Not one to kiss and tell, but as there were no kissin', think it's a tale that's not worth missin'. Certainly have had a few laughs about Logman or should we call him BirchBoy?
So, I thought I'd trip down to Haselmere for some country air and meet up with a country boy in his own habitat. So I cycle down to Waterloo and hop on the train...nice to get out of London for a few hours...We'd corresponded for a few weeks. He, unlike other folk, was not shy of talking on the phone and seemed sane with a hint of humour. Well, I guess his phone personality is one thing. I did notice that he lingered often for dramatic pauses. That's not something to employ when you don't know someone well. Old friends are good at lingering dramatic pauses, but strangers....only if they're professional stand ups. Otherwise, I'm checking my watch and trying to get off the phone.
So I arrive at the station. I've made an effort. I'm standing there. I see a hand waving from a car. A hand and forearm waving from a seated position in a vehicle. Get out the damn car. Don't you have any manners? We've never met before and you can't stand up and get out of your tiny Toyota after I've been on the train for an hour. So I continue standing until he gets off his bony ass and stands up to motion me towards him. Wow. This is bad manners and he doesn't even know it. That's ok if you're old friends, but not someone you haven't met before. I sidle over to the pale blue car and he throws the door open. Gentleman. Says hello and leans forward for a ?kiss?? as if I'm his wife and he's picking me up from my work commute or something. Did I miss something here? Think to myself, this guy is harmless...a bony waif of a guy...so buckle up the seatbelt and oh....hand touches knee. Another strike. I really don't like complete strangers touching my knee. I just don't. So this guy has three strikes before we leave the parking lot.
My hiking group had been down to Haslemere and I wanted to see it. We'd planned a little walk and a pub lunch, but he rudely told me I wasn't dressed for a walk as I was wearing a dress and spoke to me as if he thought I'd never seen grass before. Then, another sore point....I mention that these roads aren't made for cyclists. Lots of bends and blind spots....so he launches into how much he hates cyclists and thinks they should pay road tax and how many accidents they cause. I just stayed quiet as I could see there would be many other opportunities to argue. Not good to argue within the first five minutes.
We drive to Thursely and find a nice pub nestled in the fields. The Three somethings. Acorns maybe...Kings. He orders a coffee, so I follow. We sit down. I want the seat with the view of the door and the rest of the pub as I can see this is going to be tedious. The barmaid is asking who won the election. I shoult out Obama... She's glad. The other pub boy is glad too. A little banter breaks out. The date guy looks betrayed like I'm not supposed to speak to other people. The pub worker throws some logs in the fireplace. It's a lovely scene. The date guy moans a few minutes later that the wood isn't ready for the fire. I suggest some kindling would help it. He says no...It's birch. Birch doesn't burn well. Birch or Ash... I say I don't think it's birch. Birch has white bark. ....No. this is birch. Lot of birch around here. I say no. the bark is too thick to be birch...(at this point I realise he has won the wood identification arguement as it is going to be birch whether it is or not) I laugh to myself. And say...Let's just take it to the lab and get it tested. Wow. How pedantic. Let him win...this loser. Even the guy working the bar was standing behind him holding back a smirk and rolling his eyes.
It is wrong to meet up with someone for a first date and let them splash out on a meal. He wanted to though. And I wanted to see the countryside...and meet him...until I met him. He probably feels cheated. It's much better to spend a half hour with a coffee....low investment, low expectations....best starting point with these internet dates. Then no one is disappointed. And it is much easier to be pleasantly surprised.
The menu was fabulous. A little posh pub grub. Baked brie, baked goats cheese....and we both had the confit duck. My coffee was cold. I ordered a cider. Everytime I tried to speak, I felt I got interrupted. His tales were nothing to record. He wanked on about his achievements? no. He didn't. He seemed more interested in reprimanding his brother for being in love with a married woman for the past twenty years. He told of this in detail. But that's not even his life. He only mentioned much later that he had been a chef for the better part of his life. A saucier. Sauces only....ofcourse that extends to fish and meat. Sauceman as opposed to saucy man. Trying...I started to say," I make a really nice creamy tomato sauce to go with mussels..." but was cut off by.."Oh please don't tell me. I prefer to taste it myself and guess the ingredients."...as if that's going to happen. Not be tasting my sauce buddy...I can tell you that right now. (Perhaps if I come across someone like him again, I will not hold back. He needs to learn some manners.) So I guess we're not talking about mussels. Ok...next topic...search search...
Best fumble yet....I'm half way through my dinner and he says that being a chef, portion control is important....and my portion is much larger than his. The meat is dry and overcooked...this is not confit duck and your portion is almost twice the size of mine....Then he offers to cut my food for me as I have a broken finger. I push the plate over telling him he can have the rest if he's still hungry. Oh no. That was not my intention. I don't mean to take your food....please. I just see you're struggling with your fork. How rude is that? Telling someone they got a bigger piece of duck than you did? What age are we here? Am I at a kiddy party with uneven slices of cake? Kids slurping down sheets of icing come to mind. Tears...I didn't get the piece I wanted with the rose on top.
Many walkers came in the pub. It's near the devils punchbowl. I'd like to go again with different company. Hard to get to by foot possibly but doable. A lot of walkers for a weekday.
We leave the pub and go for a walk. There is only half an hour left to enjoy the gorse and the fields. It's pretty. It's a bit cold. He tries to take my hand with his sweaty palm. Why? Isn't it obvious? Does he think things are going that well? We walk. He sees a birch tree. "See. That's a birch. It was definetly birch back there in the fireplace. !!!"
