To paraphrase Aretha Franklin, all I ever wanted was a little respect. The really surprising thing is when you actually get it. And I can tell you... It's nice.
Really nice.
So the scene was set, I had to be out of my client's office by 5:30, head for Flirt Towers, change in a whirl of whirly changeyness and then skip off to Canary Wharf to meet in the concourse below the DLR station. How hard can this be?
Very.
It didn't help that I was nervous as hell, which I said to my flatmate earlier in the day. And butterflies, so many butterflies I was going to arrange for a brown tourist information sign to point straight at me saying "human butterfly farm". I was way outside my comfort zone and more than a little nervous about what somebody of such obvious intelligence would actually be like. None of this was helped by my being very much still in the client's office at the anointed hour. And then again 15 minutes later. I didn't escape until a minute to six. Excellent. Late. Again.
But... He didn't cancel. Okay, this is good.
And still hadn't cancelled by the time I got home and the welcome sight of the kettle being put on for me (makes note to be nicer to flatmate from now on). I'd like to say I changed in double quick time. I didn't. Goodness knows what I was doing. But eventually I managed to batter myself in to shape, squeezed into a simple black crossover dress, grabbed coat, shoes and a bag for the evening and dived downstairs. A really quick chat with flatmate and her gentleman friend and then I was gone, hoping I'd not forgotten a thing.
I guess this is the upside of being late, I was more concerned with that than my earlier concerns. Hurrah!
Fast forwarding a little, we met and he was actually very nice. We ended in an All Bar One, a place I normally only go with my bezzie, so a new experience and once the champagne and tapas were ordered it was time to get to the serious business of getting to know each other.
The next thing I knew it was 9:30 and my flatmate was texting to make sure I was still alive. Gah, I'd not said things were going okay. I am rubbish. And before I knew it... The evening was, sadly, over. How did that happen? Walking back with him to the Jubilee Line station I decided that I really had enjoyed the evening and would like to see him again. Which, I realised, is a nice thought to have. And with that we made a loose arrangement to meet again soon, had the peckiest of pecks and then I turned and headed for the bus.
What really made the evening wasn't the champagne, or conversation, or location. It was the respect. No lunging, or suggestive comments. It could be that I'm just loosing my touch, but I prefer to think that it was genuine and that gentlemen really do still exist.
Now there's a shocking thought.
More importantly I was left with a feeling of self confidence. Now that really is a wonderful way to end a lovely evening.
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