Wandering Hands and I went for coffee the other day. First impressions: prettier but more arrogant than I remembered. The waitress appeared, notepad in hand. I said a little prayer that he would be polite; clearly I’m short on credit with the man upstairs.
‘What can I get you?’
‘The chocolate cake.’
There was no ‘please’, rather his tone implied that the waitress was an imbecile for not knowing he was a coeliac and bringing him the only gluten-free option on the menu. I should at this point have remembered that my houseplant needed feeding – which, incidentally, it did, and still does – and headed for the exit; but the cake called. I ordered.
An hour or so later, W.H. and I were kicked off our table by Vengeful Waitress. We set off in high spirits for a nearby wine bar. Keen to avoid a repeat of earlier (there was more at stake now), I insisted on getting the drinks whilst my date found us a table. The evening ended well, with W.H. starting to live up to his nickname, but far too early as we both had places we needed to be.
The consensus is, go out with him again, if the opportunity arises. 95% of the date was fabulous and that’s pretty good for starters.