Announcing: New hosting and design to aid your reading pleasure

Greetings and salutations!

Today I upgraded this blog to a self-hosted website, bidding a sad farewell to the generosity of because I want the freedom to do so much more with my blog. is now with us.

Please bookmark it and tell your friends about it.

If you are a regular follower, then I hope you like the new look.

If this is your first visit to my blog, then a wet, warm welcome to you. (No need to curtsy.) Here you can learn how a White Knight in shining armour became a Grey Knight…

The transition has not been without it’s challenges and setbacks. All the previous ‘likes’ so graciously bestowed upon me by you can not be ported across to the new website! Alas and alack…of foresight on somebody’s part.

Your naughty comments, however, have been rescued and are across the moat and safely in the castle keep.

You can now also follow my jousts, defeats and conquests on Twitter at:

I hope that new design makes it easier to find the kind of bawdy fun you’re looking for here…

If you spot anything wrong or wish to suggest something, I not only have an open mind, I have an open comment system too. Add a comment if you wish, I shall be happy to hear from you.

On to better battles (dates) I must go…Tally ho!


Your Grey Knight

silver glossyknight

Date #8 – From Russia with hair

Carefully thought-out poses of her skiing, snorkelling, cycling and dancing showed a young, attractive woman actively enjoying life. Curiously she was Russian, a Buddhist and claimed to play rugby. As an ex-South African I think I was taught to pass a rugby ball before I could walk. A stunning rugby-playing, Buddhist Russian I just had to meet.

I had blotted out the previous night’s date with Potty Mouth as I stood waiting for my date outside Covent Garden Tube station on a cool Friday night. As tourists marvelled at the historical sights and Londoners made for the pubs and restaurants, it occurred to me just how business-like our email exchange in the previous week had been. It was refreshing to have a woman agree to a date within three emails. I like decisiveness and detest wasting my time swapping endless emails that ultimately lead to nothing because the other person just can’t bring themselves to meet in person. That had been happening too often in the previous months.

When we spotted each other her face remained deadpan while I smiled. I kissed her politely on the cheek and said hello. She didn’t say anything in response and started walking off, her eyes said “follow me”, so I did. What the fuck?!

She led me to a small quiet pub and confidently she went inside, strode past strangely quiet drinkers at the bar and went up a flight of stairs at the back of the place. Intrepidly I followed this tall, blonde Russian who hadn’t said a word to me. Was I going to walk through a black curtain into a dark, smoky room where a guy with a Russian accent wearing a trench-coat and holding a briefcase was going to ask me if I was Red Bear?

The stairs led to another floor that had a small bar and six tables with chairs. One table was free and we headed for it. The others were occupied by couples that were on dates given their smart clothes and stiff body language.

“What would you like to drink?” I asked.

“A black Russian,” she said, finally speaking and doing so with a sexy, rasping voice.

I returned with our drinks and when I sat down she gave me a very pleasant smile. We began to chat and her English was nearly fluent. She was intelligent but a little dull for me. After an hour I decided that there was no chemistry between us.

Then I spotted something.

If she turned her head away from me and the faint light was strong enough, I noticed that she had blonde facial hair where a man would have side-burns. At first I thought nothing of it, but noticed it more and more and hopefully wasn’t staring at her.

Then I noticed her top lip…it had a very bleached moustache. When I was young enough to want to look older, I grew a moustache. Hers would have rivalled mine.

I subscribe to traditional gender stereotypes, especially the one that says ladies should have little hair on their faces. It just wouldn’t work if my girlfriend reminded me of Chewbacca. How Photoshopped were her photos?

The more I looked at her, the more I realized that she was the hairiest woman I had ever come across. How hairy was she under her clothes? I really didn’t want to find out. All attraction toward her flew out the window quicker than a bad wig flying off on a windy day.

