Unexpected Blind
Date
Joanne Rawson
If any of Grace Worthing’s friends
dared to suggest she should go on a blind date, her answer would have been,
“Blind dates are so tacky; they are definitely for the desperate.” She was so
over men! After her fifth Sex on the Beach cocktail she told friends she would
never have sex again, let alone have sex on a beach. Then, somewhere between
her second and third tequila slammer, Grace found herself, agreeing to meet
Adrian. Little did she know how interesting and unexpected her blind date would
be.
Excerpt:
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.”
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.”
No comments:
Post a Comment