Blind Date With The Enemy

Why did I do it?

That is the million dollar question and by the time this fiasco ends, it's likely I just maybe, will be in debt of a million quid. The prices they charge here are astronomical.  And it seems I will be left holding the bill.

Why am I here?

I can hear the incessant whine in my own voice, in fact it's coming through loud and clear.  And nearly as loud as the shirt that's being displayed before me, in all its apple shaped glory.  The owner of said shirt is sitting at the table next to mine, and he's deliriously unapologetic about it.

I'm sounding catty, but I don't care.

For Pete's sake I thought these people had taste.

I suppose I shouldn't be so quick to pass assertions.  Especially since I'm sitting here, doing my very best to resemble a Christmas bloody cracker.  Again, I feel the urge to lean forward and repeatedly bash my head against this very fine tablecloth and hopefully a very hardwood table underneath it.

It's not my fault.

I was forced to wear this mockery to haute couture.  I have one other dress that's half-way decent to be seen in public and right now it's cuddling my very affectionate cat, Mr Blewit, my very ginger and very wayward tom cat.

He saw that little black number.  Carelessly hung, on its hanger, wrapped up in its protective bag on the back of the bedroom door and thought right, I'm having that.  And he did, in fact he made a very well thought out nest.  My dress, it's protective bag, which turns out doesn't protect against little furry ginger anarchists.  Who have the gumption to use my newly brought black stockings as a simple sash and proceeds to curl up on my one respectable dress.  While begging me through half lidded eyes, to dare have a go.

My only other option was this god forsaken sack I am currently wearing.  It's pink, not trendy pink or remotely socially acceptable pink but a baby puke pink and it's my revolving nightmare of a bridesmaid dress.  It has ruffles, bows and I look like a half eaten French fancy.

So, I ask myself again, why am I here?  I know I don't do this much, this dating lark but goodness me, even this is surpassing all my idiotic expectations.

To be honest I'm still flabbergasted they even let me in this place.  Me looking like an extra from 'how much is that doggy in the window' and it's so glaringly obvious I haven't got a penny to my name, not a bean.

These people can sniff out a pauper at a hundred paces.

I had all the apparent stares and eyebrow raising as soon as I entered this palace of expense and privilege, while walking up to the surly looking hostess.  Yet when I was eventually allowed to give my friends name for my reservation, I was quickly ushered over to the table I'm still occupying and twenty five minutes later, I'm still alone.  And about to go into cardiac arrest.  Because if it doesn't feel like every pair of disbelieving eyes are trained on me and my absurd pink costume, then I'm a monkey's uncle.

Who the blinking heck as my friend got me involved with.  I know she comes from money, but still.  She has been labelled best friend for the last ten years but as of tonight she's been demoted to just friend, maybe even acquaintance.

I wonder where he is.

It's not April fools is it.  No, no, we are definitely in June, flaming June.

Then where is he.

Oh no, oh what a thought, he's undoubtedly been and gone.  He has seen me sitting here, scowling and looking like something Mr Blewit as dragged in.  He's turned up, expecting to be greeted by some sort of super model.  Someone exotic and alluring like Gisele and what's he find, Gisele's stunted, unkempt, gormless looking, penniless step sister.