Bridget Moans: When online dating goes right
You know what, after my disastrous first tinterweb date, I kept ploughing on through. I wasn’t going to let that one time put me off! And I was an insecure, naive and needy 20 year old, and any male who paid me attention, in my head at least, had the potential to be the man of my dreams. You know, that tall, dark handsome chap, who was worldly and ever so sophisticated. Unlike my sheltered, working class, townie self.
Well blow me. After a couple of months having my profile up on the dating site, who should contact me but possibly THE most handsome man on there. We’ll call him K for now. What a treat, not only was he tall, dark AND handsome, his profile said he was half Turkish, half German, an ex model, and learning to be a TV presenter. That to me was certainly ticking the worldly and sophisticated boxes. K’s photo was professionally done, beautifully shot in black and white – him leaning back in a chair, laughing at some witty tale perhaps cracked by one of his equally sophisticated modelesque pals just out of shot. It was the type of image you would see in a fancy lifestyle magazine.
…OR CUT OUT OF A MAGAZINE.
I protested when my so called friends suggested this. Cut out?! CUT OUT??? Why would anyone do that? No way. ‘He said he’s a model!’ I pleaded. ‘He said he just wanted to meet native English speakers to practice the language! Why would he lie???’ Why indeed. I mean K could barely speak English. Surely if the poor man couldn’t speak the language, he wouldn’t be able to lie in it?! My friends were convinced he had scanned in a page from GQ. He was just far too good to be true! Men like him, didn’t happen to girls like me, surely. But undeterred and now rather curious, I pursued arranging a date with him.
We decided to meet at the Punch and Judy pub in Covent Garden. Having never been there, and being rather unconfident in these things, I said I would call on arrival for him to meet me at the door. For anyone who’s not been to this joint, the pub is on the first floor, overlooking the market, so there wasn’t even a way for me to peer through the windows to suss out the situ. I stood very nervously at the bottom of the stairs, fumbling around in my pocket for my Nokia 3210 (in electric blue, naturally) ready to call K. My friends comments whirling round my head ‘HE CUT IT OUT OF A MAGAZINE’, but damn them! I went for it, and dialled.
“Hi K?! Its Bridget… Are you here? I’m at the bottom of the stairs…”
K eagerly replies. His voice sounding unusually loud,
“Vell dis is goot – I am at zee top of dem!” – Yes, that is German accent, thank you.
Ear still to the phone, I slowly raised my eyes to the top of the stairs. One word. SHOCK. Up those steps, like a stairway to hottie tottie heaven, stood THE MODEL FROM THE PHOTO. Booyaa bitches! That showed my mates. He walked me to the bar and bought me a drink – I certainly needed it, my poor little heart pounding as fast as an excited labradors tail wags. I don’t remember much about the content of our conversations that evening, but I DO remember him dancing me down an alley way where there is a statue of a ballerina, snogging me senseless against a lamp post and us giggling a lot. Dreamy, I tell thee. DREAMY.