

Craig! Found him! I push my frozen thumb hard on his name and raise my phone to my ear. It rings four times before he answers.
“Yo, yo, yo! How’d it go?” I can hear the sound of a crowd in the background and some form of club music with too load a bass that makes the floor vibrate. The music fades when I hear the creak of a door open and close.
“He’s not even single!” I bark.
“What?” I can hear a smile in his voice.
“He’s not…even…single.” Silence, riddled with disbelief.

Rewind three weeks, give or take. Sunday afternoon, Craig’s round for his ritual cup of coffee that he never drinks until it’s gone cold. He’s brought his IPad with him and he’s flicking through Google Images and saying,
“What about this guy? You must like Brad, everyone who’s human likes Brad.”
I say,
“Then I’m not human.”
“I can’t believe you like this guy Who likes Russell Crowe?” I ignore him since we’ve had this discussion countless times.
“Oh yeah,” he says, midway through typing Robert Pattinson’s name into Google. “My aunty wants to set you up on a date.” I swallow a lump, I haven’t been on a date for four years.
“Who with?”
“This lad called Aki. His Dad’s friends with my uncle.” Aki, that’s a Greek name, alarm bells ring, not a good idea. I made a solumn promise to myself within about five minutes of leaving the womb that I would never get involved with a Greek man. “He’s half Greek.” Yes, confirmed. The answer is no. But from the corner of my eye I can see my Mum’s ears have pricked up and she’s probably already thinking of names for our children, and for some reason my lips start moving and I say.
“How old is he?”
“Thirty.” I nod, why I’m nodding I have no idea, the answer is still no.
“What does he do?” Another question I find my lips moving to despite my lack of permission.
“I don’t know, but he does have a job. Apparently he’s a really nice guy. He’s not a player and he doesn’t go out on the lash all the time and he’s really normal.” I glance at my mum and for a third time my lips start moving,
“What do you think?”
“What have you got to lose?” She says.
“But he’s Greek.”
“Kat, not all Greek men are the same, they’re not all going to be like your Dad.” She’s got this hopeful little twinkle in her eye and even Craig has torn his attention away from his IPad.
“Go on,” he says “Just go and meet him.” I shrug and I can’t believe my shoulders are doing it.
“What about the Bipolar thing? Because you can’t deny that’s not a problem.”
“I think he’s fine with it.” Craig says, “And I think he’s no stranger to it. According to my Aunty he’s probably got it himself.” And although this is a highly unreliable source and Craig is a man who believes whole heartedly that there are no peanuts in peanut butter, only palm oil, I still find myself nodding. Nodding! And in agreement! Of all things!
“Right fine. Tell your Aunty it’s okay, let’s do it,” I look at my Mum, “What have I got to lose? It probably won’t even happen.”

Fast forward fourteen days exactly. Sunday afternoon, I’m curled up on the reclining armchair trying to follow the storyline of E4’s Revenge. Even though I’ve watched it from the very beginning and I haven’t missed an episode, I still can’t figure out the reasons why all these rich people, teenagers inparticular, sunning themselves in their luxurious summer houses in the Hamptons, are all taking each-other’s excessively successful businesses, having strange forms of relationships and weird parties, drinking expensive wine and all the while, plotting to kill each-other; so to hear my phone bleep with a text message right in the middle of my attempt to fill in the blanks of this show, it could not have come at a more inconvenient time. And because I allow my curiosity to get the better of me I pick up the phone, honestly thinking it’s probably Craig saying he’s on his way over, or Rachel asking me if I’m working tomorrow, I just want to look at the name and I’ll text whoever it is after Revenge…
There’s no name. It’s a number I don’t recognize. Now bearing in mind it’s two weeks since anyone mentioned anything about any kind of meeting, or outing or date, I had forgotten, as I tend to do quite frequently, that my phone number was in the hands of Craig’s Aunty and Uncle.
“Hi it’s Aki, Pete gave me your number, he knows Craig, you ok?”

My first thoughts go a little like this…
“Oh my God! Oh no! Oh that’s not good. Oh no no no no this wasn’t meant to happen. Panic panic, panic.”

