Columns

Critic sets up two lucky students on a blind date.

Camilla

I arrived at Toast fashionably late via a taxi van after consuming many glasses of wine, to find a near empty bar-but we filled it up. I entered Toast hopefully without my date noticing that I brought my entire flat with me. I approached the bar, my eye was immediately drawn to a man who looked suspiciously like a Peruvian alpaca herder as he was wearing a yaks and yetis type striped hoodie. I decided not to approach him in case I passed out from the strong smell of incense emanating from him. Thank the Peruvian gods this was not my date.
 
Alas my date was already there and sipping away on a good part of the bar tab. He seemed like a nice enough fellow, however, his dress sense left much to be desired. I personally think Bermuda shorts are not appropriate attire for winter in Dunedin let alone a blind date but at least he was wearing some nice long socks to keep his pins warm. I have personally never been a fan of men that look like my granddad from the waist down.
 
Pre-date nerves forced me to discuss with flatmates topics of conversation so we constructed a list. What not to talk about: death, cannibalism, the taste of paper, ke$ha, bladder control and love of younger gentlemen. Okay to talk about: Uni, Sports, holidays, how cute puppies are and New Zealand’s Next Top Model. It is safe to say that the topics of conversation that came up were all in the ‘what not to talk about’ column, much to my flatmates’ delight. My bad.
 
We then exchanged gifts. Well he gave me a gift. I have always wanted a framed picture of a date... mmm interesting. After a seemingly endless 2 hours we had an amicable parting, hugs and all. Although I was a little disturbed by his near sprint down the street away from the bar. No problem though, I quickly moved onto the middle aged men in the bar for a night of pashes and me-filled sandwich dances. All and all a good night, nice guy, nice drinks. Pity I can’t remember his name. May I suggest name tags for next time?
 
 
Charles
 
As I departed my flat and walked to Toast it became increasingly apparent that my attire wasn’t as non-descript as I would have liked. Three people were kind enough to compliment me on my pants. I tried to take them at face value yet the troublesome concern rumbling in my stomach just wouldn’t depart. I think this was, at least in part, a function of the fact I wasn’t wearing pants, favouring instead the white short and knee high socks approach. If, or rather when, Camilla noticed she was too magnanimous to comment. I tried to bring the topic to the fore, noting that Dunedin nights were too pleasant (it was three degrees) not to get your legs involved. She remained kindly silent on the topic.
 
That wasn’t my only ace in the hole mind you. At the beginning of the date I completed my part of another task by gifting a small golden wrapped package, making her promise not to open it until she got home; more on this to come. Camilla responded warmly gifting me, in return, enough credit to pitch out another hurdle. Not wanting to miss the chance I excused myself, dashed to the bathroom, stood there for three minutes before returning to the table to declare that I hadn’t washed my hands but it didn’t matter because urine is sterile. My date paused, considered and, shyly stated “that is pretty gross”. I froze; half trying not to laugh, half trying not to cry. I then sought cover behind the cocktail menu. The following, silent, forty seconds rank amongst the most awkward of my life.
 
Next up was a more fragile goal. I was to guess the weight of three passers by. Noting earlier that the bustling group of eight that entered the bar just a moment before my date looked out of place and were quite possibly related, in the non-biological sense, to my partner, I decided they may be a good target. As I proceeded to try estimate the mass of her flatmates Camilla was too merciful to take note, commenting instead on the next drink she would order. I finally attempted to stir the pot by asking the time honoured first date question “what do you want done with your body when you die?” Camilla had some pretty outstanding views on the topic so my nuanced suggestion that she would understand my final wishes because she wasn’t part of ‘the church’ went largely unnoticed.
 
After one hour and forty seven minutes my date and I parted ways. She generously spoke of our time together as pleasant and was even forgiving enough to hug me farewell. I can only assume that at some stage last night or early this morning she reached in her bag to open the parcel I had gifted her earlier. It was a photo of me (minus the grey circle), framed and covered in rose petals. If the dress, urine, weight guessing and, dead body thing didn’t rank on the freak-o-meter this would.
 
Camilla was lovely, graciously kind to a fault and, beautiful. I will forever be apologetic for the weirdness she was subjected to. It remains, however, that awkwardness is the currency of Summer Lovin’ as bloodshed is of gladiatorial battle. And in this case, it was plentiful.