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Speed dating, with its directness, seemed to offer a cure for my malaise.
Initially, my friend Dan suggested a ‘lock and key’ party, apparently this is where men are given keys and mandated to find the correct lock. It was a metaphorical enactment of the whole dating scene – and frankly, it sounded creepy. I knew that my looks were fit for purpose, and my personality serviceable – but I didn’t know if I could deliver in such short bursts, I was a slow burn.
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I said, I waited for a smile, or a sardonic mark, but nothing followed. I then felt her hand under the table, touching my knee.
Delectably old fashioned, the sort of thing one does to initiate a back-alley grope.
The third choice was of course ludicrous, none of us were there to make new friends.
We had enough friends – too many friends, if anything.
I can imagine the facilitators rolling their eyes as yet another oaf mutters ‘can I stick this in? I felt bravery was required, so Dan and I met for drinks beforehand.
We arrived inebriated at the venue, a decrepit basement bar in Soho. The women, embroiled in the novelty of it all, lingered in groups.