Hellooooo! Sorry, it’s been a while I know. I have been busy and just not in the mood to write lately. But tonight I’m in the mood to rant!
I was meant to go on a date tonight with a very sexy (supposedly) French man. We met on Tinder last week and after chatting for a few days on the app, I decided to give him my number and ask him to call so I could do the voice test before moving to a face to face date.
That call actually didn’t go well. When I answered he said hello and that it was ‘Mr A’. I responded with a ‘hey how are you?’
He must have misheard that as he replied with ‘you know I’m Mr A, we were just talking on Tinder, I live in…’ like I had so many Mr A’s that I had just given my number to that there could possibly have been some confusion. Okaaaaay….
The call continued and I could hardly understand him at all. I think he said that he had been in Australia for nine years, but his accent was very heavy. It was the awkward type of conversation where after you’ve said ‘pardon’, ‘sorry’ and ‘what’ and still don’t know what he said after three attempts that you do a little giggle and move on. We cut the call short after discussing catching up soon and I couldn’t help but think I may need subtitles on the date.
By Tuesday we’ve agreed via txt to meet up on Sunday night. By Thursday we’ve agreed the meeting place and have been chatting some more, including him sending me some pics of the view of the Vivid light festival from his apartment with him suggesting that he would invite me over, but he understands that I probably wouldn’t be keen to do that on a first date. You think?
Sunday lunchtime comes and I shoot a txt over to him to confirm that we are still on for our date that evening. He replies immediately saying yes and reconfirms the meeting details for 5:30pm. It’s all sorted.
I start to get ready about 3:30pm as I’m planning on catching the bus into the city about 4:40pm. It’s one of those days when your makeup just works and you like what you see in the mirror. I’ve started doing my hair when my phone chirps from the bedroom a little after 4pm. It’s him.
“Hi SSIS, sorry for the short notice but I have to cancel, I apologise”
WTF?!? Late notice and no elaborate excuse as to why?! I expect to see an excuse of the calibre of my grandmother died, or my dog ate a tube of superglue, or I fell down the stairs and broke my face for pulling the pin so late.
I reply “Oh…” giving him the hint that I’m expecting more than that.
He replies “I am really sorry, but I am feeling like shit and tired”.
Tired? Tired!!! Everyone is fucking tired. All the fucking time. I just reply “Ok” and leave it at that.
I finish doing my hair, but decide that a night in is in order and also that I’m in the mood to cook. I pull out my Mum’s recipe for Chicken Pot Pies and head out to the shops to grab the ingredients.
Whilst I’m out I see a crazy cool sunset with the sky all sorts of pink and orange and the pies I made were pretty damn good if I say so myself. So perhaps it wasn’t all bad that my plans changed.
Frenchie continues to try and make himself feel better by justifying his sudden ‘illness’ sending messages that he has been in bed sleeping, that he had a big night last night and is really hungover, and that he should remember that he isn’t 20 anymore.
Whatevs dude. I unmatched him on Tinder…but with a tiny pang of sadness seeing he was smokin’ hot…