Urban Bird

Forsaking the joys of Internet Dating as portrayed
in last week's column, my flatmates and I went out on
a man hunt last week. Well that is not strictly true;
Rachel¹ dragged Sarah and myself off to
one of many bars she frequents in Fulham. We were
fairly unwilling participants and that is putting it
mildly. Sarah is actually blissfully in love with a
man she met at university and I am... well I have
other things on my mind. This seemed to have no
effect on Rachel who has felt Spring approaching and
is now on the hunt for a mate.

Arriving and, by some minor miracle, securing a
table at the White Horse² we settled
down to our respective drinks. In order to underline
my unease with the entire venture I started off with a
pint.
'But Damson it is so unladylike!'

Rachel simpered with distaste dripping from every syllable,
before allowing her eyes to scan the room for eligible
young men. Having alighted her eyes on someone she
could claim to know in the vaguest sense of the word,
she waltzed off to air kiss and introduce herself to
all his friends.

Sarah and I pulled faces.
'What are we doing here?'

she muttered desperately and, in that one simple
question, she had summed up our feelings about the
whole evening. By nine, the chartered surveyors had
arrived from Central London and the majority were
clearly the worse for wear. All around us were Fulham
types, with accents that were the equivalent of nails
being run down a blackboard. Filofaxes and mobile phones
abounded, the latter with nauseating rings ranging
from the Bond theme³ to Hear'Say⁴. Hold the Front
Page! Dante has a new circle of hell he wants to add!

The evening was a success for Rachel and hell for
the rest of us. Call me old fashioned but I don't
rate how good an evening has been on the basis of how
many business cards I pick up. I also don't really
appreciate being trapped against a bar by some over-qualified estate agent, while he drunkenly slurs what he considers to constitute sweet nothings. Thanks to Sarah for rescuing me from that one, with a forceful
'Stop chatting up my girlfriend!'

Unfortunately he then tried to chat us both up in the mistaken belief
that a threesome might be on the cards.

We eventually abandoned Rachel, who was locked in a
passionate clinch with another over-qualified estate
agent, and headed off home. 10.30 pm on a Friday in
London is not a glorious sight, I mused as I watched a
man throw up on the platform. I must be getting old.
Now instead of a night in a London pub with plenty of
beer, I look forward to long wine-filled suppers in
little, hidden restaurants. I want to feel woozy
and nearly fall asleep in my pudding, because I am so
happy and replete. I want to feel the red wine go to
my legs and make it nigh on impossible to walk. Most
of all I would like to have a long lazy dinner with
that lovely chap from Sidcup.

All names have been changed to spare the blushes
of the guilty!

Damson Jones

05.04.01. Front Page

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