Dates, Figs and all things fruity …

As an outsider I was never able to understand the prolific wail of the single Londoner – ‘But I just can’t seem to meet anyone!’. In a city so diverse and colourful I found it impossible to believe that London dating could be such a trial. Surely singletons were abundant, the streets teeming with beautiful batchelors and spinsters, skinny caramel macchiatos in hand, just waiting to bump into each other and find everlasting love through a series of chance meetings (I’ve seen Richard Curtis films – I know how this works). I was shocked to discover the extent to which dating, or the lack of it, has become central to the existence of many. Speed dating has become a boom industry, as hopeful singletons band together to talk complete rubbish at each other for three minutes, and in turn make personal judgments based on this 180 second diatribe. Matchmaking websites abound, promising everlasting love for anyone stupid enough to lie profusely about themselves in 30 words, and for those gullible enough to reply. Desperate singles join all manner of groups or clubs, in the faint hope of finding love over an existential discussion of the works of Jackie Collins, or in the middle of a cycle of Sun Salutations. London life would be much simpler if singles observed the Westcountry ways …

Now, where I’m from, love is a cinch. Most girls marry their childhood sweetheart; this is mainly because they’re pregnant before their 14th birthday (In Devon, pregnancy is a career option!). However, for those not lucky enough to fall into this trap, Devon dating is a ridiculously simple affair. The Devonian male expresses an interest by slapping his quarry hard on her arse, whilst issuing a phlegmy “Come yere let oi love ‘ee”. A pint of snakebite is then proffered to the lucky lady, who will happily accept (there being few better options, and the snakebite being free). The deal is eventually sealed with a quick fumble behind the Ferret and Radiator(It’s a pub, in case you were wondering. It harks back to the days of yore when radiators made excellent household pets and ferrets were mythological beasts. Probably). And they say romance is dead. Not for the Devonian these complicated metropolitan dating rules … which will sadly land you in a lot of hot water if you move to London!.

In light of this, I firmly believe that all new arrivals in London should be given some kind of welcome pack, which not only outlines the various baffling aspects of public transport, including the species of commuters, but also contains a large laminated copy of ‘The Rules of Dating in the Capital’. It honestly would save an enormous amount of stress and embarrassment to dating virgins. It would probably read something like this …..

1. Never date a man who asks you out on the bus or train
There is a very sensible reason for this. Any man who asks you out on public transport is not being romantic. He is, in fact, completely emotionally inept and buses and trains are the only place that he can get a woman as a captive audience for any length of time. Obviously as a newcomer I was unaware of this, and so when a man with eyes like molten chocolate turned to me on the number 25 bus and breathed ‘You have ze most beautiful smile. I vish to take you for lunch’, I was so utterly convinced that I’d stumbled into the script of Love Actually that I immediately accepted. Looking back I can see that that’s probably where I went wrong.
Mr Chocolate was, in fact, Phil and he was from Germany. We met for lunch, we talked (well, he talked about computers and I just gazed at his melted chocolate eyes), we kissed … on both cheeks. How charming and continental! We met for lunch again, there was more talk of computers, we kissed continentally (oh, how flushed my cheeks were!). Our dates rolled together in a breathtaking blur of binary and cheek kissing, before hurtling towards the tumultuous climax of … binary and cheek kissing. Sadly Phil ze German had not completed ‘ze necessary paperverk to include ze kissing on ze schedule’. Bloody European bureaucracy. Dating Phil was like many things in life - tit tape, those little cushiony things you wear in stilettos, Barry Manilow - utterly pointless and extremely irritating after prolonged contact.


2. Beware the supermarket shelf-stacker.
I’ve always appreciated the level of care you get in the big supermarkets in London. In Devon, your weekly shopping is done by hauling your tractor up to Old Dan’s place and swapping a low loader full of potatoes for 2 cows and a wriggling piglet. Actually I lie, but in fairness we only have Co-Op, and that’s possibly worse! But in London you’re treated to a baffling array of world cuisine, a selection of amusingly shaped vegetables and bread products that sound like sexually transmitted diseases (please, someone, WHAT is focaccia?!). You’re also privy to a fantastic level of customer service - there’s usually someone on hand to lead you to the tinned prune aisle. Granted, they probably can’t speak English, but they can point and gabble loudly to the point that you’re left not really giving a shit about what you were looking for, because you just want to get away from them. Fast!

