Unexpected Blind Date
Joanne Rawson
Frankly,
if you asked me six months ago if I would give up my Tuesday quiz night with
the girls, or go on a blind date, then my answer would undoubtedly have been,
“Blind dates are so tacky. They are definitely for the desperate.” From the age
of sixteen I have had fourteen years of dating, ten boyfriends, six of them
lovers and, up until a year ago, had been in a four-year relationship that hit
more icebergs than the Titanic. No, my blind date love boat days have well and
truly sailed. I am so over men.
However,
two weeks ago, Glenda, Nell, Christine and I, hit Cupids Cave—Nottingham’s
notorious Saturday night hot spot for eighteen to twenty year old blushing
brides to be, celebrating their last weekend of freedom. It was reluctant moral
support for Glenda, who had been press ganged into her younger sister’s hen
night. Like every member of our group, Glenda was proud not to be married.
Tucked
away in a corner, I was not sure if I was more depressed that we were the
oldest women in the club, or that I recognised so many of my ex pupils I had
taught biology to in the past few years. At least three acknowledged me,
flashing their diamond solitaires under my nose. They may not have found any
ecological break-through, but one thing was certain, they had discovered a
biological phenomenon that was oblivion to me, how to get a man and keep him.
Snivelling
into my fifth Sex on the Beach cocktail, I began wallowing in a state of
drunken remorse. Leaping from my bar
stool I declared the fate of my future. “I will never have sex again, let alone
have sex on a beach.”
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