The Date

Following my blog the other day about when I started writing, this was was the first story I ever attempted and therefore deserves publishing for that fact alone. It's called.........

The Date

“Oh shiiiiiiiiiiit!!!!”

“Come on now, boy.” I reprimand myself, “it’s only a drink with a girl from work. Just a friendly evening out. It’s not as if you’re a kid fresh from school going out on a first date. You’re a mature adult, so act like one”. I take a deep breath and feel myself in control once more - it doesn't last long.

“Oh shiiiiiiiiiiit!!!!”

Pushing reason to one side I begin to make a start on the mental list of things to do which I had prepared earlier:-

1. Clothing. “What should I wear? I don’t want to look as if I’ve made a real effort, there again I don’t want to look too scruffy”.Quickly scanning the contents of my wardrobes, I realise that the vast amount of money spent on shirts, trousers and jackets has been totally useless. All I really want is just one outfit. An outfit that fits perfectly, removes two inches from my waist and would win a special award from the Style Council. Aha, got it! Pouncing upon a pair of linen trousers I remove them from their hanger. They're perfect, just the look I want. Perfect that is except for the irregular black smudge on the thigh. Damn, damn, damn! Pausing briefly to ponder on the possibility of the Fates conspiring to upset me, I resume my search.

Finally, satisfied that I've made the best possible choice from the few permutations and, pausing briefly to glance at the small mountain of clothing strewn across the bed, I get started on the next item:-

2. Shower and shave. It sounds easy doesn’t it? It should be easy, shouldn’t it? Choice of shower gel wasn’t too bad but what shampoo? Jojoba for lifeless hair, balsam and camomile for frequently washed hair, how about medicated shampoo for fleas and ticks? Oh, no. That was the dog’s. And then there was conditioner. Do the manufacturers actually employ people just to make up the most exotic-sounding ingredients, I wonder? I mean, what is aloe vera? Or indeed, who is she?

Clutching an armful of bottles, I climb into the shower. Mindful of indications for the outcome of the evening, I make a mental bet with myself; “If I can get through the whole shower without the plastic curtain sticking its cold, clammy presence to me like a magnet, then it’ll be alright”. Everything's fine until I bend down to retrieve the soap and then ….. OK, we’ll make it the best of three!

Shower accomplished, it's time for a shave. New blade or not, that's the question? Does a baby-smooth face outweigh the risk of turning up looking like an also-ran in the Olympic Sabre competition? The face in the mirror gazes back at me impassively. “Why do eyebrows have to grow in so many directions? How long have I had that slight slant to my nose?” (Mental note: try and go somewhere quite badly lit). The shave goes quite well. If you look at it philosophically, cutting the head off that spot was probably far more effective than five minutes squeezing with a piece of tissue (and the mirror stays clean that way!).

Hair’s looking nice and shiny. “Bugger it, I’ve forgotten to wash off the conditioner.”

Don’t forget the deodorant. "Should I spray it in those other important little places or should I settle for talcum powder?" I settle for talc although in moderation. After all, should the evening go with a bang (hur hur!), I want to be seen as macho man, not an escapee from the Homepride flour graders!

3. Dressing Once again, I ponder over whether to let the Fates be the arbiter of my evening. If I wear the black silk boxers then you can bet they’ll never see the light of day (or night). There again, the faded M&S jobbies won't go down too well if I manage to score (mental reminder, this is only a drink with a colleague from work, don’t get your hopes up!). I settle for the boxers.

Trousers and shirt go on next before I hunt through my sock drawer for the right socks. Five minutes later, the contents of the drawer join the rest of the clothes on the bed. Where is it? Is there really a fabled land populated by single socks because it sure as hell isn’t in this room? Finding the sock eventually in the airing cupboard tucked in a box of old magazines, I look in the mirror at the finished article (yet another mental note, must write to the shampoo manufacturers and suggest that they find an exotic ingredient that works!).

Last lap now. Time for the final preparations.After shave - onHankie - in pocketondom - in wallet (Am I tempting fate again here? Mind you, it did take four visits to Superdrug before I plucked up the courage to purchase them. Still, all that toothpaste will come in handy).I decide to sit and have a quiet cigarette before I go forth. As I sit down, my mind wanders to a few hours later. “How about coffee at your place” she’ll say throatily, giving me a knowing smile.

“Oh shiiiiiiiiiiit!!!!” The bed! It’s covered in clothes and socks and God knows what! I rush back in there and, grabbing handfuls of clothing, throw it all into the spare room along with all the other accumulated junk. Thank heavens for duvets. 10 seconds to make the bed and I can relax again.7.40pm. Time to go. Take keys off hook by front door and I’m off to meet my destiny. Relax, boy, she’s just a friend from work. Door closing, key in lock, phone rings!Leave it, nothing’s that important and the answerphone’s on.

It’s no good; curiosity gets the better of me. It’s her! “Something’s come up; can we make it another time?” “Sure”, say I nonchalantly - after all, she is only a friend from work.

Oh.....................shit!

© BertieBassett Enterprises Inc. 2007