Hirsute woman 2

We had another round of drinks despite me knowing that I didn’t want to see her again. I felt very sorry for her and wondered if her being hirsute was the reason that she was single. Behind the polite smile and clever conversation I got the impression that there was a very active brain whirring away. Undoubtedly she had an agenda of her own, but I didn’t really care what it was.

I walked the hirsute Russian to her Tube station and waited on the platform with her. As her train approached I said to her, “It was a pleasure meeting you. If you would like to see me again, send me a message.”

She smiled and got on the train without saying another word. Hello and goodbye didn’t come easily to her.

Nobody warned me that internet dating could lead to me discovering the missing link or sharing a drink with Yeti’s lovechild.

I’ve never ever heard from her again, but more than a year and half on at the time of writing, revisiting the Happy Humping Ground website, I saw that she had logged on recently and her pictures hadn’t changed

I was starting to believe that dating was a numbers game and after enough dates, I would find Her. I was looking forward to the next date that I had lined up for the following evening…with a German psychologist. Could she be The One?

LESSONS LEARNT: Pretty pictures on dating profiles are deceptive. Don’t go on a date just because you like the pictures.

Hirsute woman 5

Date #7 – Potty Mouth had to dash

I have a soft spot for pretty blondes and it gets harder every time I see one. I make no apologies for this, it’s the look I like. We all have a type.

Her profile appeared fresh in my weekly search on OKCupid and it was her pretty face and blonde hair that caught my eye. It was before the Intimate Encounter with Tech Titan and after Stupid Boy Crashed and Burned when I found her. We were an over 85% match, which is quite high on that site’s matching system. From her profile I saw that she was Australian so I kind of knew what to expect…or so I thought.

Our swapping of emails in the run-up to this date had been very positive. I approached her online and we had a brief exchange of messages before she went off to do a sailing course in Spain. I didn’t think I’d hear from her again, but she surprised me and a few weeks later she made contact. Very upbeat, positive emails flew backwards and forwards over a few nights before we found a mutually convenient date in our diaries. She seemed to have quite a busy social life. I was very keen to meet her because on paper/screen we had a lot in common and the written banter was good.

We met on a warm Thursday night in November outside Tower Hill Tube station. I instantly liked the look of her. She had a smiley face, flowing golden blonde hair and a hint of boobage. She was a little short for her weight, but I like a bit of cushion for the pushin’.

She had just flown in from Amsterdam after visiting a friend and was carrying a small backpack. I had just spent the day on a training course in London. She was in blue jeans and a black leather jacket. I was in a grey suit, white shirt and tie.

There is a steep flight of stairs that runs down from the Tube station to an underpass that opens out on to the Tower of London. I offered to carry her backpack which she gratefully accepted. Confronted by the stairs I offered her my arm with my “Do you like chicken? Take a wing.” line that made her chuckle. She took my arm nevertheless.

It occurred to me that my offering an arm was a great way to see if a woman was comfortable enough with me to get tactile within seconds of meeting me. Surely a woman would only do that if she fancied the man doing so? It warranted further investigation if there were more dates in my future.

I felt at ease with her as we walked and talked our way to St Katharine’s Docks. We must have made for quite a sight as we brushed past office workers outside the drinking holes that line the marina, what with me in a suit and backpack over my shoulder. By the time we got to be seated at a table in the pizzeria at the Dickens Inn, I had noticed that she said the word “fuck” quite a lot. She seemed to use it in almost every second sentence and it bothered me.

It bothered me because it wasn’t ladylike. I expect my woman to behave and speak like a lady. I speak and behave like a gentleman but in private and especially in the bedroom, then and only there, anything goes. I know that Australian women are famous for being boisterous and a little rough around the edges, but my date had a high-flying job that required a degree of sophistication and social graces. To continually hear “fuck”, “fucking”, “fuckit”, “fucker” and “fuckety-fuck” in almost every sentence was unpleasant for me.

In my mind I called her “Potty Mouth”.

