Something Fishy

I really need to to have a little word with myself.

I've just been on one of the worst dates I've ever had. The only good thing about it, was that I gave you all a laugh when I vented about the arse that was Mr Trafford Centre.

Why on earth then, did I think it would be wise to agree to go on a date with fellow blogger Fishy ?

Oh yes, I'll still be able to write about the date. Difference is that this time, not only will I be blogging to you, but to him as well. How can that ever be a good thing?

And worse still, he'll be writing about me too.

I couldn't be like those celebrities that say they don't read their own press. They never buy newspapers or google themselves. I hate not knowing things and hate being the one in the dark.

An ex discovered that after 'accidentally' putting his tongue down the throat of a Julia Roberts lookalike. My female intuition sensed that he was acting differently and I made it my business to find out why. Of course when I did know, I wish I didn't. I couldn't watch Pretty Woman for months.

Fact is I won't be able to stop myself reading Fish's post about our date. Even if I sit on my hands.

I'm worried that he might describe terrible habits that I have, that I'm currently blissfully unaware of.

What if I end up not wanting to go on dates with me either?

There is also the small matter that we have been match-made by Bamberio. She is a regular reader of both our blogs but has never met me or Fishy. Is she really in the position to do a credible Cilla?

And to be quite honest, Fishy isn't even my type. And that's despite the spec for my ideal man being fairly concise...

Mr Ideal is tall.
Mr Ideal is funny.
Mr Ideal has no dependents. And that includes pets.

Now before you think I'm some animal and child-hating witch, I'm not at all. I'm just a spontaneous person and would like to be able to travel to Timbuktu with my significant other at a moment's notice.

It's not the same when they have to be back in time to feed the budgie.

I did have a different list recently. After one too many Ribenas I asked the concierges to find me a boyfriend. When they asked what I look for in a man, I only had two criteria.

He must be able to swim.
He must be able to drive.

I've no idea what that was all about either and as these things didn't seem so important in the cold light of day, I didn't bother adding them to my must haves. Surely Fishy can swim anyway?

He doesn't fare too well with the rest of the list though...

Short Fishy lives with his depressed cat Mildred.

He is absolutely hilarious though and I love a man that can make me laugh. Is it a case of one out of three ain't bad?

There are various other good things I've discovered about Fishy from reading his blog. Like that...er...

What I meant to say was there are various other things I've discovered about him.

Like that he has small nipples and doesn't like morris dancing.

He is a fan of Feargal Sharkey and sees no shame in dancing along to A Good Heart on dates.

He once had a job as a dinnerlady (not sure how that works? Is he a pre-op transsexual I wonder?)

He likes The Smiths, but doesn't like tuna. I'm the opposite - does that mean we are doomed?

He's been propositioned by his gay neighbour.

He wears socks with the days of the week on them.

His annual spend on haircuts is a mere £96, whereas I pay that in two visits.

He is appalling at flirting, yet thinks nothing of trying to pull the waitress while on a date with another girl.

He's definitely an interesting one is Fishy.

I can probably overlook all of those problems, except the last. My concierges are very protective over me. If they hear that he has flirted with another girl on our date, Fishy can dream on about ever being buzzed into my building, let alone being allowed up to see my view.