It comes to my attention that it’s only as I put these words to the page that I can’t remember whether the saying goes “you can’t have too much of a good thing,” or whether “you can…” (that fact probably says rather a lot about me and my approach to the more fun things in life). Having now given it a few moments’ thought, I still can’t remember: as far as I’m concerned, I could happily polish off a large proportion of a bottle of Tanqueray No. 10 in one sitting, although the ensuing hangover would probably argue that it was a bad idea, so who knows.
It’s a(n albeit slightly fuzzy) concept I’ve had pushed to the forefront of my mind of late as I ponder dates, dating, and the frequency thereof.
Arranged before Christmas, I had a date recently with a chap whose office is just down the road from Small But Perfectly Formed Agency.
(You didn’t honestly think we were going to get many more posts into the year without a wee foray in the love life of the Blonde, did you? Because if you did, you should have known better.)
My first date with The Filmmaker was something of a success – there was a leisurely Friday night bottle of red in a new bar by the offices, followed by more wine and supper in a little French place in Soho (middle-class problem drinker statistic what?).
“So, how was the date?” the boss said when he’d got in on the following Monday morning.
Slightly taken aback, I spluttered into my cooling Earl Grey. “Er, um… good, thanks. We – hang on. How did you know I had a date?”
“Didn’t,” he said, throwing his jacket onto the back of his chair and wandering towards the kettle. “But it was a Friday night, so I took a punt. So, it was good was it? Are you seeing him again?”
As it happens, by that point, I had already seen him again. (No – there was none of that, before you cry 'hussy'. But yes, I’d seen him on the Saturday.) And there were plans to see him during the week too.
But, for some reason that I couldn’t quite put my finger on, I didn’t know whether I wanted to admit to such abundance in my dating life – especially when it only involved one man. Somehow, in the days of playing it cool, and being a bit blasé about the people you come across in life, it felt a bit… well, odd to acknowledge out loud the fact that there was more than one date scheduled in the space of a week.
“Jeez,” said Hot Flyer Boy when I admitted the fact in the pub over (very) quiet drinks a few days later, “that’s a bit keen, isn’t it? Watch it, Blonde. He’ll be down on one knee before you know it.”
“I very much doubt that, somehow,” I said, raising an eyebrow at him. “I’m sure he’ll see the error of his ways soon enough.”
Which is probably true: I imagine as diaries crank back into action as the penny-pinching month comes to a close, the number of windows available for dates will decrease. On top of which, I’m not the sort of girl who’ll take any opinion seriously if it’s come from a man drinking squash in a pub, whether he’s training for the marathon or not. I may not know whether you can have too much of a good thing or not – but you can definitely have too little.
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