Well I’ve finally caved into the inevitable and resolved to create the Kinky Steve companion piece to display my shocking lack of comprehension of the female mind and the resulting slapstick tragicomedy that goes along with it. It’s a hard life being a single chap in London town but it does lead to the occasional amusing anecdote and so I shall begin with the present day.

I’ve been seeing a lovely young lady for a few weeks and by all accounts everything was going great. She’s smart and funny, ball achingly hot with a mole on her substantial cleavage that really does draw the eye and generally a very entertaining person to be around. Came along and met my friends and seemed to get on with them very well (though the scandalous amount of vino we got through may have been a contributing factor in that regard). But she’s a young lady with a demanding job which keeps her pretty busy so I don’t get to see her as often as I’d have liked.
I last saw her nearly two weeks ago. I last heard from her on Sunday. Since Sunday, she hasn't even text me. Anyway, I figure she’s probably not that into me after all. I've clearly misunderstood the state of play but I’m a big boy now and life roles on. I won't pretend I'm not upset by it because frankly, I liked the girl (still do if I'm honest) but there's no point in wallowing in self pity. That way madness and alcoholism lies.

So I took up a rather hasty offer last night and met up with a 23 year old student (I was undecided as to whether she was going to be quite hot, or look suspiciously like a mental aunt) in the hope that she could prove be a nice girl I can date for a while or possibly even be a potential hatefuck revenge doll (hope springs eternal). At least that was the plan.

I’m on my way over to meet her in the Lock tavern in Camden (nice pub, I’d recommend it) when she texts me to let me know her flatmate’s joined her for a sneaky snifter while she waits to meet someone else. Fine by me as she may just be trying to ensure I’m not an axe murderer or anything (I am but that has no bearing on this particular tale). So I rock up to the pub and go find these girls. Now, the smart thing to do when you’re meeting someone that only has a photo from the internet to work on is not to sit with your back facing the entire pub. It makes you rather more difficult to find. But fair enough; not everyone thinks like me. I grabbed myself a pint (“sure you don’t want one girls? Ok then”), sat myself down and put on my charming face. Stories were told, and drinks were drunk and things moved along at a pleasant enough pace. Then suddenly the flatmate’s going to be sticking around as the person she’s meeting is working late instead. My night has turned from a fairly vanilla first date experience to the slender possibility of covering myself in the glory of the smutty threes up. Being as life's not usually inclined to be THAT kind, I put Dangerous Dave on standby to come and assist with the flatmate and I go through the gears from charming to downright suave and go and fetch some more drinks.

On my return, the two ladies had been joined at the table by a couple of guys (seating being short). Not a problem in that they’re at one end and we’re at the other and by my estimations, I’m hopefully better looking than either of them. So I park up again and go back to the chat with flatmate as Mental Aunt makes small talk with one of the guys. Half an hour later and she's still chatting away happily with him. This guy’s 40 if he’s a day and looks like a walking drug habit but I can’t help but feel that polite small talk should be rather shorter than this. Not to mention that the flatmate’s been engaged by the other one and now I’m sitting here like a fucking prat basically just getting pissed on lager that’s started to feel very overpriced watching the girl that I’m meant to be on a date with get hit on by Crackman. By this point, my face had downshifted past charming and into thoroughly disinterested and if I hadn’t left my jacket on the table, I’d have excused myself to the bathroom and just sodded off home to watch the football.
The next words she said to me were “ hey should we have another drink?”. You mean you want me to go to the bar and buy you and your flatmate another glass of wine while you chat to some randoms and leave me sitting here with my thumb in my arse? I don’t think so young lady. So I politely declined and made the excuse that I had to be at work early so I’d better get off. The three of us left Crackman and his sidekick and made our exits. I could have walked them back to their station but by this point, I'd had more than enough of being karma'd in the face and so with a hug and a peck on the cheek, I made my way back to the station to find that my train had been delayed for half an hour. Giggling quietly at the obvious joke that some higher power was playing on me, I eventually got myself back to Hackney where Noodle Express saved my life for the thirty seventh time. Got home in plenty of time for the football highlights and then killed some zombies with Andy as seems to be the default status of my recent evenings.

Funnily enough, there’s been no contact with the rather inconsiderate young Mental Aunt and I don’t envisage any to be forthcoming, especially from my side except perhaps to say that her behaviour was entirely unacceptable and she should seriously consider cutting off one of her feet and beating herself around the face with it. In any case, life roles on at pace and I’ve lined up another date with a primary school teacher so we’ll see how that goes. Halloween beckons this weekend so maybe there’s a slutty ghost out there for me to sink my fake vampire teeth into. We shall see…