I was most surprised to discover that a leading supermarket has taken customer service to a new level, providing not only express tills and bagpackers, but also a personalised stalking service. Your supermarket stalker will begin by grinning banally at you as you choose crisps. He will then approach you as you move to the sandwich aisle, asking if you require assistance. Should you venture down the alley of fruit and veg, he will leap out of nowhere, professing his undying love for you, pointing out that your boyfriend doesn’t love you (mine does - as he is a figment of my vivid imagination I can make bloody sure he loves me!), and trying to demonstrate that he also loves bananas, therefore you are meant to spend your lives together.

‘You jest’ I hear you cry! Nay, I jest not. For months I was the bewildered recipient of my own supermarket stalker, who was convinced that my innocent enquiry as to the location of the pine nuts was actually a subliminal message, professing my eternal love and devotion to him. My protestations that I was in love with my (albeit imaginary) boyfriend fell on deaf ears. My declaration that I’d rather gouge out my own eyes with a rusty spoon than go on a date with said food product arrangement consultant were rebuffed. My threats of managerial and police action brought little more than an uncomfortable squirm from my personal psycho. The matter was only resolved when I avoided the shop for six months, underwent a programme of intensive cosmetic surgery and, with the help of the Secret Service, took on a completely new identity. My name is now Jurgen, and I am a stamp collector from Luttgenstein. Danke.

3. The batchelor pad is the gateway to the soul
My Westcountry upbringing ensured that I’m used to the kind of batchelor pad where muddy wellies lie tangled with empty cider cans, takeway cartons and erroneous bits of hay. Clean coffee cups are available on Christmas and birthdays, and loo roll comprises a torn up copy of ‘Farmer’s Friend’. The Devon batchelor’s idea of interior design is a couple of traffic cones and a stolen ‘Cows Crossing’ sign. Not for them the minimal chic look. But you know where you stand with these chaps - their lives are a simple existence of cider, sex and sheep, often together. You are pretty much guaranteed that your relationship will be devoid of bizarre games and petty rules. This is because as the level of physical clutter in a man’s life increases, the level of mental clutter in his life will decrease exponentially. There is a finite amount of clutter that a man’s brain can cope with.

I was taught this salient lesson after a date with David, a lawyer. We met through a friend, and our mutual love of plays, combined with my desperation not to die old and alone, surrounded by cats, prompted us to go on a date. We whiled away a pleasant evening, drinking good wine and eating mezze. I demonstrated my grace and elegance by falling off a pavement, and David had the good manners to laugh loudly (I’m sure men should be made to ignore such failings … or should that be fallings?). We adjorned back to his for coffee - although in my case it was Ribena. It was at this point that the date fell apart. Not only was I suddenly struck by the realisation that he had smaller hands than me, but I was shocked to discover that his expensive apartment had all the soul and character of a Travel Lodge. In a cavernous room, with artfully unplastered brick walls, immaculate Italian leather sofas nestled on a pristine white carpet. A state of the art, scary silver sound system nestled in a sleek walnut cabinet. Original James Bond posters adorned the walls. The kitchen was as bare as a dental surgery. I came close to requesting a bib and a feeder cup, for fear of making a mess. I sat, bolt upright, barely blinking less I knock over an expensive but pointless bit of designer kitsch.

David took out a 12 inch vinyl record (you wondered where I was going with that, didn’t you?!), and gently carressed it to remove the dust. He gently laid the needle onto the record as carefully as a scientist fuses two atoms. As the first notes of Gary Numan’s ‘Cars’ piped gracefully out of the Dolby speakers, David closed his eyes and sighed a deep breathy note of pleasure. And then it struck me - sweet mother of God, I was trapped in a flat with an OCD ridden Gary Numan fan! Only in London could this happen! I could see the future spread before me - a life filled with endless scrubbing, gentle dusting of bizarre phallic objets d’art, drinking Ribena over the sink to catch the drips and the never-ending, nerve jangling monotony of Gary bloody Numan.

It was with great relief that I hurled myself from his third floor window into the night.

Armed with these rules, the hapless country lass should be able to avoid most of the perils of dating in the Big Smoke. If not, she can always find herself a nice padded room somewhere, to while away many happy hours dribbling onto her straitjacket. For that is the effect prolonged contact to dating in London will have. I'm so glad I learned to type with my nose ... these buckles are too fiddly!