My face starts to burn like I have balls of fire in my cheeks. My tongue feels like a sponge drenched in a tank full of hot water that I can’t swallow, my fingers tremble and as for my heart…well, if I was a horse I would most definitely be in the running to win the Grand National. So I place my phone back on the armrest of my recliner and I turn my attention back to Revenge, which is pointless now because there’s no way I can make sense of the aftermath of the ten to fifteen seconds that I’ve just missed. Plus the only thought that occupies my mind is,
“He wasn’t supposed to text.” Because realistically, and to be honest I only agreed to my number being distributed was because I thought there was a 99% probability that nothing would come of it. It never occurred to me that the 1% chance I had left hanging in the balance would have a higher probability of happening.

I wait two hours before I reply. Not because I’m playing hard to get or making him wait because that’s what girls do and it all adds to the mystery and excitement… don’t be ridiculous, no, I’m trying to decide whether to reply at all. I’m thinking that I could just ignore it and pretend I never received the message, and I could do this because I don’t know who he is or what he looks like or if he would be okay with the Bipolar thing. And he might not want to go out at all. It might be, that his Dad has been given my phone number and he’s said to Aki,
“Here, Greek girl, text her and go on a date.” And that would mean he’s been forced into it and then he might think that it’s me who’s pushed for this to happen and that’s completely utterly totally wrong because he’s half Greek and that’s just not how I roll…

Under the aloof instructions of my mum and Craig I reply to the message. Their carefree persuasion makes me think that going on a blind date that couldn’t be more blind than if someone poked me in the eye with a bread knife, is a good idea. They are both right, I have nothing to lose, in fact the only thing I have to lose is my time and who knows? Maybe losing my time will gain me something more important. But it’s doubtful, because he’s Greek.

He replies within a few seconds of me sending him a message, and it appears he is a man of few words. I hate to admit it but his texts are a bit bland. They’re very “to the point” and not much in between. I ask him if he’s had a good weekend, he replies
“Yes thanks, you?”
I think this scenario is a bit weird, me texting someone I don’t know, him texting me with one word answers and I’m wondering if there’s much point to this at all, but I say,
“Yeah my weekend was good, I’d like a three day weekend though, two just never seems enough. Does this seem weird to you?”
Seconds later he replies with,
“No. It doesn’t. We should meet up sometime.”
That’s his third message. As I said, to the point, and I think he’s missed my point about my weirdness question. He seems to think that I think wanting a three day weekend is weird, but clearly there’s no messing about with this guy, he doesn’t give much away but four texts later we are meeting at Tap on Saturday at 8:30pm. I have to work on Sunday so I know if the evening is a disaster I can leave with the authentic excuse that I have to get up early. So with my Saturday night having been sacrificed I try to convince myself I will have fun…

Wednesday arrives and I’m midway through my working week and midway through the run up to the day of my date. I’m finding if I don’t think about it I don’t care. And somewhat surprisingly I successfully manage this at sporadic intervals. When I get home however and Emmerdale fails to consume my attention with one of its complicated love triangles, I can’t help but think of the probable nightmare I have got myself into.

I tell myself what the girls at work have told me. It’s exciting, it’s different and he might turn out to be the love of my life. But I’m not convinced. It’s not exciting; exciting is going to a Josh Groban concert and having him sing “Awake” to me, and different is going to work wearing a skirt instead of jeans and as for the love of my life? If I lived in Emmerdale, then maybe.

I think it’s because I know nothing about him. If I knew something more than his name I would feel better, so I text Craig to get him to do some digging, but he comes back with,
“Chill out you joker. Put channel 4 on at nine o clock and watch the Undateables.”
The Undateables. The Undateables he says. Now considering that for a long time I have considered myself to be undateable, I am less than impressed with this suggestion. The Undateables!

I’m also less than impressed with the handful of people who have asked me how I will feel if the date with Aki doesn’t go well and it turns out he doesn’t want to see me again…Excuse me? If he doesn’t want to see me again? Now I don’t like to blow my own trumpet and when I do it doesn’t happen very often but let’s be honest now, I am quite a nice person, I can talk to anyone about anything and apparently I come highly recommended by Craig’s Aunty and Uncle, so if anyone should be worried about not being seen again it should be Aki, and let’s be clear about something, I am in no way at all thinking that this rendezvous on Saturday night is going to turn into anything other than a simple meeting of two people. For me this is the only way to get people off my back about meeting someone, so this should shut them up for at least a few weeks.

Saturday 21st January. I have sealed my fate, doomsday is upon me. Its date night. I spend the whole day hoping to get a “to the point” text that says,
“Sorry, can’t meet.”
Instead I get one that says
“Just to let you know I’ll be wearing a long grey coat.”
Dammit it’s still on. There’s no “looking forward to meeting you” or “I’ll meet you outside” or “I’m just as nervous as you”. Nothing at all. And I’m hoping he’s playing it cool because if he’s not he’s beginning to look like an unemotional robot.

