“Cheese-Bored”

I haven’t spelt this wrong. It all started with talking about cheese (it was Bumble and I needed an opener, he gave it to me in his profile with his penchant for cheese) – this has happened before in the ‘case’ of the Dickhead who I will not blog about because that was a series of poor judgements on my part for longer than necessary and already this is enough words on the matter.

Anyway, Cheese-Bored and I had about a week and a bit of back and forth of some funny messages and anecdotes though come date-day I think I had decided he was a bit odd (Cheese-Bored was reading a maths book for fun (link if you’re interested), had messaged me about the vernal equinox and he always seemed to not be up to much each day). However things can be misconstrued in writing so on the first day of spring, off I went with a spring in my step.

We met at the tube, it wasn’t an ideal meeting point. FYI, he was short. Story of my life it seems (though on the blog there is probably only The Big Man and Titchski as examples). I thought to myself I’ll go with it given Cheese-Bored was quite smartly dressed and had a plan of where to go, he could be ok. Though already I was disappointed. Again. We then walked past my housemate – ha.

We were going to a little French place for wine and cheese. It was a quirky little place, and eventually we got a table for the much discussed cheese board. It was one of those places with plenty to look at, good job really.

The actual cheese-board meant I could focus on the yummy cheese. I was bored. Cheese-Bored was one of these old-man storytellers, telling tales of how beautiful some restaurant is and how good the food is and who had told him to go there. He also told me that Wellington (because there was a painting of Napoleon on the wall) invented seamless socks so people didn’t get bruises – think he was trying to be Factoid but not getting his facts right. Throughout this I was thinking, try and give this guy the benefit of doubt but I could not shake it off. Doubt Taylor Swift would either. 

We finished the cheese and decided to leave. I noticed Cheese-Bored was in a waistcoat and whilst walking back to the tube I complimented his smart shoes. We walked past a shop selling Sherlock Holmes inspired attire, I think he wanted to be him. Not one compliment for me all evening I thought to myself.

Cheese-Bored and I said goodbye. I went home with more wine and dry roasted peanuts to watch Made in Chelsea which was a better end to the evening.

Thank you to my pal for the code name and also for this, which just about sums it all up:

Also, after the date, Cheese-Bored unmatched me on Bumble quicker than it took to scoff the cheese!

“Titchski”

Before I met him he was getting names like “SkiSkiSki” as he had 3 ski trips lined up and I was marginally jealous. This is pretty much all I knew about him, this and where he lives. However, Titchski, and my housemates were right (they sussed this from his photos), was a shorter than your average male, he seemed even shorter than The Big Man.

I wanted to leave immediately. I know, give the guy a chance is what you might think but how long would I have to sit there? How long is acceptable? I was hoping an hour, two maximum. The ideal time for a first date.

Anyway there wasn’t even a glimmer of hope, particularly as the first thing Titchski said was “oh, have you come straight from work?” – which infuriated me who wouldn’t go on a date in London straight from work? I was thinking to myself what does Titchski do that meant he could go home, maybe exercise, freshen up before going on a date? Something to do with investments.

Yawn.

We went back to talking about what we had in common, skiing. He slated my recent ski trip which let me tell you is something you just do not do in my presence. Ever.

We talked about how many weddings we were going to this year, and their locations, this topic is becoming a bit of a regularity on my dates; this happened with Inferno. It was too competitive and too dull as a conversation. I was bored.

Titchski got up to get more drinks which confirmed he really was a titch. Cue the phone check in with pals, “he’s short”.

It annoyed me as in my profile I’ve noted  my height and where I live, I knew he’d read it as we had talked about the latter briefly. Perhaps he was after a Jamie Cullum/Sophie Dahl thing, or Rob Stewart/Penny Lancaster, or my godmother and her husband (though of course he wouldn’t know about them). I wish he had said so beforehand as sorry Titchski, this not for me.

We had one more drink before we decided to call it a night, it wasn’t a tricky one to get out of as I think it was pretty obvious to both of us after around an hour and a quarter, that this was not going to end up in a ski wedding.

“The Big Man”

I have been told a few times that height does not matter, apparently “it does not matter when you are lying down”. Sorry if you thought The Big Man got his name for other reasons…

Height however is often the first thing you might notice about a person. Heterosexual females tend to fancy the idea of a taller man – “tall, dark and handsome” – who says “handsome, dark and tall”? It’s a tricky one to address in conversation if you’re online dating or using apps, I have ditched guys on finding out they are short, I’m sure most wouldn’t date me if I was a giant. Now you see many profiles stipulating heights. Mine included. I am wary of those who don’t mention it to be honest… I try to suss it from the photos having met a number of shorter men on dates. The Big Man being one of them.

I met The Big Man in a pub, after some messaging and to be honest, I thought he was a bit boring… I think I bailed a couple of times and then eventually met him, and again I was there first (I’m not always there first but see this is a bit of a pattern in my tales so far). I knew as soon as he walked in he was shorter than me. I’m pushing 5ft 9 I would say, most of the time I say I am 5ft 8ish because the bit of Blu-Tack on my wall is an accurate enough measurement for me. The Big Man told me I’m 5ft 8 because he’s 5ft 7 so the Blu-Tack is proven. Good job I was in flat shoes.

The average height of a male in the UK is 5ft 10 and the average height of a female in the UK is 5ft 5.  This doesn’t put me in that good stead for a tall man, but really I need a man that makes me feel comfortable and one I feel comfortable with. Like “Mr Voicemail” perhaps (one day I will blog about him, I just don’t know where to start).

If you really like someone you aren’t going to be bothered about what other people think, or feel daft walking along the street with them. I felt daft with The Big Man. On one date I turned around and couldn’t see him behind another person. I thought he was lost. Interestingly, The Big Man lasted a number of dates, maybe it’s because we were sat down a lot on them. Maybe it’s because we ate a lot of food on dates and I like food. I don’t think it’s because he was confident, like Rachel on Buzzfeed says about when shorter guys fancy her. He wasn’t all that confident.

I tried.

He also was a bit odd (he lived with his parents and had no ambition). Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had a stint of living at home with my parents and have respect for those who do to perhaps save for a house, or because of something that’s happened – he just lived there because he could. We also had a few weeks where we didn’t see each other and I think if it’s right with someone it’s easy, because people make time for one another. It shouldn’t be that hard, and he was too short.

Anyway, long story short (sorry, not sorry), it didn’t work. Height matters and that is that. The average Dutchman is 6ft, perhaps I should live in Holland.