Friday, 27 September 2013

Lesson Learnt...Thorpe Park through his eyes...

From what I had picked up over the past few dates...number 5 was a proclaimed internet geek.  He was a walking encyclopedia about the world of websites and had an abundance of knowledge and experience into how to maximise their potential - could he have come at a better time? I decided I would cleverly carry out some discreet fishing for my blog's benefit, so over dinner I moved onto the topic of building websites and blogs...

Intrigued as to why I was so inquisitive about his line of work, which is usually the last topic of conversation anyone wants to discuss...he started fishing himself...and I started to squirm. #girlcantlie




After much probing I brushed over it admitting I had a blog- about fitness.  I was pretty confident he would never find it because 1. it didn't actually exist, 2. it wasn't in any way linked to my name, 3. we weren't friends on Facebook.


Needless to say the next morning I received a message that he was dedicating his day in pursuit of my blog. Great.  I wished him good luck and went back to my bus journey.  


I am going to say it was no longer than 5 minutes before I received the following: 




Yes....he definitely was.  Crap. He wasn't a geek, he was a genius and there was absolutely nothing I could do from the upper deck of the number 14.  My mind went blank but I started mentally sifting through my blog - I was pretty sure I hadn't given him any bad press?  


I burst into the office and immediately logged on to re-read what number 5 was undoubtedly already reading.  Even if it wasn't bad press,  he was about to get to know me on a whole different level.......It is safe to say I had had a shocker. 




All credit to the guy he took it relatively well but obviously there was a few questions that had to be answered and I think he wished he had rather not read it.

Now he knew about it what on earth was I going to do? My dating career had been scuppered because he would now have access to my every move.  A decision had to be made...it was game over for my blog...or for him. I really had out done myself this time as I was actually enjoying dating him, it had been a lot of fun.  

I racked my brains how I could make the best out of a bad situation and for those of you who know me, I often push my luck...so there was only one thing for it...I had to ask him to give you his version of Thorpe Park...and he agreed.

Post event when I informed him the reason for my disappearing was due to Cystitis, he admitted that he had to google it as could only assume I had just told him I had an STD. I was pretty confident his version of events would make a good read.  


So here you have it, all credit to the guy he has even added pictures


Thorpe Park through the eyes of date number 5...



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I’m 30 years old, it’s the wrong side of 8.00am on a Sunday morning, and my alarm is going off.

I’m getting up at 7.50am on a Sunday to go to Thorpe Park and I’m going there with a girl I met on the internet. Who I met for the first time 3 days ago, and who I’d spent a grand total of 4 hours with.  1 of which, was spent trying to subtly look at her boobs while trying to figure out what the implications of Gareth Bale signing for Real Madrid would have on my fantasy football team.




This is what happens when you download tinder, a dating app I reluctantly downloaded, following assurances from friends that it would be an Eden of normal hot single women.

Having exchanged a few entertaining messages with what I hoped was a hot blonde girl but being the internet, realised could just as easily be a middle aged sex offender on day release, I hesitantly agreed to go on first date.



I picked an appropriate venue; close to my house to minimise the thinking time just in case she got drunk and offered it up, not too pricey the cries of sexual equality go very quiet when a bill arrives and relatively casual start too big then it’s going to hurt if you have to up the stakes for date 2 and 3.

When she walked in, I was met with both relief, she wasn’t a middle aged man carrying a roll of plastic sheeting and handkerchief of chlorophyll, and a hint of excitement, she was unquestionably hot. Up until this point I had been harboring concerns that she might not look like her pictures which, refreshingly weren’t from a shopping centre “modeling studio” where she got some professional photos taken with a voucher she and her mates got off groupon.  Better still she actually resembled her photos. Photo’s that unlike every other girl on Tinder, weren’t of herself in massive sunglasses from a holiday 2 years ago, back when they had blonder hair and a tan - all with questionable instagram filters applied.


As first dates go it was good.  She didn’t cry, she didn’t drone on about some menial job, and she didn’t regale me with painful stories about how she knows a z list celebrity that gets her into clubs. Consequently when it came to picking up the bill I wasn’t filled with resentment – I’d actually had a good time.