After my forty-five minute shower and while I’m drying my hair I multitask and text Craig to ask him for a list of things that I am not allowed to talk about. He comes back with,
1) Do not talk about previous dates
2) Do not talk about ex’s
3) Do not talk about the bigger picture, marriage, kids, cars and houses.
I make a mental note and pull out my new top from Monsoon that I had to buy because I don’t go anywhere that requires me to look nice, and therefore I have few items of clothing that fit the bill in a date-style capacity.

The walk from my house to Tap in my head, takes roughly ten minutes, and taking into account the snow that fell three days ago I add on another two minutes. So I set off at approximately 8:15pm. How I manage to arrive outside the door of the pub at 8:20pm, is a complete mystery. Maybe I flew? I have no idea but I’m early and because he’s half Greek I assume he’s like most Mediterranean men and he’s going to be at least five minutes late.

It gets to 8:35pm and I begin to wonder if he’s already inside so I inhale a deep breath and open the door ready to look for someone wearing a long grey coat, all the while repeating to myself,
“What am I doing what am I doing what am I doing???”

Obviously because it’s Saturday night, the entire population of Bolton, have decided to come to Tap and the air is filled with a cloud of body heat and the noise level in the room is like living in my old student house eleven years ago when my six housemates decided to have a food fight after a night out and the screams of laughter and hysterics rang throughout the house like a pack of banshees laughing at Harry Hill’s TV Burp. Painful. And what makes it worse, is every single man in the building looks like they’re wearing a long grey coat. So I walk right back out of the pub and I think, it’s not too late to run. I could easily text him and say I fell in the snow and I’ve hurt myself and I had to go home. It seems like a perfectly plausible idea so I take my phone out of my pocket and as I’m trying to unlock the screen on my HTC the door to the pub opens and a man steps out wearing a long grey coat and he calls my name,
“Kat?” I look up, he’s found me. My split second first impression…? I admit, he’s not really my type. He’s no Russell Crowe or Christopher Meloni and Josh Groban is still number 1 in the running for the title of “husband” but credit where it’s due, he’s not a Troll.

We do the pleasantries, quick hug, smile, nervous laugh, sad but true, and he opens the door for me proving that male chivalry isn’t completely extinct, he also buys me a lemonade and says,
“If you’re not drinking, I won’t either.” And I think that’s thoughtful.

Now bearing in mind Tap is a very small public house and the ale they sell is fairly famous within the town and because there are over a hundred people crammed within its walls, all hope of getting a seat in a corner is shattered and we end up stood by a wall with a ledge that is about three inches wide and only allows enough space to rest our glasses and nothing else. There’s nothing to hang my coat on so I end up keeping it on which is a little annoying because the cloud of body heat is a bit like rising damp and not only that but my £29 Monsoon top isn’t on display. This aside we have a reasonably comfortable spot to stand in and the date gets underway.

First things first, establish the strangeness of the set up, I say,
“So was it not a bit weird when you were just given my number?” He looks at me blankly.
“Given? No I asked for it.” My turn to stare blankly. “My Dad was talking to Pete and Pete was saying he knew a nice Greek girl, thirty, single, good background and educated and has a good job.” I suppose I should smile at this point, I should be flattered for all the nice things that have just been said about me; but, remember the supermarket? Remember the shoppers? Because that’s my GDA he’s just listed!

He sips his lemonade like he’s the host on Mastermind. And I swear I can almost see him take out a stack of a thousand sheets of A4 paper and a clicky Parker pen and written on the sheets of paper are a selection of questions which I must answer correctly in order to go through to the next round. And next to each question are two tick boxes. If he likes my answer he will put a tick in the “YES” box that says “Let’s do this again sometime,” if my answer is disappointing he will put a cross in the “NO” box that stands for “I’d rather not see you again.”