Potty mouth 3

Despite her perpetual deluge of swearing we managed to make conversation and it was good. No topic was off-limits and I came to the conclusion that Potty Mouth was a strong-willed, confident and independent woman. I had no problem with that, but could imagine that many men might. I also learned that she came from a well-to-do family and that money had never been a problem for her. She had been to universities on three continents and yes, Harvard was one of them. All her profile photos were of her in a smart dress at some black-tie affair at an embassy, corporate or charity event. She was high-society, but her mouth was in the gutter.

I have a financial plan in my life that involves spending far less than I earn. I want to buy my own home, which has eluded me as events have always conspired against me when I was on the brink of doing so. I also have a responsibility in the form of an eighty-something year-old mother who I support. What would happen when the day comes when I have to tell Potty Mouth that we can’t go away to St. Tropez that year with Sir and Lady Jones because I had to pay for an expensive operation for my mother?

We shared a pizza and a bottle of wine, with me wondering if the alcohol would affect her swearing in any way. It didn’t, well, not that I could discern. The meal came to an end and I was in two minds about calling it a night. Before I made a decision, she spoke.

“Do you mind if we go for a walk somewhere? My fucking legs are fucking killing me,” Potty Mouth asked.

“Of course we can. It’s a lovely evening,” I answered.

“It’s because of all the fucking sitting I’ve been doing today. Sitting on the fucking bus to the airport, then sitting at the fucking airport, then sitting on the fucking plane, then sitting on the fucking train to get here. My legs are fucked.”


I paid for the meal and Potty Mouth didn’t seem to notice, nor did she say thank you.

We strolled around St Katharine’s Docks and I showed her the apartment behind the Dickens Inn that I had contemplated buying in 2004, when I was married and had money. Although she had lived in London for several years she wasn’t familiar with the area, so I couldn’t help but play tour guide until we found a pub to have a nightcap.

Her phone rang while we were enjoying a drink and she first checked to see who it was before answering it. I thought it a bit rude to answer a phone during a date and I think my face let her know it. Then I guessed that it was probably her ‘safety call’, a friend checking in on her to see that her date was safe. I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation that she had with her best friend who, as became obvious from the discussion, had just been dumped by her long-term boyfriend and was now homeless.

“Oh, I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to go to my friend’s place to help her pack and move her to my place,” Potty Mouth said without swearing. So she can do it.

“No problem. I understand. You’re a good friend,” I replied.

“Thank you for everything. I’m sorry to have to cut it short. I’ll be in touch,” Potty Mouth said as she kissed me on the cheek before slinging her backpack over her shoulder and scampering out of the pub into the darkness, leaving me to my half-drunk pint.

I liked the look of her, liked the vibe with her, we had lots in common, were similar in adventurous spirit, but good grief, she was the most foul-mouthed woman I had ever come across.

I was a bit disappointed, but never mind, I had three dates in the next three days lined up…

Fitness Freak had a past – Final part

I was doing my best to have a good time with her and I think she was enjoying her time with me. Inside me an unseen quiet storm raged as I tussled with my sexual foible demon. If it wasn’t for that I would have been wondering if she was The One. There wasn’t anything wrong with her, there was something wrong with me.

To my mind it was time to bring the date to an end, but Fitness Freak surprised me by saying, “Hey, do you feel like coffee and cake? I know a great place that I want to show you.”

Her suggesting that confirmed to me that she was enjoying being with me and didn’t want the date to end. I was flattered and was enjoying her company too, but only when I managed to suppress the demon within.

“Sure, why not?!” I said with a smile. It was better than going home to feel sorry for myself. It was also an opportunity to acquire some badly needed dating skills and experience, all in preparation for the day when I found The One.

We ended up walking two and a half miles from Camden down in to Soho to an unique eatery called Princi. It was a novel Italian dining concept and I had never seen anything like it before. It was a large restaurant with counters around half the perimeter with the most amazing cakes, pastries and savouries I had ever seen – and I had seen a lot in London, especially at the department stores like Harrods. I was impressed and made a mental note to remember to bring future dates here.

