Crocodile
I signed up to get a feed and A bar tab – and who knows, she could be pretty good-looking, right? Luckily she was (albeit fairly pissed, as was expected really). Some signs are better than others – introducing yourself twice in the same sentence isn’t great, but hey, I forgot her name almost immediately anyway. Alcohol didn’t help, but I managed to recall it eventually.Conversation was pretty free flowing throughout the night, and she told me of her recent travels to Tahiti over the break. I offered nothing in return in terms of travel stories as all I managed during my break was a rugby trip to the thriving metropolis of Outram, something I chose not to share (along with a couple of other stories regarding my utter intolerance to alcohol).
But why ruin a good night by saying “nah, Coke for me thanks, I don’t drink”? Fuck, talk about a killer blow! So I struggled my way through the bar tab without giving too much away, although I may have shared one too many stories. I have noticed (on those rare occasions I do drink) that I get very chatty and tell all sorts of stories about my life … hopefully none divulged too much about exactly why alcohol and I don’t mix.
The rib-eye was worth the wait, I might add – she was smart enough to suggest that we order the most expensive meal as we weren’t paying, which was one of the best calls of the night. I’ll also give her points for bringing up State of Origin – even though I’m a Union guy at heart, any girl that knows something about one of the codes is good in my books!
Beyond the restaurant is very much a blur … I remember wandering around town in the rain and not much else to be honest. Ah well, I had a good night. Cheers Critic for the food, drinks and company!
Sue
Attending this date sober was not an option. Upon finding out my flatmates had dobbed me in for this blind date (cheers, bitches) I gave into peer pressure and downed a bottle of Dunedin’s finest merlot in 10 minutes flat “for da girlzz.” Unfortunately I grossly overestimated my drinking abilities and continued to drink until I was incoherent and white-girl wasted, requiring my flatmates to dress me and feed me toast on my lounge floor two hours before the date even started.Finally coherent, I started my stumble down to Angus. Turns out my date was 10 minutes early, dressed up in Invercargill standard town get-up (cunt hunters included) and stone cold sober. He was incredibly average – certainly not the brown sugar daddy I had so desperately longed for. Nonetheless, conversation flowed. We talked about the State of O final, his farm in Alexandra … oh, and this golden topic: “which iwi are you from?” Uh ...
He figured out pretty quickly that my flatmates had come along to join the festivities and to keep an eye out in case I ended up missing in the depths of central Otago. During his bathroom breaks they would yell out encouraging advice, mostly to do with giving him a cheeky handy under the table “for the yarn.” Sadly, the most exciting thing about the date was the steak.
However, when it came time for him to leave he did not get the hint. He clung to me like a bad case of scabies and ended up following me into my flat. My flatties saved the day by devising an elaborate plan to save me from my stage-five clinger: we lied and said we had a super sick exclusive flat party to go to and soz boss, but you are not invited. He did happen to hunt me down on FB the next day, joy!
Thank you Angus and Critic for setting up the blind date. #LAD: sorry I wasn’t keen on heading back to the farm to met Ma and Pa, but thanks for the yarns.