First Date Ever

As its valentine’s day I thought I would write something topical (I do love being topical), and what better topic than dates. First dates are terrible things, spinach ends up in your teeth even if all you eat is vanilla ice cream, and there’s the problem over the bill and the seating and the walking to your door and the whole trial brings me out in a cold sweat.

This story isn't actually about my first date EVER. But we’ll get to that.

I was excited to meet Bristol guy again. He’s my ‘one that got away’ and after a few years of being out of touch and dating other people we were having a casual coffee. Totally casual, nothing to fuss over. So casual that I was wearing heels. And jeans I had had to lie on the floor to get on. And spanks (don’t ever wear spanks by the way. I felt like a piece of ginger cake my grandma had wrapped in Clingfilm to keep fresh.)

Obviously having just casually thrown on some clothes and make-up and a 3 hour hair do I was running a little late. So as I parked the car and turned off the music I had been singing along to at the top of my voice (with actions, oh yes), I noticed that I really needed to get a wiggle on. So I hopped out the car and locked it behind me.

It wouldn't lock... But why?! At first it was weird. Then it was a bit irritating. Then it was a bloody catastrophe and my heels were starting to hurt. What the bloody hell was bloody wrong with the bloody car!?

Well it turns out I hadn't shut the car door properly. Oops. Bit of a ditzy moment that I would be glossing over in the preliminary ‘how was your journey’ chat. So I tottered over to the ticket machine thankful that no one was around to see.

And then I didn't have any change.

Here’s the thing about historic market towns. They’re closed on Sundays. They don’t have any useful shops only gift shops and coffee houses. And they don’t give change for a tenner to park in their stupid car parks.

Shame no one was around.

Now quite uncomfortable in the heels and spanks I very quickly teetered to the mall entrance.. I would have to run and buy something VERY QUICKLY get some change clatter back to the ticket machine hop over to the car put the ticket in and hobble to my date. Which I was already 5 minutes late for.

The first shop I came to was an Anne Summers. This was not ideal. I didn't want Bristol guy to think I was ready to skip right to the stale relationship that needed spicing up stage. Especially as I was wearing spanks. Ten minutes late. Druckers; Hobbs; art gallery: these were all very bad shops.

Oh thank god – a New Look.

I dashed inside and headed to the jewellery. I stopped and had a little look at the shoes because I'm a girl then shook myself and grabbed an ugly spiky bangle. In the 30 seconds it took me every girl in New Look decided they were ready to make their purchase. I stood at the back of a 6 person queue and felt desperate. So when the woman next to me said that I looked a little bit flushed I spouted out ‘well I'm late for my first date’. In MY head this sounded like first date with a new guy. In hers and everyone else’s in the store it sounded like I was a 24 year old woman who was having her very first ever date. They parted like the red sea, I got my change and as I was running out the store the woman behind the counter yelled “good luck on your first ever date!”

I clattered back to the ticket machine hopped over to the car put the ticket in and hobbled to my date. Which I was now 20 minutes late for.

On the plus side, he’s coming round this weekend :)

Dance as though EVERYONE is watching…outfit faux pas

Having been away dancing this weekend it’s bought to mind some utterly mortifying moments in my dancing life…

For the muggles that aren't perhaps aware – I do a lot of Jive and blues dancing. The best way to imagine this is the film Dirty Dancing – from the fun daytime dancing (minus kangaroo hops) to the down and dirty blues dancing they do after hours. Even the teeny chalets they all stay in are the same, plus the sexy Patrick Swayze character ;) We have lots of those oh yes. Shame that when I get to dance with those types things start to crumble…and disaster befalls.

It was a few years ago that my friend and I were at Southport (a dancing weekender) having a proverbial whale of a time. We’d danced, we’d drank, we’d laughed, we’d worn saucepans on our head and decided it was so much fun we’d have a whole party around it next year…there wasn't a lot left to do that weekend but dance blisters onto our feet. I put on a cute little boob tube top (with a strapless bra naturally), a pair of jeans and went out for some nice daytime dances.

Things went so swimmingly at first.

I had a few good dances, got my confidence up and asked someone my friend had suggested as ‘one of the good ones’. He smiled. I smiled. He held out his hand. I took it. We danced. It went beautifully – there was gliding, and nice returns, and leans and break hitting oh yes...

Then suddenly out of nowhere his arm came down along my side. And some desperately lonely fabric in the boob tube responded to his call and followed his arm down and very much below my boob. Uncannily the bra then decided it didn't like being left out in the cold as it were, and followed suit. Which left me with one boob happily bobbing about the place on the dancefloor. In front of about 100 people.  

