It was over a bottle of red and a much-needed gossiping session with JournoGal that I found myself extolling the virtues of a man I’ve been on a couple of dates with - without sounding utterly rapt by the situation.
“You’re not blown away, are you?” She said as I refilled our glasses.
“It’s not that,” I said, wondering how much booze is really wise on a weekday before dismissing my doubt under a haze of man the hell up. “It’s just that… well, there are a couple of things that, if I were designing one from spec, I wouldn’t choose to have in a man.”
“Oh. Such as…?”
I reeled off a short list, each item less consequential in the grand scheme than the previous.
By the time I’d finished, and watched JournoGal’s expression as I ‘fessed up, I felt like the world’s judgiest, most superficial woman, and a frightful snob somewhere on a par with Hyacinth Bucket.
“So you see, they’re absolutely not important,” I urged to JournoGal, getting more fervent as the Merlot took hold. “And I’m trying, I mean, really trying, not to let them get to me, because frankly, if I’m going to write someone off for such petty crimes, then I deserve to be single for the rest of my life.”
Which isn’t too far from the truth.
The niggles I’m talking about are so small as to be entirely unimportant when one considers that the chap in question is kind and good-looking; makes me laugh until my face hurts; exceptionally generous; intelligent, and able to have nuanced political discussions; a mean cook with an apparently unsurpassable roast pork belly (meh) and utterly divine chocolate fondant (now we’re talking); and makes me feel like the only woman in the room.
And yet, I can’t help but be distracted by the fact that he’s only an inch or so taller than I am when I’m in heels (skyscrapers, admittedly, but still… an inch).
Distracted that I find his voice just a touch nasally.
That he’s turned up to a date in a polo shirt (there is no excuse for wearing polo shirts unless one’s actually aboard a polo pony).
That I think he wears a necklace (jewellery looks good on no man. Wedding and signet rings are the only acceptable forms of male jewellery).
And that’s it. Those are my niggles. Those, and the fact that he reckons my recent dismal failures at baking macaroons are down to the fact that I must be doing something terribly wrong and he’s convinced he can better my efforts. I’ll go wild if he does.
And so, in the name of Dating Nice Boys, I’m trying to be the bigger person, to overlook the niggles, not to cut off my nose simply because he's not as tall as the last few have been (and let’s face it: we know how they’ve gone). And possibly pick up some tips on baking in the process.