Sunday 31 October 2010

Do you even know my name?

Precis to this story. You - my dear readers - do not know my name. But I do - and it is not Deborah, or Debbie - or Debs

The other evening I was taken out to dinner. To a very nice restaurant. The restaurant in question features in one or two guides. It has a handful of stars. All good. The food was excellent. I never doubted that it would be. Sadly, my gentleman caller was not so excellent...let me explain.....

I should have known really. He'd telephoned me a few times before our date over the previous week and I already knew quite a lot about him. I know that he runs a restaurant. I know what it's called. I know where it is. I know what hours he works. I know what his duties entail. I know who supplies the meat, fish and vegetables to his restaurant. I know what his daughter's name is. I know who his friends are. I know how long his marriage lasted and whose fault it was that it broke up. (!) I know all of these things because he told me. I also have a picture of his restaurant on my mobile phone because he sent it to me. (Better - but only slightly better than getting a picture of a p***s).

In the few days prior to our date my Gentleman Caller had text me every morning to say Hello- and also to let me know how many covers there had been in the restaurant the previous evening and what the takings were. So fascinating. No, really.

The evening arrived. I looked lovely (!). He called at the house and rang the doorbell. I stepped outside. He opened the car door for me (I could at this point tell you that it was a Porsche and wax lyrical for a while about men in their late forties who drive Porsches and what the    psychological ramifications of that are - but quite frankly - as that is an entire chapter all by itself - I don't have the time). 

NOTE - If you are in your late forties and drive a Porsche - just ignore that last paragraph.

We drove to the restaurant. The journey was short. The distance is long. Jeremy Clarkson would have had trouble keeping up with us. Enough said.

I had a large gin to steady my nerves. During our aperitifs my date explained in detail about his outfit. He'd bought it that very day. To impress me. How very sweet. He told me which shop - the cost of each item - the size of everything including the shoes. Then he asked my advice on how best to wear the scarf. Tempted though I was to reply with some witty retort about using the scarf to gag his gob... I refrained and just as I was about to say how I thought it best worn...he interrupted me and started talking again. I think I detected a slight look of sympathy on the barman's face just for a second - but I can't quite be sure.

We sat - he ordered - everything - the wine - the food - he even took the menu out of my hands and 'insisted' - yes 'insisted' on choosing my dinner for me - because - as he explained - that was his trade...so he was bound to get it right. Lovely !

We were seated at our table - and the dinner began. I ate - and he talked. Then he talked some more. And then again. And then some. 

It was then that I began to notice that every time he ended a sentence and paused for breath - he called me 'Debs'. It happened again...and again - and every single time that he used my name - he got it wrong and called me 'Debs'.

Once I noticed this I couldn't go back and un-notice it. And what's more - it made me giggle. So there I was - bored rigid - eating a dinner I didn't chose - with a man who didn't pause for breath - learning all the ins (inns !) and outs of how to run a restaurant all the while desperately trying to stifle the giggles that were forming in the back of my throat. Dear Reader - it was dire. Dire I tell you. At this point I decided that I probably wouldn't see my date again.

The final nail in the coffin was when he tried to explain to me that frozen chips were better than fresh. At that point I decided that I could never marry him.

I was home - in bed - alone - before the clock struck twelve. As I slept I dreamt of a circle of frozen chips dancing around chanting my name...."Debs....Debs...Debs"......   ZZZZZZZzzzzzzz 


6 comments:

  1. He never stopped talking? Now you know how we men feel!! haha

    Obviously I'm joking. Out of interest, was his choice of meal for you a good one? I'm just trying to see if there are any good points from this dire meeting.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Yes - not bad....but not what I would have chosen for myself - and he stayed away from the expensive end of the menu!!!

    Author x

    ReplyDelete
  3. I want to know more about his outfit...was it Burberry check? And the scarf, was it worn with a coat 'cos it was a cool evening or, heaven forfend, 1970's Peter Wyngarde-style flowery neck furniture?

    I know what you had for your main course - mutton dressed as lamb!

    ReplyDelete
  4. His outfit was Armani trousers and a Givenchy Jumper and the scarf was from Cecil Gee (?). Shoes were from Clinkards. Nothing wrong with any of that - but it's not necessary to tell me what the labels are and what the clothes cost. You're either a nice guy or you're not. I don't care what you wear or what you drive to be honest.

    Author X

    ReplyDelete
  5. he had obviously just watched Debbie Does Dallas!
    C of L x

    ReplyDelete