After another professional sip of his lemonade, I sense the lights go down low and the spotlight blinds me.
“So do you not drink at all?” He asks.
“Do you?” That’s it, answer a question with a question, people hate that.
“Well, I’m not tee-total or anything, I do drink but I’m not a binge drinker.”
“I’m tee-total.” I can see his clicky pen hover over the “NO” box.
“So is your full name Katerina?”
“No, Katerini. It’s got an “I” at the end. I’m named after the place.”
“Oh yes, I know it, it’s just outside of Thessaloniki.” I cough, reach for my lemonade and as I glug I take out my own imaginary tick box sheet and I scrawl a large “X” in the “NO” box next to nothing because he’s just said “Thessaloniki” with a Greek accent!! He’s from Bolton, he’s clearly northern and he’s just slipped in a Greek word with a Greek accent. He sounds ridiculous. Next he’ll be testing out my Greek to see how good it is.
“Do you speak much Greek at home?” See. Told you.
“No, my parents are separated.”
“What about with your Dad?”
“No.” He puts a cross in the box next the question about my bi-lingual abilities.

He talks about his sister Catherina, with whom he tells me, I share a name day. I say,
“Yes, I know.” And I remind him my name ends with an “I” and doesn’t have a “H” in it. I know it’s petty but I can already see this date heading down a slippery slope that will take me home in record time.
“I like the cinema.” He says, “I like going out with my friends.” I nod. “I like staying in and I like going out.” I try not to yawn. If I look at my watch I’ll look rude. So I try and calculate in my head how many painful minutes I’ve spent so far listening to Average Joe list his mediocre hobbies. “I work part time at Wetherspoons in town but I’m looking for work in a warehouse. I don’t know what warehouse but I’m looking for full time work.” I tick a box for him wanting to work.
“Do you work full time?” He asks.
“Yes.” I get a tick.
“What do you do?”
“Admin in a Travel company.” Tick, I assume because it’s respectable and not too ambitious.
“I like going on holidays, do you?” I work for a travel company, I would have thought that was a no brainer, but I give him a tick for wanting to travel and I list the countries I’ve been to,
“Australia, Canada, USA, Norway, Italy, France, Spain, Portugal, I could go on, there’s loads.”
“I’ve only been to Europe, but I love going to Greece.” I put a cross in the box. “In fact I’m going next week for a few days to see my Yaya.” Bigger cross, he just said “Yaya” with a Greek accent. “And I want to retire to Greece eventually.” Even bigger cross, partly because this isn’t in my plan and partly because he’s just broken one of Craig’s rules, he’s just talked about the bigger picture.

He continues to drone on about his family, his divorced parents and their new partners, and how successful his sister is. I tell him my brother was a competitor in Bolton’s Strongest Man a year ago. He isn’t interested.
“And I really want to buy a house in Salford.” He says,
“Really?” Cross in a box.
“Yeah, they’re cheap in Salford.”
“There’s a reason for that, it’s full of crime.”
“Well, I’m saving for a deposit and I’ve already got a car.” Another one of Craig’s rules broken. “Do not talk about cars and houses.”

“So do you go on many dates?” Without my noticing he has somehow slipped on a pair of imaginary ice skates and the ice he’s standing on is beginning to thin. But since I have nothing to hide, I say,
“No, not at all.” I get a tick.
“How long have you been single?” I can feel the ice under his weight begin to crack, but I answer the question regardless of whether I think it is appropriate or not.
“Three years.” I get a tick. Clearly I don’t “put it about.”
“And how many boyfriends have you had?” Rule number 2 on Craig’s list of what not to talk about broken. But somehow he manages to perch himself on the edge of the hole he’s about to fall into. And considering this is a first date I’m thinking that really I should not be expected to answer such inappropriate question, so why the words form and slip from my lips is a mystery.
“Two.” I get a tick.
“And how long did those relationships last?” I can’t believe he’s just asked me that. I poke the side of my leg to make sure I am where I think I am and not in a Psychiatrist’s office at the age of twenty-one, being asked if my issue with self-harm is the result of watching an episode of Hollyoaks and struck me as a good idea. And I know full well I shouldn’t answer that question because that really isn’t any of his business.
“One lasted four months and the second one was seven months.” I should tell him I’ve got a commitment problem. That will really rattle his bones.
“Oh so not long then.” He nods, looks me up and down. “Yeah, Pete said you were a nice girl.” I’m not sure of what to make of that but I assume it got me a tick. And I’m thinking I’m getting one too many ticks here, so I think it’s time to bring out the big guns.

“Did Pete tell you anything else about me?”
“Like what?”
“Well, anything really. Did he tell you anything about me that might be important?” His mouth twists and I think,
“Yey! I can be home in twenty minutes and still catch Law and Order. Christopher Meloni here I come.”
“Well, I think I know what you mean, but I don’t want to say the wrong thing so you tell me and then I’ll tell you if that’s what Pete told me.”
“I’m Bipolar.” I say. No messing about. I’m not exactly enjoying myself and he hasn’t bowled me over with his charm and charisma and I suddenly realise I haven’t even cracked a single smile that wasn’t to disguise my horror.

