reconvene soon to have a glass or two of Sancerreâ¦or Chablisâ¦â
Something of a connoisseur, then, with Gallic charm. And while he was no Alain Delon, the face in his photos was unlikely to frighten the horses. All in all, it boded well. And now here we were, basking in the west London sunshine.
After our wine-drinking we decided to amble off in search of a light supper. We entered a noisy eatery off Portobello Road. It was packed with young trendies and we joked about being the oldest people there.
As we ate our steamed monkfish with sautéed beet greens and sipped a chilled summery rosé, we carried on talking â about our travels and the differences between Continental and British cultures, and then, inevitably, about some of the people we had encountered through internet dating. I canât say I felt a sexual spark between us, but I enjoyed his sophisticated company and our freewheeling conversation.
It was still only 9 p.m. by the time we rose to leave. He walked out of the restaurant in front of me and as I watched him from behind, I noticed for the first time his slightly bow-legged old-manâs gait, like someone with gammy knees perhaps, or a dodgy back. Now he really did seem out of place in that hipster hang-out. It might sound shallow, but I knew I could never be romantically involved with someone who walked like that. Sorry!
We said good-bye at a street corner; I was going one way and he the other. We pecked at each otherâs cheeks, agreed that it had been a lovely evening and that next time weâd go to a restaurant a little more in tune with our own style and generation. I wasnât sure there would be a next time, if only because we didnât seem fated to become anything more than casual friends. But that was all right. I reckoned he was the sort of chap I could one day invite over to a drinks party in the garden, to add a French touch to the proceedings.
A few days later, whilst perusing the dating site, I saw Ãdouardâs profile and decided to dispatch a friendly note. âHello, hope youâre enjoying the summer. Been drinking any nice Chablis?â But a box popped up on my screen with an astonishing message: âSorry, this member has blocked you from making further contact.â I stared at it. What the fuck? I said out loud.
I wracked my brains to think what could have caused him to take this draconian step. It had been an agreeable evening. Was it something I had said? Iâm pretty sure I resisted the temptation to be rude about the French. Something I had done? Or did I have beet greens stuck between my teeth?
Then it occurred to me that he might have blocked me my mistake. Inadvertently clicked on some bit of the website. So I texted him: âHi Ãdouard. Did you mean to block me on the dating site? If so, itâs fine, Iâm just curious as to why.â
The damned frog never even replied. So, no mistake then. Maybe there were just some weird aspects to this internet dating business that I had yet to figure out.
And I was about to learn exactly how weird it could get.
CHAPTER SIX
A wink pinged onto my laptop and when I entered the site to see who had sent it, I found MaxE8. He was English, aged 30 and six feet tall. A graphic designer living in the East End. I was enjoying this attention from young men, and MaxE8 was attractive, even-featured, his dark hair worn spiky on top, the way young men often do, to give them that slightly bad-boy look. And there was a mischievous glint in his eyes. In short, he was sexy. And after my past three encounters, all I could think was vive la difference .
His profile contained the standard stuff about enjoying going out with friends to restaurants and pubs and films, while also being happy to stay in with a DVD and a pizza and the âright girlâ, and how he liked to keep fit and was hard-working but also adventurous and open-minded. Iâd read it all before. But at the end he had
Something of a connoisseur, then, with Gallic charm. And while he was no Alain Delon, the face in his photos was unlikely to frighten the horses. All in all, it boded well. And now here we were, basking in the west London sunshine.
After our wine-drinking we decided to amble off in search of a light supper. We entered a noisy eatery off Portobello Road. It was packed with young trendies and we joked about being the oldest people there.
As we ate our steamed monkfish with sautéed beet greens and sipped a chilled summery rosé, we carried on talking â about our travels and the differences between Continental and British cultures, and then, inevitably, about some of the people we had encountered through internet dating. I canât say I felt a sexual spark between us, but I enjoyed his sophisticated company and our freewheeling conversation.
It was still only 9 p.m. by the time we rose to leave. He walked out of the restaurant in front of me and as I watched him from behind, I noticed for the first time his slightly bow-legged old-manâs gait, like someone with gammy knees perhaps, or a dodgy back. Now he really did seem out of place in that hipster hang-out. It might sound shallow, but I knew I could never be romantically involved with someone who walked like that. Sorry!
We said good-bye at a street corner; I was going one way and he the other. We pecked at each otherâs cheeks, agreed that it had been a lovely evening and that next time weâd go to a restaurant a little more in tune with our own style and generation. I wasnât sure there would be a next time, if only because we didnât seem fated to become anything more than casual friends. But that was all right. I reckoned he was the sort of chap I could one day invite over to a drinks party in the garden, to add a French touch to the proceedings.
A few days later, whilst perusing the dating site, I saw Ãdouardâs profile and decided to dispatch a friendly note. âHello, hope youâre enjoying the summer. Been drinking any nice Chablis?â But a box popped up on my screen with an astonishing message: âSorry, this member has blocked you from making further contact.â I stared at it. What the fuck? I said out loud.
I wracked my brains to think what could have caused him to take this draconian step. It had been an agreeable evening. Was it something I had said? Iâm pretty sure I resisted the temptation to be rude about the French. Something I had done? Or did I have beet greens stuck between my teeth?
Then it occurred to me that he might have blocked me my mistake. Inadvertently clicked on some bit of the website. So I texted him: âHi Ãdouard. Did you mean to block me on the dating site? If so, itâs fine, Iâm just curious as to why.â
The damned frog never even replied. So, no mistake then. Maybe there were just some weird aspects to this internet dating business that I had yet to figure out.
And I was about to learn exactly how weird it could get.
CHAPTER SIX
A wink pinged onto my laptop and when I entered the site to see who had sent it, I found MaxE8. He was English, aged 30 and six feet tall. A graphic designer living in the East End. I was enjoying this attention from young men, and MaxE8 was attractive, even-featured, his dark hair worn spiky on top, the way young men often do, to give them that slightly bad-boy look. And there was a mischievous glint in his eyes. In short, he was sexy. And after my past three encounters, all I could think was vive la difference .
His profile contained the standard stuff about enjoying going out with friends to restaurants and pubs and films, while also being happy to stay in with a DVD and a pizza and the âright girlâ, and how he liked to keep fit and was hard-working but also adventurous and open-minded. Iâd read it all before. But at the end he had
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