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I'm a single girl, get me out of here!
continued from page 1
The soothing sounds of church bells bathed the bedroom the following morning - along with the unmistakable smell of vomit. After too many drinks, Greg had been sick all over his sheets.
Even worse, he was intending to leave the hotel without saying a word. After a death glare from me, he reluctantly muttered something about having a 'little accident' as we were checking out.
But did Greg get the hint that I didn't fancy him any more, when I then practically threw myself in front of an oncoming taxi to get home? Judging by the text he sent me an hour later, 'Thanks for a lovely weekend, hope we can do it again,' I think not. His telephone number has now been erased from my phone - if only memories were that easy.
I have been accused of being picky in the past, but a girl's got to have her standards. At 32, I'm realistic enough to know that Mr Right doesn't equal Mr Perfect. Not phoning on time I can live with, being forced to hear about someone's toilet habits is just wrong.
As is finding out that a 45-year-old man has a collection of cuddly teddy bears, that a loaded TV producer paid for our romantic dinner date with his company's card, and - a common one this - he's on a 'break' from his girlfriend. Roughly translated, he means for the night, so he can get you into bed.
Although I still get the odd shiver when thinking about my diary of dating disasters, there's a smile playing across my face. Perhaps when I'm hitched like my married mate - with the one-way highway of monogamy stretching out before me - I'll long for the unknown adventure of a date like she does.
But for now, I'm still so rattled by my experience with Greg, the only date I'll be having in the future is with my plastic friend, Miss Jessica Rabbit...
*Names have been changed to protect their identity
How bad was your worst date? Spill the beans on your dating disasters
The soothing sounds of church bells bathed the bedroom the following morning - along with the unmistakable smell of vomit. After too many drinks, Greg had been sick all over his sheets.
Even worse, he was intending to leave the hotel without saying a word. After a death glare from me, he reluctantly muttered something about having a 'little accident' as we were checking out.
But did Greg get the hint that I didn't fancy him any more, when I then practically threw myself in front of an oncoming taxi to get home? Judging by the text he sent me an hour later, 'Thanks for a lovely weekend, hope we can do it again,' I think not. His telephone number has now been erased from my phone - if only memories were that easy.
I have been accused of being picky in the past, but a girl's got to have her standards. At 32, I'm realistic enough to know that Mr Right doesn't equal Mr Perfect. Not phoning on time I can live with, being forced to hear about someone's toilet habits is just wrong.
As is finding out that a 45-year-old man has a collection of cuddly teddy bears, that a loaded TV producer paid for our romantic dinner date with his company's card, and - a common one this - he's on a 'break' from his girlfriend. Roughly translated, he means for the night, so he can get you into bed.
Although I still get the odd shiver when thinking about my diary of dating disasters, there's a smile playing across my face. Perhaps when I'm hitched like my married mate - with the one-way highway of monogamy stretching out before me - I'll long for the unknown adventure of a date like she does.
But for now, I'm still so rattled by my experience with Greg, the only date I'll be having in the future is with my plastic friend, Miss Jessica Rabbit...
*Names have been changed to protect their identity
How bad was your worst date? Spill the beans on your dating disasters
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