Speed Dating
by Juliet E
It’s Tuesday night, and my friend Tom and I are ready for our evening of speed dating.
Downstairs at the tapas bar, people are eyeing each other nervously at the reception desk.
At the bar, Tom shakes his head when I ask for a small white wine.
“For God’s sake, make it a large one,” he sighs.
 Then the bell goes– let the dating begin!
While the guys shuffle from table to table after each six-minute interlude that is laughingly described as a date, we girls simply stay put as the chaps stroll up and vie for our affections.
I’ve thought hard about what questions to put to my potential suitors, and canvassed opinions from work colleagues. (Always starting with the words “I’m not going speed dating, but if I was, what should I ask?”)
I have come up with the following:
What are your passions?
What was the last book you read?
How would you spend a free Sunday?
Luke doesn’t read anything. He lives in Basingstoke (without contest Britain’s most boring town.)
After our brief association is brought to an end by the bell, I haven’t the slightest idea of what to make of Luke. But there’s time to ponder whether to classify him as a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ or a ‘friend’, as I have to sit out the next two dates thanks to a lack of ladies. Still, it’s not long before date number two rolls up.
After him (he was so non-descript that I cannot remember a thing about the man, including his name), the fellows pass by in a bewildering stream, each date indistinguishable from the one before. I soon become a little bored and desperate for a break from the forced smiles and endless polite questions – polite, but pointless, for I really don’t think I am going to be seeing any of these people again.
There’s an estate agent – he may be able to sell houses, but he fails to sell himself to me. There’s Phil the Chef, who, when asked what he is passionate about, barks: “Cleanliness!” I fear he will whip out a carving knife at any moment. Then there’s Paul (sporting some very cute dimples), who seems quite nice.
It’s a relief to meet Peter, a scientist, who has at least read a book in the last decade. He’s a chemist, but did anything fizz between us? Sadly not.
Eventually, there is a break, offering a chance to down more alcohol and catch up with Tom, who is faring better with his girls than I am with my guys. But soon the bell is calling us back to the frontline of dating action.
A couple of people seem halfway acceptable, but by now I’m beyond caring. Jimmy, for example, works in the same industry as me, but we have little else in common. We part with thinly disguised relief.
Hilariously, I am paired up with Tom for my final date. He tells me he has been having a great time, as I shake my head in bewilderment.
I look back at my score card, trying in vain to put names to faces.
“Fancy getting some French fries on the way home?” Tom asks.
“Ooh, lovely,” I reply, doing a Rumplestiltskin jig of delight.
Suddenly, life doesn’t seem so bad after all. Later, I log on to find that I have no ticks. Nichts, zilch, nada, nothing. Not one of them even wants to be my friend!
But I don’t care. We had French fries on the way home.
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