I think back to Toronto and picture Alex, and remember how buying a CD and having a funny accent brought the attention of someone I would never have expected and how our conversation began with laughter even before either of us spoke.

Looking at Aki, who at this point I’m beginning to think is incapable of actually having the ability to smile never mind laugh, I can see we don’t share the same sense of humour, if he even has one at all.

“Yes, Pete mentioned that.” He says this with such a grave and serious tone that I’m not sure if he’s going to say,
“But I don’t know what it is so therefore it doesn’t exist and isn’t a problem.”

Or

“I’m terrified of crazy people and I think we should end the date here.”

I know which one I would prefer but then he says,
“I didn’t know what it was at first so I went on the internet and did some research and I want you to know that it makes no difference to what I think of you at all.” I can’t believe my ears. Technically I should be thinking, “Aw that’s such a lovely and kind and caring thing to say” but instead I’m thinking “Well that backfired didn’t it?” So I go deeper.
“I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been in hospital. The most recent being just over a year ago.” He nods.
“Well I was in there for a couple of weeks myself for OCD and depression.” Straight away I wonder if this is a turning point and now that we’ve discovered some kind of common ground he can maybe redeem himself and show me he has a sensitive side.
“So how long was the gap between your two relationships?” Clearly no sensitive side then, and I’m back to being interviewed.
“Four years. How many girlfriends have you had?” The gloves are off. Fighting fire with fire and all that.
“I didn’t really start dating until I was twenty four, but there’s been a lot since then.” I try not to choke on my lemonade, obviously he gets a cross for this. “And I am seeing someone at the moment.” Somehow I manage not to spit out a fine mist of lemonade at him. Alram bells! Alarm bells! Ring! Ring! Ring! Did anyone hear that? I say,
“Eh?”
“But it’s not going to last, it’s not going anywhere and she knows it’s going to end so it’s not cheating.”
“S’cuse me?” I know now would be the perfect time to leave. I should really put my scarf back on and find the door where I came in but the mass of people surrounding me are shielding my exit. “You’re seeing someone.” In my head I take out a marker pen the size of a paint brush and I colour my tick box sheet in from corner to corner in red. He’s blown it.
“Yeah but like I said, it’s going to end.”
“And why’s that?”
“Well she’s older than me and I want children and she doesn’t because she’s already got a child.” I automatically assume the woman he’s involved with is in her mid to late thirties with a seven year old or something and he’s talking about her but I can’t hear what he’s saying, his lips are moving but I can’t follow what’s coming out of them because all I can hear is my own voice saying,
“Did he just say that? Did he really just say he’s seeing someone?”

The status of this date has now changed to “disaster” and I’m trying to think of a way to leave. The easiest option would be to just walk, but my curiosity is far too controlling and I find myself wanting to hear his explanation.
“Does she definitely not want anymore children?”
“Well, she’s older, a lot older and she can’t have anymore and I want them, I want two.” Another rule broken, “Do not talk about children”
“How much older is she?” I’m thinking maybe early forties with a teenager.
“It’s gonna sound really bad but she’s had a hard life.”
“How old is she?”
“She’s fifty one.”

Picture Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck when they catch sight of Elmer Fudd chasing after them with a shot gun. If you can visualise the image of their eyes popping right out of their sockets, that’s probably the jist of my expression. There’s hardly anything in my glass now but I sip at it anyway and think “I really miss alcohol.” Right now I would love to down a glass of wine, whack it back on the ledge and walk right out the door while singing Nancy Sinatra’s “These boots are made for walking.”

“Fifty-one. Oh. That’s a fair bit of an age gap you’ve got going on there.” It’s all I can think of.
“I’m just being honest with you. I’m just saying how it is.” He says “I know it sounds bad.” And I just think,
“You’re on a date with a girl when you’ve got a girlfriend. It doesn’t get much worse.”
“And I know it sounds bad again but she’s got a son who’s thirty-one.” Cue Elmer Fudd with his shotgun again, my eyes are poking right out of my head.
“He’s older than you!” And I point at him when I say it.
“Yeah I know. It sounds really bad but she’s a really nice woman and she’s had a really hard life, she lives in a council house and she’s on benefits because she can’t work because she’s got a bad back.”
“That’s a shame.” And I’m sincere. I am.
“She got married when she was really young and her husband beat her and then she met another guy and he was a drunk and abusive.”
“That’s a real shame.” My sincerity is beginning to thin.
“And I’m going to end it in February, I don’t know why in February but I’m going to end it then.” This is all getting a bit surreal now; it’s like one of my Quetiapine induced dreams, vivid yet bizarre. “And she knows I’m out with you tonight.” From somewhere in the room I swear I can hear,

“Where’s vat pesky wabbit?” and “Run Forest run!”

