Jane Goes on a Date #2

  Last Saturday, despite the Siberian blizzard that covered the streets of London in a duvet of snow - causing all sorts of transport disruption as is customary for the unprepared capital, Jane and her friends were determined not to let a few inches of frozen rain spoil a Saturday night out. It was here that Jane managed to secure Date Number Two:


Jane

  The launch night of 'The Mango Sessions' at Dalston's fashionable Vision Video Bar, hidden within the nooks and crannies of Kingsland Road, was too good a dancing opportunity to be missed, with all our favourite tropical funk and world beats. Alas, as with all the other fantastic London clubs that play this incredible style of music, the place was bound to be full of middle-class toffs who reckon themselves awfully cultured, much like the majority of the 'new' East London-Shoreditch-Dalston crowd. And yet, perhaps to hide the fact that they have all the wealth they desire at their privately-schooled fingertips, they often opt for the tramp-chic attire, donning the pretentious, casual 'i-don't-care-for-material-things-by-the-looks-of-my-shoddy-garments' look. So naturally, when I attend these sorts of clubs I know full well that I won't come across any men than I find attractive (Yes we've established I end up going for poor guys, but I'd much rather go for someone with no wealth that presents himself as half decent, than a rich man who dresses like a pauper!) 
It just so happened that one of these plain, white, middle-class toffs took a liking to me, as I could feel his eyes following me around the dancefloor as he danced in that devil may care way (code word for uncoordinated) that they are akin to. He'd plucked up the courage to approach me, stating "Would it be awful forward of me to comment on how lovely you look in that dress?"
My usual reaction would be to thank him for his kind compliment and avoid eye contact for the rest of the night, to establish that he hadn't a chance. However, purely for the sake of the blog - and the words of a handful of friends/readers of  Tarzan and Jane in the London Jungle resonating in my head, that I need to branch out of my comfort zone in terms of the men I date to bring some variety into my accounts... this one is for you T - I gave him my number and arranged a dinner later in the week. TIP: if the man seems surprised that you have shown an interest after all, clearly they realise they are far below your league. Avoid them. Unless you have a quota to reach because of some blog you must write!

   We met on a bitingly cold Tuesday evening, arranging to eat at a little Italian tapas style place in Soho that he had been meaning to try for a while. Luckily, seeing as it was minus four degrees outside, we arrived at the same time. I'm not normally known for my punctuality but it was far too cold to dilly dally around. When he approached, I was both offended and perturbed at the fact he was wearing his glasses! Who wears their glasses to a date?! He had clearly made an effort at the club and worn contact lenses. Anyone who knows me well, knows I detest specs! Having been cursed with the eyesight of a common mole myself at the tender age of ten meant I was forced to be four-eyes. I switched swiftly to contacts as soon I was of age, and have since believed that everyone looks better without glasses obscuring one's face.
Admittedly, it was the first time I'd been on a date where I wasn't remotely attracted to the lad (oh... except one other time I'd met a Spanish chap at a badly-lit bar, and in the light of day during our first and only date I realised that actually he was not Spanish and handsome, but an average Pakistani guy, with that awful box facial hair design)
It wasn't that this toff was unattractive, he was just not to my taste. Rather plain, no distinguishing features. Just another face in the crowd. However we did have a lot to talk about as he was also well travelled and interested in the same sort of stuff as me; literature, theatre, and all other manner of snobbery, which I quite enjoy. Now you can't be calling me a hypocrite, as I probably sound like one of these middle-class youth that I have been insulting, because as a born and bred North West Londoner I can't possibly be put in the same category as them.... and I don't mean the leafy suburbs of Hampstead or Golders Green either - more like zone 4. Oo-er. But in his defence, he did know who Ms. Dynamite-ee-hee was, though I'm not sure how that conversation arose. 
  So we settled into the restaurant, Polpetto, which is a small space above a pub with the most over-priced, tiny portions known to man. The food was pretty average, and we shared three or four dishes between us. Though we also indulged a bit, thanks to the stingy portions, and ordered three desserts to share. One particular dessert had my palette in a tizz; the white chocolate mousse infused with bay leaves. It was all wrong! How can you mix bay leaf with sickly sweet white chocolate?! And yet... it reminded me of some of my brother's delicious curries that always have a sweet edge to them due to the copious amounts of jaggery he adds.
    As the toff worked long hours as a trader/banker/some boring field of work that doesn't sound particularly creative, he was ready to head home once dinner was over, which suited me perfectly. I was further relieved to discover he had to take the Piccadilly line home whereas it was the Bakerloo for me, so I was able to make a swift exit without any physical contact as a farewell. He seemed like a rather bright lad, intelligent enough to read my subtle uninterested signals - I was never so rude to appear bored and made sure I was animated with all our conversations.
  
  Part of me saw this date as a nice, evening meal (he paid for it all, of course, despite my weak protests) with a stranger who I could speak to at length about myself with the knowledge that he wouldn't judge me too harshly as he finds me attractive. The other part of me felt rather frustrated as it was a waste of my time, a perfunctory dinner knowing nothing would come of it. I may not be looking for a relationship, but should I really be going on a date knowing there will be no follow up, just for the sake of the blog? I'm sure the negative feelings attached to this are purely because I didn't think him good looking. Once again, I'm haunted by the emphasis I put on my attraction to a man's body before I can even think about exploring his mind...