Date 2 (but first real date)
The Italian
Well wow guys. First “date” I have been on in years that actually felt like a date.
So it’s meeting 2 with the Italian and after really fucking up being late last time, I decided to be early this time!!! They say the road to hell is paved with good intention right?
Well, I decided to wear my “pizza dress” (you know the one with the mushroom Incident last week?) because it’s since proven pretty successful with pizza (once I learnt to maneuver past the boobs!!).
So, I get into the Uber with plenty of time to spare and almost everything that could go wrong on the journey, went wrong. Bridges were closed. Roads were closed. The driver ran out of petrol. So the entire time, I am messaging him with timing updates and he’s so unbelievably Italian and is super chill and says “in my country, up to 30 minutes is not considered late”. so I’m now officially in love with him that he can tolerate my tardiness twice in a row.
So while in the taxi, previous tinder date (who is now my friend), starts messaging me and I tell him that I am schlepping to North London to have pizza!!!. This is a big deal for me, as I don’t like leaving central london at all. So I stupidly let out a flippant thought saying I hope it’s better than the trip to the supermarket for dessert date. And the bastard replies saying that we are probably going to Dominoes!!!! Like why would be put that thought in my head? Why? Now all I can think about is if I need to get a half and half or spring for a meal deal!!!
I have been sat in this uber for over an hour on a journey that promised to be 25 minutes!!! I feel like I have sat here so long, that I have witnessed world war 3, my great grand children have just celebrated their 100th birthday, and the iPhone 89 has just been released !!!!! It just keeps going on and on and on. I’m scared to blink in case i open my eyes to a similar scene to Will Smith in “I Am Legend”
Uber lies and false promises. Fake news Uber. Fake news.
So I rock up to restaurant and I’m not just late for an English person, but also now late for an Italian (I’m still early for a Trinidadian so don’t panic too much!).
So he’s made an effort also and looks very sweet. Sadly, the restaurant is busy so we have to go to a local pub and have a drink until a table is ready. Unfortunately, it’s the middle of a football match and I hate one of the teams with a passion. So, I buy us a pint each (yes I got cider darlings), and we awkwardly perch on the edge of the bar.
Conversation is slow. And we end up chatting about nearly all the same topics as the last time we met. I secretly plot an escape plan (which may or may not have involved setting fire to things!). However, just as I was trying to find a box of matches at the bar, we got the call that our table was ready.
Thank goodness. Pizza will save the convo.
The pizza was good but not the best I had ever tried. It reminded him of Home and with every bite, he became more and more nostalgic. And with every swig of wine, the conversation flowed better and better.
He was remarkably funny and so smart and talented. He did however eat his pizza with a knife and fork which freaked me out.
I gave him a slice of my pizza. Y’all know that’s a big deal for me!!! We may as well be married now!!!
This was a good date and felt “datey” as he gently touched my fingers with his until they were intwined.
And you try not to get excited and think about the future. You really do. But all I could think about was prosecco picnics in the park and little pizza babies running through fields chasing pepperoni butterflies.
We then went on and got more drinks in a rather random little bar in North London and he planned our next pizza date. In fact, he had an entire list of places we are going to….. all pizzerias (he had done his research on me!!). and he’s going to cook me pasta (like a proper Italian). Although he said “potato pasta sauce” which I am Hoping is just a translation issue rather than an actual dish!!! (Potatoes and pasta cooked together and made into a sauce)
And it all sounds lovely apart from he hates dogs (so it clear won’t work out), and all I can think about is how much I need to pee and get out of these spanx!!! Why must my clothes torture me so?