We sat eating and drinking while making each other laugh. Fitness Freak was going to participate in the CrossFit Games in America so didn’t want to over-indulge in calories. Her dedication and self-control impressed me. She got my twisted sense of humour and wasn’t afraid to touch me. At one stage she rested her hand on my thigh in a very natural manner, as if it belonged there and she had been doing that for a long time. It didn’t bother me and I didn’t react, just calmly allowed it. I was starting to wonder if I had some kind of connection with Eastern European women. I made a mental note of that too.

It was approaching midnight and the Tube would soon stop running, so Fitness Freak had to go home. It had been almost twelve hours since we met. As first dates go, that is very long, even I knew that. It was an indication as to how well we got along. By now even a dolt like me sensed that she was in to me. If only she knew of the demon that gripped my heart.

I escorted Fitness Freak down to the big, bright lights of Piccadilly Circus where she needed to catch a train. I sensed that she wanted me to kiss her on the lips but I only kissed her on the cheek. I knew that I was going to have to let her down and I didn’t want to lead her on.

“You’re a hottie,” she said, catching me by surprise with her words.

“Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself. I bet you say that to all the boys,” I retorted, trying not to blush.

“Will you call me tomorrow?” she asked, with a twinkle in her clear blue yes while smiling at me.

“Okay,” is all I said.

The next afternoon I was sitting on my sofa, phone in hand, trying to find the right words to let Fitness Freak know that we wouldn’t be seeing each other again. The phone buzzed into life and startled me. It was her and the conversation that I had been dreading started. Eventually I told her that we wouldn’t be seeing each other again.

I could hear the disappointment in her silence over the phone. It felt awful to disappoint her.

There wasn’t anything wrong with her, there was something wrong with me.

In hindsight there was a good chance that I could have experienced my own version of this (Skin Deep 1989 – Yes, that’s John Ritter):

But Stupid Boy decided to pass…

Date #6 – Fitness Freak had a past

I recognised her the instant I saw her photo – she was unforgettably beautiful. I had viewed her profile on my Happy Humping Ground dating site a few months earlier, but I didn’t write to her because I had Tech Titan and Baltic Babe to contend with.

Her writing to me out of the blue proved to me that my reworked profile was doing its job. I’m not bragging when I tell you that I was getting on average a dozen emails a day from women which is apparently high for a guy. Your average woman on a dating site initially gets that every day, but the quality of the content and its writer is lower. My fake female profile experiment told me so.

The beauty was an Eastern European fitness instructor. I liked her profile, but the only thing that seemed odd was that she was 33 and I was 41. I can just hear guys around the world laughing at me. For so many men the idea of a beautiful, younger fitness instructor is but a fantasy. The thing is that I don’t want to have children. The Happy Humping Ground website didn’t require that as a criteria. I wanted to meet her nevertheless, irrespective of her need to breed or not.

The banter via email was very good and I was excited about meeting her. We seemed to have a lot in common and even made each other laugh via email. We agreed to meet on the coming Saturday.

The lunchtime crowd was milling about outside Camden Town Tube station. For a late Autumn day there was bright sunshine and it warmed my back as I waited. There was a good vibe in the air, but there usually is around Camden Town because of the markets.

We found each other in the mindless throngs and I liked the look of her. She was as beautiful in real life as in her photos. She did seem a little shorter than her stated five foot six inches, but it didn’t matter to me. She had a ready smile and a cheeky glint in her eye. I knew the date would be memorable.

I had booked a table at a Cuban restaurant in the Stables Market so we headed in that direction. She walked beside and slightly behind me as people gave way before me. Shrek and Princess Fiona came to mind. We indulged in polite small-talk about how long each of us had been in London and where we had lived. Given the residential areas she mentioned it seemed that she was no stranger to hard times.

