I don't exactly know where to start.
Is it at the point of where my last relationship ended? Do I bore you with all the details of how we couldn't stand to spend time together? How I couldn't wait for him to move out? How I still ended up cutting holes in the crotch of all of his trousers when I found out he screwed his assistant?
Or do I start here... Sat in a classy bar in the centre of town, eyeing up the 'gentleman' before me?
The collar of his shirt is attempting to hide the tattoo on his neck, which I'm sure says another woman's name. His accent is so strong I'm sure it would serve well to get an interpreter to help this conversation along. He mumbled something about heading out for a kebab and I took another long swig from the glass of gin.
A bloody kebab!!!
I'm twenty bloody seven, not sixteen. Fast food and a snog in the bus shelter has not been a successful date to me for a long time, so why is this man suggesting we get a garlic sauce to share.
Not even one for myself. He can't even stretch that extra sixty pence for me to have my own garlic sauce. What is the dating world coming too?
He must have noticed the look of absolute disgust on my face because he started with the excuses first.
"Anna, my name's Anna."
"Yeah, that's what I said." He didn't, but who am I to argue with him. I'm getting an easy way out of this tragic date and I'm not the one that has to find the excuses to leave. "You're pretty n 'all, but you're not my type."
Thank the Lord...
"I suppose I like a girl that's down to earth and I guess, well yeah, I'm just going to say it... You're a bit snobby."
I had heard him right. He thinks I'm snobby?
Snobby was Susie Hutchinson-Clarke from Year Eleven who insisted that you said her bloody double barrelled surname at every opportunity. Not me. I didn't know how to be snobby.
"I suppose if I was to write feedback on 'Plenty of Fish' page I'd say 'chill out a bit and be open minded... Don't come on a date with a stick up your arse'."
Is he winding me up? I've turned up to the bar of his choice, picked the least pretentious gin and juice combo on the menu, and he's calling me snobby. As I went to open my mouth to tell him exactly what I thought, he butted in again.
"And while I'm giving you feedback; your photo is deceiving. Your tits look killer in the photo and if I'm honest they're just kinda average, maybe even a four."
A four? A fucking four! These bad boys got me a fumble in the back of David Layton's car in lower sixth, and I made the rest of the girls in school sick with envy. I admit, they're not what they used to be, but they're still perky enough.
"Well, I've had no complaints before." I spat out, slamming my empty glass to the table before scrapping my chair along the floor. "And while we're giving feedback Dane..."
"Does it really matter? As I was saying... While we're giving feedback I'm going to give you yours, you arrogant prick.
One. Don't come on a date that you've pushed for and check out the waitress.
Two. Don't wince at the price when your date picks a drink, especially when she's been considerate enough to pick the cheapest on the menu.
And three. If you insist on bringing a condom on a first date, don't let it hang out of your pocket because that, my friend, will not get you laid and that's for certain."
And with that I went storming out of the bar, forgetting that I'd left my gorgeous new scarf slung across the back of my seat, and stomped my pretty little heels down the cobbled street.
If he'd been my first date in a while I'd maybe just think it was a bad first date, that there was plenty more fish in the sea, but this was my sixteenth first date and not one had gone any further.
Was I just one of those women, destined for microwave meals for one and a house full of cats?
Or would I have to be the one that would kiss a thousand frogs before finding my prince?
Right now, the first option seems the more appealing of the two.