A couple of weeks ago, some workmates and I managed to blag ourselves onto the guestlist for the launch party of a pretty swanky new Italian restaurant in town. Paparazzi outside and everything – ooh. Where, in perhaps not the most upwardly mobile move of my dating career, I ended up exchanging quite a few friendly looks and words, and eventually giving my number to, one of the waiters – hereafter known as M. I blame the free champagne that was flowing all night - apparently I will never learn not to completely cane it on a Monday night.
Anyway, from what I remember (this seems to be a developing theme), he was really quite good looking, dark, Italian, a little shorter than me, I think, but I did have heels on. When we made to leave the bar, he took me aside to ask for my number. Which I may or may not have had ready written down on a scrap of paper. *looks innocent*.
He texted me later that night – or, if you want to be exact, quarter to two in the morning. Which, mercifully, I slept through, but that should have been a pretty clear indicator right then of his grasp of appropriateness.
Anyway, the message was fine, slightly mangled English, but pleasant enough. I was busy that week, but said I’d be free the following week. He dutifully called me the following Tuesday. That day, I’d been to the gym in the morning, met my friend and fellow frog-kisser D for lunch in Covent Garden, got the bulk of my Christmas shopping done, and taken myself to the cinema . A busy, if slightly WAG-ish day, no? (very much not the norm, I promise you!)
So that evening, once I’d hauled my shopping home on the bus, I had a gloriously lazy evening planned – dinner, present wrapping, and hanging out with my flatmate, J. On the way home, M called. I was on the bus, and as usual, a murder was taking place on the back seat, or something, so I asked him if he wouldn’t terribly mind calling me back in 20 minutes, when I’d be at home and would have regained my hearing.
An hour later, I was at home, still waiting, starving hungry, but didn’t want to start cooking if my phone was going to ring right in the middle of it, and I was starting to feel a bit irritable.
Eventually my phone rang.
Well… it started pleasantly enough, with the level of conversation we could manage. Bless him for trying, but his English really isn’t much better than my Italian. And I can just about manage ‘Please’, ‘thank you’, ‘sorry’, ‘the bill, please’, and ‘no thank you, I DON’T want a rose’ – that one will come in extremely handy if you ever go to Rome. Trust me.
Anyway, we exchanged a few pleasantries, and he asked what my plans were for the evening. I told him – dinner, presents, flatmate, chilling out, etc. Then he asked me ‘What’s your address?’
Huh?
“Um…why do you need my address?’
‘What’s your nearest station?’
I told him.
‘OK, I leave now, I give you call when I’m at station.’
What?!
You’ll what?
Now, I’m all for a little no-strings sex, if that’s what you’re driving at here, but come on! The presumption of the man! More than anything, I’d just mere seconds ago told him I had plans. They weren’t particularly pressing or exciting plans – nothing of the Mark-Ronson-hammmering-my-door-down-and-begging-me-to-take-him-there-and-then variety, but they were my plans, dammit!
(politely) ‘Well, I’ve actually just said I’ve already got plans tonight.’
*click*
*silence*
He hung up.
Wow.
So let's recap, shall we, M? Thought you were cute? Yes. Thought we could have a bit of fun? Sure. Was happy for a total stranger, who I know nothing about and who has no regard whatsoever for manners or other people's plans, and who is so presumptuous as to imagine I'm just going to leap into bed with him, to come to my house?
Let me put this in terms you'll understand. Io non penso!
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