A date with a Gorilla

Nervous, sweating, unable to eat all day, no sleep the night before. I'd had to double check she was even coming, I was so sure she would pull out, change her mind, find something better to do. But no, it was still on, meeting at Tower Hill after work. I even warned her that I was not Steve, convinced she had us confused and would be let down when my ugly mug loomed out of the darkness at Tower Hill. 

With an uncommon burst of logic and forethought, I even managed to swap mobile numbers with her, in case either of us was running late.

And so in a massively oversized coat that I thought was smart and made me look kind of 60s cool (I inherited it from an uncle) I waited at Tower Hill. And waited...a few minutes passed, then a few more...pessimism kicked in. She isn't coming, I thought. Of course, this could never be, the universe returns to its natural order. With a heavy heart I wondered how miserable I could make my face and how slow I could walk back to the tube. But wait! A text to say she was running late. Welcome back nerves, sweats, anorexia etc etc.

And there she was, as beautiful as I remembered, but not as drunk. Yet.

It was an awkward walk from Tower Hill to St Katharine's Dock...not because of my legs but because we didn't know what to say. I remember words coming out but my brain telling me to 'shut the f**k up, as you are an idiot and really not impressing anyone'. Of course mouth ignored brain.

And so we headed into one of my favourite London pubs, The Dickens Inn. Yes it's a tourist trap, but I love it.

We found a table, I got the drinks, we started talking and laughing and drinking...all I knew after a few hours was that I genuinely loved the girl opposite me. My face hurt from smiling so much, surely a good sign? We might as well have been alone, as she was all I could concentrate on and everyone else around us was just background noise.

At the start of the evening she had told me she was going to go home. I needed to get her to Fenchurch Street before the last train...and being a well mannered young man I had every intention of respecting her wish. "Have another drink", I said.

She had missed her train. Being a well mannered young man (remember?), I offered her a bed for the night, with me to sleep on the sofa. I was so smitten that I meant it as well. I didn't want to but I would.

As we stepped into the cold night, my massive coat* turning me back into a walking barrel, we linked arms and stumbled away. After a few paces, I stopped to look at the dock and the boats floating in the dark waters. I faced her, pulled her close and we kissed. A magical, special kiss. The kind of girl I'd always dreamed about had not only turned up, she had laughed with me, enjoyed my company and not disappeared after saying she needed the loo. And here we were, kissing and smiling and skipping off towards Waterloo.

We walked over Tower Bridge, floating on air, London was our best friend and life was going to be alright.

I decided to play my trump card...how could a woman resist a man who's best mates owned a bar? Yes, let's pop in for a drink before we head back to my home. I forgot that before my friends had owned it, the bar had been a gay dungeon. To me it was somewhere to drink. To someone else it would probably look like somewhere that used to be a gay dungeon and then painted green. We didn't stay long.

Finally, back to Clapham to a room in my shared house.  I offered to sleep in the lounge but she said no. All I remember then is kissing her and one of the best nights of my life.

I was still nervous and doubtful the next  morning, sure that she would see this as a mistake, a drunken moment that she would instantly regret. However, she was smiling and talking to. She must still be drunk, of course!

And so we took our hangovers for a walk to the station. Her in the same clothes as the night before, she really hadn't planned to stay. Me in the same clothes, I really was quite a lazy idiot.

*The coat - the source of much laughter from her in later weeks. She said that when she met me for our first date, it made me look huge. I'm not the tallest man in the world - I describe myself as average but some of my colleagues insist I am short (they are wrong). Anyway, she hated the coat but it did have one good effect, when I took it off she saw I wasn't really a gorilla dressed as man. In fact she rather liked what she saw. I stopped wearing the coat. Now she's not in my life, I wonder if I will start to make dodgy fashion decisions again?