When sparks fly and the shit hits the fan

So now that I kept you waiting for the mother of all cliffhangers – what better date than Valentine’s Day to finish the next installation of Love in the Slow Lane.

I last left you at a bus stop in central London, recovering from a public display of affection with Mr Fox. I barely had time to recover from that encounter when a French chap I was meant to be going on a date with the next afternoon buzzed in my pocket.

Mr Fox and the Frenchman were like chalk and cheese. The Frenchman was confident, cut to the chase and took control. He had asked me out and we were meant to be meeting for a Saturday afternoon date.

It was just before 10pm the Friday night before and I thought – what the heck? Let’s see where this night takes me. So here’s how it unfolded.

I know right – a Frenchmen with a sense of humour!

Anyway – he arrived soon after and certainly, on my side, there was an instant attraction.

 

You see, he looked like a French version of my celebrity crush – creator of the Family Guy and voiceover extraordinaire Seth MacFarlane.

The French Seth  immediately took me by the hand and we weaved our way towards a bar off Carnaby St. Within 20 minutes of meeting he had got us into a bar, paid for my entry fee, took my coat and checked it in for me and then lined up and furnished me with a drink. I felt swept off my feet. This was a complete turnaround from the efforts of the lazy Spanish fox hours earlier.

We began chatting and had a natural conversation flow. He was funny and we were being very flirtatious. I found out he played piano (like Seth!) and I told him I was pretty musical as well. (Well, I am pretty good with a triangle and there’s nothing I can’t do with a tambourine!) I then told a small white lie and suggested that I was an amazing singer, and that perhaps sometime we could do a piano sing-a-long. (I did confess after a while that I was in fact tone deaf but always an enthusiastic contributor to any karaoke session where a song required murdering!).

We chatted, we danced, we snogged, we flirted, we danced and I only had one drink. I think I was drunk on all the lusty sparks flying about the place.

Because before I knew it we were in an Uber heading towards my place, with the promise that no-one would be taking advantage of anyone. I had explained that my flat was a tip  but he said that was fine. We agreed we would have another drink and continue chatting and learn more about each other.

But that’s when the shit hit the fan. You see as we arrived at my flat it was 1am – which is about the time my nocturnal little prickly pet gets up and makes a lot of mess. And because he’s prone to hibernating in cooler temperatures the heating was on. So as soon as I opened the door – the smell hit me.

Now I had three options:

1. Kick out French Seth and tell him to go home after he’d just paid for an Uber.
2. Tell him to wait outside while I tried to clear the air and the mess Roscoe had left in his cage.
3. Drag French Seth to my bedroom at the other side of the house to avoid the shame of my messy pet.

I’ll let you play choose your own adventure and guess which path I went down.

But needless to say, once French Seth left my flat I never heard from him again.

So what did I learn from this encounter. Well, Roscoe was momentarily put in the hedgehog equivalent of the dog house (but then quickly forgiven as he’s so bloody cute), and I learnt that there’s always a good story from taking the plunge and going on a date. Sometimes it works out and sometimes it doesn’t and sometimes, shit happens.

 

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