So it’s the Christmas holidays and I’m on one of those dates which I know I will write about later for the sheer clangers the guy dropped. But there is a second story that emerges as the night unfolds.
We are at Sketch in Conduit Street sitting there listening to a small mouse like woman attempt to sing soul like she’s lived a life. Yes she’s lived in a suburb in North London but I doubt she’s been or seen south of the river if you get my drift. Bless her.
Then along comes a woman in her thirties, looks older mind, who knows The Date. We’re introduced and she starts. ‘Chelsea? What do you do, Chelsea? You write a blog? Oh!’ She later launches herself into The Date’s lap. No mean feat as she’s not delicate but he manages to hold his seat and her. She turns her back to me and starts engaging him in conversation I can’t hear. The French maître d’ comes over and asks her if she can fetch her chair. Bitch Block says no and the maître d’ brings one anyway. I smirk. The maître d’ is a woman that spots a bitch block a mile off. I’m glad I left a good bar tip.
She tries to impress The Date by talking about society, government and Adam Smith. I assume her behaviour is because she is drunk but no, according to The Date she is always like this. And sadly he does seem to be impressed by her and her antics. He is a man with an ego that doesn’t get much stroking sadly.
The Date wonders off to explore the egg shaped toilets and I ask him not to leave me alone with her. He goes off anyway. By this point The Date had descended to making jokes about my arse and rape so his desertion didn’t come as a surprise. I am forced to make conversation with Bitch Block. And so she begins. ‘Chelsea how long have you had natural hair? 8 years! Oh I could never go natural’ she says flicking her relaxed hair at me ‘You’ve brave.’ I smile sweetly and calculate how much it would cost to remove just one layer of her make up from the ornate wallpaper if she was to trip over my foot and fall forcefully into the wall. I’m guessing more than I have in my purse.
The date returns and we move onto the Moon under the Water in Leicester Square. She asks me why I don’t do my eye brows like hers. I wanted to tell her it was because hers looked vile but something tells me the ego is fragile, so very fragile. She is the sort of woman who could happily slash you then plead temporary insanity. I don’t want to take the risks. So I explain that threading is adequate for me thanks. ‘You’ve hardly got any eyebrows Chelsea! You have Chinese eyebrows.’ I don’t know what this means and am too bored to ask.
And then it hits me. This isn’t her fault. She acts up and men respond. I start to watch The Date and never does he tell her that she is out of order or stops her behaviour. She is spoiled and anxious because like the rest of us she is thirty something and single. She then picks some fluff out from my natural hair quiff.
So I say nothing because it’s Christmas. And at the end of the day he wasn’t on a date with her, he was on a date with me. A bad date yes, but a date nonetheless. The last time I got into a bitch block competition I won and ended up marrying him. I know now to only bother if the prize is worth it.
So, to all of those women making New Year’s resolutions please, leave the crazy nutella desperation at home. It’s not a good look and I’ve never actually seen it work. He will enjoy the attention yes but in the same way that he enjoys a lap dance. He leaves it in the club.
Happy New Year my precious readers! See you in fabulous 2012
© Chelsea Black #datingrecession #fabulosity2012