Jane Goes on a Date #1

  To celebrate the creation of their blog, Tarzan and Jane went out a few weeks back for a tipple or three. The initial premise of the night was to introduce Jane to one of Tarzan's single friends (Poor Tarzan is still waiting rather impatiently for Jane to pull through with her side of the 'set-up' date). The friend seemed to tick all the boxes for Jane before she'd met him - Greek, good body, tanned - but alas in person she discovered that she has had more than her fair share of short, Greek men. That chapter of the Odyssey is well and truly over. 
    As the night progressed, Tarzan and his droogs thoroughly entertained. There was some under-age chatting up, plenty of drinks flowing and even a little bar fight involving Tarzan and an angry young man swinging his weight all over the place. In the meantime, Jane was struggling to keep warm as the bar staff had left the entrance doors wide open, allowing the cold, winter breeze to gatecrash the party. As she battled with the heavy doors, a rather dashing, young Italian man stood by with an amused expression and offered to help. Soon after they exchanged numbers... this is how the first date went:


Jane

Jon Bernthal

 Usually the hours before a date are filled with dread, as the nervous bundle inside my stomach starts to prod at me uncomfortably. However, this last minute, Saturday night date was met with a calm attitude and low expectations. We met near Bond Street. I was late as usual. My date was tall, handsome and Italian... not bad for the first date of the year. He reminded me of a young Jon Bernthal (shaved-head version of Shane from The Walking Dead) I approved. 
 
  The restaurant he chose was possibly the best Neapolitan cuisine in central London - Sartori in Leicester Square. The queue to get in made my stomach growl with impatience, but before I had a chance to sulk the Italian pushed past to the front, had a quick word with the maître d' and we were seated in seconds. 
Our wine glasses were constantly topped up and the delicious and authentic wood-fire baked pizza arrived before we managed to finish half a glass of red. As conversation flowed, all the usual, safe subjects like work, travel, hobbies were covered. I had to bear in mind that the Italian had only been in London for 2 months and though his English was good, with the slight language barrier it wasn't as if we could delve into subjects such as politics and theology. When dessert arrived - he asked me to pick as there were too many choices and he had a relentless sweet-tooth - I was in awe. The panna cotta was the silkiest, most exquisite pudding I'd ever tasted. I actually sighed with pleasure.
   Despite the knowledge that he earned half as much as I did (yes, yet another handsome but not so wealthy man... I can't seem to escape that) he settled the bill and wouldn't let me contribute despite my protests. TIP: If a man is taking a woman out on the first date he MUST MUST pay the bill. If you can't afford it then don't take her out. This doesn't have to apply to all of the subsequent dates, but the first... it's essential!
    He wasn't yet ready to call it a night, so we headed to Verve just round the corner- good ol' Verve! I don't think I've ever had a bad date there. At one point he took his phone out to show me the time and I glimpsed at the picture on the screen; the Italian with his arm around some girl. 
  "So..." I started, "Is that your girlfriend?" He looked rather apologetic and admitted that "it is coming to an end" and that she was "my Spanish girlfriend from when I did a season in Ibiza last year." Ermmmm. Right. I don't encourage cheating in any shape or form, but he assured me "I am here with you because I think you are lovely." Bloody men, ey? I didn't want to get involved in his domestics, and whether he was lying to his girlfriend or not was not my problem. The last thing on my mind this year is getting into a relationship. Still... I gave him a (light) slap for his cheek!
  A few more glasses of red and I realised I'd missed the last train, though I'm sure that was deliberate on the Italian's part. We ended up leaving at 3.30, but not before he reminded me that he finishes work tomorrow at six and would like to see me again.... Nah too soon. I need my beauty sleep.