This would still have been rescueable. If I’d noticed. But I didn't. I really really didn't  I only noticed when I saw a look of horror on my until then quite lovely looking dance partners face. I followed his gaze downwards and instantly wished I had a piercing with which to at least partly justify exposing myself to him ten minutes before lunchtime a la Janet Jackson style.

I hastily mumbled an apology and grabbed every piece of that bloody awful boob tube and traitorous strapless bra and hoisted it all back upwards. But to make matters worse instead of relinquishing his grip on me to let me escape with a scrap of fabric and a complete lack of dignity, he carried on dancing! Perhaps to prove he was a bigger man than to let the sight of one boob before lunchtime stop him from finishing a dance. So amidst scandalous glances from the rest of the room and a top and bra that I had no faith in anymore and was therefore waiting to drop like a hat at any moment we finally finished the dance. Thank Christ.

I think I wore a polo top over a strappy vest with a jumper that evening. 

When in Rome... Part 1

Fan Art courtesy of Luna Staple!

So a while ago I was asked by work to go and help out and be on site support for a client conference in Rome. I was super excited as a) I don’t get the chance to dress smart in my office, and here was the chance to powerdress for like, 3 whole days and b) it’s Rome! I was going to go on an aeroplane and get free food and stay in a fancy shmancy hotel. So I packed my best client facing clothes and went to Birmingham airport.

I’d insisted on getting a transfer flight rather than travel all the way down to London for a direct one, so I had a million pieces of paper with details of airports and phone numbers. I had to get from Brum to Amsterdam and then on to Rome. Plenty of time to deal with it all – I had an hour in Amsterdam airport to chill out, buy some clogs and be on my dutch way. Not difficult. So I chilled out on the plane with my free and very horrible biscuit and horrible but who cares it’s free glass of wine.

We landed a while later at Amsterdam airport, which didn't look very big. I always dress nicely for travel after seeing a woman complete a 12 hour red eye flight to New York in a white linen suit, and deciding although she’d clearly had 40 years experience over me I could easily do the same thing. So I was bedecked in tall wedges and a nice little skirt and blouse number, just in case it turned out dutch men were hot. (They’re not)

I then heard the tanoy announcement from the pilot telling me the weather was lovely and he hoped I’d enjoyed my flight etc etc and the local time was 3pm. Ah. This might be an issue. My next flight was at 3pm. But that wasn't right – I had an hour to chill out and buy those flowers you get in Holland or wherever I was. Err Tulips! Where was my tulip time?

Then I realised.

The transfer hadn't accounted for this godforsaken hell hole to be an hour ahead… I was already late for my next flight with no idea how to get to it and for godssake turn the bloody passenger seatbelt sign off and let me get off this plane and work out where I need to be!! I grabbed my handluggage and jammed to the front with all the other crazy business people (now you know why they all have BO they’re all already late for their next flight)

Although Amsterdam airport is small, it’s a lot bigger when you are running the ENTIRE LENGTH of it in wedges. My name had already been read over the tanoy a few times in broken Amsterdamese, I had to wait for my baggage to come out of the carousel thingy, then recheck in through customs which involved me taking my shoes, my belt my glasses and my tongue bar out, then put back on my wedges, shove my tongue bar in my mouth (not through my tongue- oh no – literally in my mouth and hope I didn't choke) stop to admire the tulips (and stop myself from collapsing– clearly all the wind turbines are stealing the oxygen) and finally, blessedly, reach my gate after shoving a small child out the way on those rolling flat escalator things.

Time for another horrible biscuit, 2 glasses of wine (I’d more than deserved these babies) and a quick text to everyone I’d ever met to tell them my name had been read over an airport tanoy! (That’s practically fame in my book) when we were off again.

We finally arrived at 8 o'clock  I was starving and grubby and wanted to pull my pyjamas out and put them on right there in the airport. I clambered into a taxi, and after a bit of dodgy Italian where the driver nearly took me to the Vatican because I politely enquired where it was (2 hours away from Rome – he must have thought me a really devout person till I started slugging the duty free vino rosso in the back of the taxi) I got to the Raddison hotel.

Ah. Peace. Quiet. Bed. Sleep and room service.

I got collared at the reception by the client. I didn't have time to put my suitcase upstairs I went straight in and worked till 3am. My personal highlight of this first night was meeting the head of the very large and important company (a deceptively jovial Italian) while I had my first (and therefore massive) bite of club sandwich – you know the kind where you take a huge bite and then realise you can’t even more your mouth to chew or swallow and you need to just spend a few minutes trying not to panic and accept that eventually the food will have to exit your mouth somehow.

He seemed to take it all in his stride. After all, he was a deceptively jovial Italian.