Wandering around a market is a great way of building rapport with someone. It’s not the traditional face-to-face interrogation across a table that some dates can become. In a market there are distractions galore and they usually have a convivial atmosphere, so it’s positive all-round. There also isn’t the pressure to make conversation all the time.

We had had our fill of the market and its crowds and went to the restaurant. To my relief and surprise they gave us a table on the top floor where there nobody else. We could now enjoy some peace and quiet, good food and hopefully great company.

As we chatted there were hints of chemistry; she had a fun, cheeky way about her that I liked. At times she reminded me of Baltic Babe, but I didn’t let that thought linger. Her favourite topic of conversation was the fitness industry and her fitness regime. She kept mentioning burpees and how hard her abdominal muscles were becoming. I decided to call her ‘Fitness Freak’ in my mind.

Fitness freak

“How come at your age you’re only interested in much older guys?” I asked.

“Younger guys don’t have it right in the head yet,” she replied, tapping her head with a finger.

“That’s interesting, but what about children?” I pressed, aware that I had turned the conversation very serious, possibly prematurely so.

“No, I don’t want children. Too much responsibility, too much like hard work and besides, I don’t want to ruin my great body” she said with a laugh.

Wow! Two possible relationship obstacles swatted away as easily as that. There might be some potential here. Easy, fun chatting then ensued as we ate our food. She had a wonderfully sparkly way about her.

As a fitness instructor she was very trim and hardly ever drank wine. It wasn’t too surprising then that after sharing a bottle in two hours that her lips had loosened and she was less reserved in her banter. Okay, that’s my nice way of putting it that she decided to talk about sex.

Now don’t go getting all excited. Within minutes of her broaching and indulging in talking about sex, Fitness Freak innocently mentioned having done the one thing that I cannot accept a woman doing: my sexual foible. All attraction that I was beginning to feel for her instantly shrivelled up and died.

I was going to have to deal with this issue of mine. It wasn’t her fault that she had done what was unacceptable to me. Or was it? I decided to ask her why she had done that. Her explanation stunned me.

Fitness Freak told me a tale about something awful that had happened to her when she was a teenager. (I won’t disclose the story out of respect and compassion for her.) The shock of what had happened caused her to leave her native country and slowly make her way to London. En route, in order to survive, she wasn’t too proud to do a variety of menial jobs, far below her intellectual inability. She told me how she had arrived in London and fallen in with the wrong crowd, but had finally recently extricated herself. Fitness Freak had worked as a cleaner for years while getting her qualification as a fitness instructor.

I admired her tenacity and determination, while feeling sorry for her. Despite her hardships she still managed to be a positive person and had a lively energy about her. She was one of life’s survivors who could an example to anyone about how to overcome adversity.

The meal finished and she went off to the ladies while I dealt with the bill. I always pay for the meal when on a date, it’s how I am. I don’t do it to impress a woman or to put any kind of pressure on her to sleep with me. I do it because it’s in keeping with my idea of being a gentleman. All I expect in return is for a lady to say thank you. Manners don’t cost anything, but they are worth a lot.

It embarrasses me now to say that the meal was part paid for with a Groupon voucher, but doing so had its hidden advantages as I was to learn. Fitness Freak returned from the ladies just as I was producing the Groupon voucher for the waitress. My date saw this and I felt embarrassed. She must have noticed my unease and said as we were leaving, “Thank you for paying. I don’t mind your using Groupon. I use them often too.”

Hmm, a woman commented positively on my using a Groupon voucher? She obviously wasn’t obsessed with money then. Baltic Babe would have been upset if I dared to use a voucher. An idea came to me. Letting dates see me pay with a voucher could be a test to see if they’re after a man with money. I decided to call this the Gold-digger Test and would use it on future dates with other women. I knew there would be future dates…or would there?