When I got home, conscious that as a girl, she would undoubtedly be plagued with insecurities, I text her to let her know that I’d had indeed had a good time and that I would like to go out again. And after a series of texts we agreed to a second date, which despite the anxiety that accompanies any form of social commitment, was actually something I was pleasantly looking forward to. The next text put pay to that congenial feeling of anticipation when I read the words “fancy doing something Sunday day”?

Several things instantly come to mind when the prospect of a ‘day date’ arises:

1. It pretty much removes any prospect of sex…
2. Alcohol will play a limited part, reaffirming point 1 but also meaning I will not be able to rely on this to provide me with a personality.
3. I’m going to have to think of something good to do, something that includes a distraction incase the conversation starts to thin out.

Following a solid 2 hours googling different variations of “day dates London”, thinking I had rescued what had the potential be a horrendous event, I put forward my suggestion: seeing off the start of the round the world yacht race – the rationale being I would come across as sporty, original and a member of the elite yachting social scene.

This turned out to be a pointless exercise as she had seemingly mistaken me for a 17 year old A-level student and had decided that Thorpe Park would be a good idea… I mean who doesn’t want to spend their Sunday queuing alongside 16 kids all called Kayden only to get violently thrown around for 3 minutes whilst hoping today is not the day that one of the thousands of moving parts responsible for preventing a painful death, malfunctions.

So back to the morning of the date. Before the situation in hand has fully had time to register, I’m greeted with a text informing me that she’s “not feeling 100%”. Great, any distant hope of sex has now completely disappeared.


 and furthermore she has effectively just informed me that she was going to spend the day whining about a hangover.

Despite the text, I picked her up. Skillfully navigating the awkward 1st phone call with an eloquent yet casual “hey, I’m outside”. The door opens and a flicker of hope breaks through the mounting sense of impending disaster as I’m reminded that she is indeed very hot and I realise that she’s wearing a white dress. White dress + water rides = see- through clothing.

This is the ‘tough mudder’ of dates. An endurance event, interspersed with obstacles and topped off with the threat of injury.




The first obstacle was to overcome the 40 minute car drive, throughout which we needed to try and maintain a comfortable level of conversation, while she subconsciously scrutinizes my driving and simultaneously tries to value my car to decide if I can support her financially.

First obstacle done, we reach the park, and thankfully conversation flowed nicely. I’m almost at the point where I’m finding myself having a good time. Whilst queuing one of the main activities at Thorpe Park amongst the poorly modified hatchbacks with oversized exhausts, she announces she will “meet me in there” before jumping out of the car and disappearing into the crowds of single parents and their 4.3 children.

At this point, I’m slightly concerned, I put the potential reasons for this sudden and dramatic departure to the very darkest corner of mind, I decided to put this down to my powerful sexual presence – it must be too much for her.

Having found a space amongst the lines of 14 year old Impreza’s and Honda civics and having momentarily questioned wearing moccasins when every other person had seemingly gone for tracksuit and trainers, I found her, and we made our way into the park.

                               

The next 4 hours were a cycle of; trying to hold on to some form of masculinity whilst being catapulted through the air, upside down, at unnatural speeds.





Ensued by waiting outside a loo for 10 minutes thinking about anything other than what was going on.

Mercifully, having now not eaten for nearly 6 hours, this cycle was temporarily interrupted when we stopped for lunch.

This break offered the opportunity to take stock, and despite the location, the constant loo breaks and having being deprived of nutrition for a quarter of a day - I was actually having a good time, and even starting to think ahead to the prospect of a third date.

After lunch we both seemed to relax and having recovered from the uncomfortable revelation that I might not be the best bloke she’d ever met, we seemed to both enjoy the afternoon together.

By the time we were outside her house at the end of the day I had accepted the fact that I’d had a really good time and that momentarily I allowed myself to enjoy this feeling before immediately turning to a more natural state of anxiety when I realised… how do you follow this with a 3rd date.


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