So, it’s been a while since the last post, and in the interests of keeping things a bit interesting and not just writing a single/dating blog, I’m skipping ahead in time.
So, after the ‘rescue’ by date number 1, we decided that maybe we should probably give this dating lark a bit of a go. I was keen to point out that this by no means meant we were boyfriend and girlfriend, but I’d give it a try.
It didn’t go smoothly – we fought over everything, agreed on nothing, broke up more times than either of us had hot dinners. But, the friends approved (which I couldn’t believe – but was important to me) so it was time to MEET. THE. FAMILY.
My family are all quite close and, in my mind, it wasn’t a big deal and went quite smoothly. It was my brother’s 30th and what better way than to meet them all en masse, at a drunken family BBQ. It all went well. He got drunk; my mum danced with him to Elvis and my auntie texted me to say she loved him and that I should marry him. Except, I didn’t have my phone on me at this point. So she shouted out her text across the garden. In front of Him. Gulp
So, then it was time to meet his family. I spent TWO HOURS in Selfridges choosing flowers. I asked him the colour of his parents lounge and his mum’s favourite flower. He didn’t know and said the lounge was blue. I tried to choose accordingly. He then went to investigate HMV and left me to it.
I was NERVOUS. I am five years older than him. I freelance to his permanent job, I’ve travelled quite extensively, sometimes on my own, to his “I’ve only been to Europe and America”, I dive, he can barely swim – and half of my family are Irish Catholic, to his very British protestant family.
It was in the summer. And the rugby world cup or whatever it is in rugby was on. I asked him if his Dad liked rugby. He said “not really” but he liked sport generally. When I met his (very lovely) Dad for the first time at the station, I was keen to make a good impression on the long drive back. So, as soon as we were on the road, I whipped out my phone and checked the score as England were playing. England, in the once every four years, playing in the quarter finals. The game had finished, and I proudly announced that England had lost – in order to give a “yeah, I can be one of the boys, I like sport” impression. There was silence in the car. His Dad had been sky-plus’ing the game and had turned off every form of media which could have told him the score. He was looking forward to kicking back with a beer and watching it when we got back from the station. I had spoilt this now and there was no reason to watch it. Excellent first impression.
His mum was also lovely. She liked the 2 hour choice flowers – although her lounge wasn’t blue. Things seemed to be going well after rugby-gate, everyone had to eat vegetarian (just for me), and I tried my best not to swear and relax. That was, until the next morning.
I woke up, and I asked if I could have a shower. Which of course, I could. I turned the water on, and got in. I thought the shower head was turned in a weird way, so I moved it and got on with my shower. If only I’d known….. I came down stairs, fresh from my nice hot shower, to open the kitchen door and find his parents, on their knees, furiously wiping the kitchen floor, which had been flooded. By my shower. Which had come through the tiles, and was why the shower head had been in that position. I was mortified.
To help reduce my embarrassment, he offered to take me for a walk around the village. I pulled on my new boots and off we went. It had been raining so was a bit muddy as we traipsed around the village green. When we got back, we had only a few minutes before going back out again for the train back to London. So I ran in quickly to get my bag. In the lounge. In the lounge with the white carpet. With my boots still on. I didn’t know it was possible to get more mortified, but apparently, it is. I turned at the front door, realising my mistake and noticed great big, size 7, muddy footprints all over the white carpet….
So, overall I made an excellent first impression.
(PS – I’d like to say the second time I saw them, I improved on it. I didn’t. I booked Opera Tavern for ‘posh tapas’ and as I left his parents in a bar whilst I ran over to the restaurant to say we’d be a bit late, my “parent suitable” heels caught the pavement, I tripped, fell – in front of everyone eating al fresco – ripped my tights and my knee. Once we’d got over that and sat down, I ordered the padron peppers this has mum would “love”. They’d run out. A tapas restaurant which runs out of padron peppers is like a fish & chip shop running out of cod, right? So, anyway, his mum ignored me all night. I was petrified I’d ran out of chances. Turns out, she had an ear infection, and in the uber trendy loud restaurant, she couldn’t hear a thing I’d been saying in her right ear. I lived to see another day. Almost)