And I start thinking of the poor woman who he tells me is from Thailand and I’m imagining the conversation they may have had in the run up to this Saturday night.

Poor Lady – What are you doing on Saturday night?
Aki – I’m going out with a girl.
Poor Lady – But I thought I was your girl?
Aki – Listen sister, I’m a Greek man, I want marriage, kids, a car and a house in Salford and I can’t get that with you.

I can’t stop staring at him, I probably look like a cod fish, droopy mouth and wide eyes, and he goes on again,
“I care about her and I’d like to stay friends with her after February but that would depend on the person I’m with.” Instantly I think,
“And it ain’t gonna be me sunshine.”
“Like I said she’s had a really tough life with men in the past so really I’m just doing this so that she can have a nice experience with someone.”
“How thoughtful” I think. “Really?”
“I’m just being honest with you. That’s all, I’m just being honest.” I empty my glass of lemonade and I’m tempted to suck on the slice of lemon to get rid of the imaginary bad taste in my mouth and place it back on the ledge. It’s time to look at the watch. “Do you want another drink?”
“Hell no!” I scream in my head, and for once my mouth obeys my instruction.
“Erm, I’d better get going really, I’m at work tomorrow and I have to be up at 7:00am.” I don’t, that’s a lie, I’m getting up at 8:30am.
“Oh, right, okay then.” As we leave the time on my watch reads 10:20pm and I’m wondering how the evening lasted so long. I keep thinking,

“I missed Take Me Out for this. I missed out on two hours of novel editing time for this and worse still…I missed out on Law and Order: SVU and Christopher Meloni in favour of two hours of boredom, listening to a half Greek moron fire intrusive questions at me like rifle bullets.”

The frozen air hits me with a feeling of freedom, I didn’t realise until he held the door open for me how trapped I felt inside, literally and metaphorically.
“So in February shall I give you a call?” He’s either kidding or he’s saying it because he thinks it’s something I want to hear.
“Do you want a lift home?” Obviously I decline, he pulls his keys out of his pocket as I’m adjusting my bobble hat and I tell him I hope dumping his unfortunate, crippled older woman goes okay in February. And when I offer him a limp embrace because I don’t know what else to do, I look into his eyes and I see a vision of my future that is an exact replica of my family’s past.

I see a Greek man looking for a woman to become his wife and bear his children. There is nothing in his eyes that says he likes me. He doesn’t like me for the Monsoon top he never got to see and he isn’t impressed by my bobble hat. He doesn’t want to get to know my quirky scatterbrain personality, he isn’t even interested in the set of notebooks I told him I have lined on up on my bookshelf with a million novels I’ve written over the years.

I don’t feel sad and I’m not upset, and I’m not disappointed because I know I was right all along. He’s Greek and that was never going to go in his favour.

* * *
“He’s not even single!” I laugh because it’s funny if you think about it.
“What a joker.” Craig says.
“He’s beyond that, massively beyond that.”
“So when’s date number two?”
“If the world was to come to an end and the only way to save it was to go on a second date with that idiot I’d let the world end. Tell your aunty and uncle thanks, but I’m still looking for my Rocky.”

As I skip over the mounds of ice and slush I can already hear the comments I will be subjected to now this night that was supposed to be “exciting” has ended in disaster.

“I know it was a rubbish date, but when you do go on a good date you’ll know it’s good.”
“You should go on Plenty if Fish, that way you can vet them before you meet them.”

In my head I roll my tick box sheet into a ball and throw it over my shoulder; it lands on top of a mound of slush, a car passes driving right over the bump and flattens it and I imagine I’ll never see Aki and his tick box sheet again.

Fast forward…. February 21st 9:10am

I’m at work. My phone vibrates on my desk.
Aki – Hi, how are you?

Credit where it’s due, he kept to his word, it’s almost the end of February and I presume he has ended things with his sugar mummy.

I press delete.