Fitness Freak and I walked around the markets in Camden for a while and then around the waterway lock area where the masses had descended to enjoy a sundowner drink. We had no difficulty in keeping conversation going even as the sun started to go in to hiding. She was also becoming tactile and would touch my arm to get my attention when she wanted to show me something, or would lightly punch me if I said something cheeky that made both of us laugh.

To be continued…

Miss Indecisive gets put on the cupboard? Or do I?

I suggested to Miss Indecisive that she visit me in my town on the Friday night and that we go for dinner. It was also a way of letting her see my home, all in an effort to develop the relationship. I was also hoping to share our first kiss. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

On the Friday morning I got up early to clean and tidy my apartment. I knew I wouldn’t have time in the evening getting back from work to do so. Nobody cleans quicker than a man expecting a lady visitor!

That night we met outside my block and went straight to the restaurant. Winter was nearly upon us and it was cold and dark as we walked up to the Italian taverna that had cute Christmas lights on the trees outside. I was looking forward to this encounter because I could sense the possibility of a relationship with Miss Indecisive.

We sat down to an excellent meal accompanied by great wine. It was a classically romantic dinner for a newly-dating couple. She still had a bad cold, but I was determined to kiss her at the end of the night.

Conversation flowed easily and we were both very relaxed and comfortable with each other. Once again the cocktail of medicine and alcohol slowly took effect. Miss Indecisive moved the conversation towards her previous boyfriend, which made me wonder if she was still hung up on him. I wasn’t expecting what she said next though.

“He liked to have me dress up in skimpy leather outfits with knee-high boots, then put me over his lap and spank me until my backside went red. After that he would pick me up and put me on top of the cupboard.”

“Then what?” I asked while trying not to choke on my veal.

“Oh, he would lie on the bed and have a wank while we stared at each other.”

“You’re kidding. How did you feel about this?” I asked, hiding my surprise.

“I would just laugh. The whole thing was just preposterous, but it’s what he liked, so I went along with it.”

This story struck me as somewhat unbelievable. What man would do that when he had such an attractive woman before him? Seeing as she was in a chatty frame of mind about this I decided to be naughty and for once dared to delve deeper.

“What did he do to pleasure you?” I asked.

“Pleasure me? Absolutely nothing! He wasn’t interested in pleasuring me. It was all about him. I was just his toy. It’s one of the reasons I left him.”

“So how did you get off?” I couldn’t believe that I was having this conversation, but what the hell.

“I would simply have to play with myself while he watched. He was a bit of a voyeur, Mr Banker-Wanker.”

Every man is a bit of a voyeur, it’s just the degree that varies. Any man that says he doesn’t enjoy watching pornography is a liar. Men are visual creatures, it’s how we are. I’ve watched my fair share of porn, but I don’t need it every day, I’m not addicted. But to have a sexy woman like her in front of you and not want to make the beast with two backs is highly unusual to my mind.

The meal ended and I invited Miss Indecisive back to my place on the pretext of introducing her to Californication. She accepted and we left the restaurant with her thanking me for paying for the meal. Something told me that she was going to like that show.

My apartment is nothing fancy, it’s quite plain and simple actually. I keep it clean and tidy as a rule because that’s how I am. The clean-up of the morning was just a confidence booster for me. It has a separate bedroom, an awful apricot-coloured bathroom, a kitchen that was very with it when it was installed in the 1980s and a decent-sized lounge that I have worked minor miracles with to make it what it was. Is now a good time to mention that I’m colour-blind?

About a minute after entering it I could sense that Miss Indecisive’s mood had changed. She became less chatty. Undaunted I got us comfortable on the sofa in front of my huge television. I offered her a drink, but she declined, so I changed her world by switching on Californication. As I expected, she loved it, laughing at everything that I laughed at too. Good, we had a similar sense of humour.

I sat on one end of the sofa and she sat on the far end with a cushion on her lap, her arms folded and her legs crossed. Her body language told me that she was uncomfortable. I had no intention of jumping her, I just wanted one kiss. Of course she couldn’t know this. I decided not to try my luck in my home because it might have freaked her out. Saying goodbye later would seem a more appropriate and safe time for her.

