Have you ever met someone who seemed perfect the first time you met them, only to realise later that you might have been under some sort of temporary insanity? Like, was I drunk? Did I accidentally slip and give myself concussion? Or were they just really good at hiding their true, less-than-charming selves? It's like unwrapping a beautifully wrapped gift, only to find a half-eaten mouldy sandwich inside.
Recently, I found myself on a delightful date that felt like something out of a romantic movie. We met at this charming little pub, the kind of place that glows with warm light and cozy corners. My date? Tall, undeniably handsome, with piercing blue eyes that seemed to sparkle in the candlelight. We shared a delicious dinner and countless laughs, each moment more enchanting than the last. He was the perfect blend of charming and gentlemanly, with a sense of humour that kept me smiling all night.
We were both keen to see each other again, so I invited him over for dinner a few days later. As soon as he walked through the door, I had to do a double-take. The tall, good-looking guy with piercing blue eyes I met at the pub had transformed into someone who looked like he'd been living in the woods for a week. His clothes had more holes than a block of Swiss cheese, his beard looked like it was auditioning for a role in "Castaway," and his hair—well, let’s just say it looked like it had lost a battle with a hedge. Maybe it’s just me, but I find it a little weird to show up like this on the second date when you’re still supposed to be making a good impression. Strike one.
Trying to salvage the situation, I poured him a glass of wine and got back to making dinner—a cheesy steak sandwich with onion gravy, salad, and truffle and parmesan fries. As I was sautéing the onions, he asked if he could open the cheese. I thought, "How sweet, he's going to help me prep!" But instead of layering it onto the ciabatta like a civilized human, he starts devouring the slices straight from the packet like a ravenous raccoon. Now, don’t get me wrong—we’ve all had those moments when we’ve sneaked a bit of cheese or ham straight from the fridge, but when you're at someone else's house, on your second date, and they're cooking you dinner? Maybe hold off on the snack attack. Strike two.
Dinner went by in a blur—mainly because he inhaled it faster than I could put it on the table. But hey, at least he wasn’t chewing with his mouth open, so there’s that. After dinner, we settled on the couch to watch a movie, and just as the opening credits rolled, he let out a fart so potent it could’ve registered on the Richter scale. My sofa literally vibrated. I sat there, stunned, trying to decide if I should laugh, cry, or just launch myself out the window. Strike three. I'm done.
Needless to say, I declined his next offer of a meet up.
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