The second episode of Californication ended and Miss Indecisive said that it was time for her to go. I was little surprised as it was barely 10pm on a Friday night, but said nothing. I escorted her to her car which was parked on the street in front of my block.

“What are your plans for the coming week and next weekend?” I asked, wondering when our next date would be.

“Umm, I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I have dates all weekend next week,” she said without much emotion.

“Oh, I see,” was all I could stammer.

Was she trying to brush me off? Let me know that there were other guys on the scene? Let me down gently?

So I had a little competition. That’s okay, I can handle that. Sod it, I still wanted to kiss her.

I was just about to kiss her when an old lady walking her decrepit dog came by. The dog stopped to sniff Miss Indecisive’s car. We all paused to see if it would dare lift a leg.

It didn’t and the two interlopers shuffled down the street. I turned to kiss Miss Indecisive, but she was halfway into her driver’s seat.

“Right, got to go. Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said and drove off, leaving me standing befuddled and bemused.

The next morning, having had some time to digest her bombshell, I sent her the following email:

I really enjoyed last night. I hope you did too?

May all your dates this coming week be lacking in stature, eloquence, intellect, morals, wit and cologne.



PS. I’d like to see you again.

On the Sunday evening I got the following response:

I have enjoyed meeting you and our three dates, however I have decided that one day I may want children and as you are adamant that you do not it would not be fair on either of us to go out again.

I wish you the best of luck finding Miss Right.

Take care.

I was disappointed in a couple of ways. First, I thought there was a chance of a relationship. Second, that she used the excuse that she did. Third, I probably wouldn’t know the real reason why and was left guessing that she was more attracted to someone else.


Miss Indecisive rides topless but can’t kiss me

We swapped a few emails the next day and agreed to meet the following Saturday night. I make that sound so simple. It took several emails that involved her suggesting three places near her to meet, I’d choose one, she would agree, then change her mind, plumb for one of the others, change her mind again. We ended up settling for the first one I chose. All this via email, so it felt like it was happening in slow motion.

The following dark Saturday night I drove through deserted English countryside as a storm was brewing and ghostly bare trees waved their branches at me, admonishing me for choosing a pub in the middle of nowhere. My trusty satnav got me to the pub’s empty car park a few minutes before 8pm. I decided to sit in my car to wait for Miss Indecisive. There were no signs of life in the pub.

Suddenly headlights came speeding down the country lane towards me, they slowed abruptly and turned sharply into the giant car park and then drove slowly around the parking area. Was it bored boy racers looking to cause mischief? Was the car going to come to a stop, headlights in my face, engine gunning and smoke coming from the tyres?

Eventually the car stopped wandering around the car park and ended up straddling two parking spots. The driver got out. It was Miss Indecisive.

Miss Indecisive

I went to meet her halfway between her car and the door to the pub. After giving her a kiss on the cheek, she said, “I must warn you that I have a stonkingly bad cold.”

“Well, I guess that means you can’t kiss me or have too much alcohol,” I said with a smile. She laughed.

The pub inside was empty except for two guys dressed in black behind the bar who seemed annoyed at our intrusion. I quickly chose a table for fear of Miss Indecisive becoming involved.

The date got progressively better, banter flowed, the food was good and I even coaxed her into having a glass of wine with me. I think it was the mixture of the alcohol and her medication that relaxed her. Other patrons had started streaming in and the place had come to life. Somehow we got talking about previous relationships and it seemed that she had had quite a few, the longest of which lasted five years.

“My last long-term boyfriend was a bit kinky,” she said, catching me by surprise.

“What do you mean?” I asked, cautiously prying while at the same being concerned that what I heard might put me off her.

“Well, he was a banker and he had a Porsche. I swear he liked that car more than me. Anyway, last Summer he surprised me with a weekend away to Brighton. The only condition was that I sat topless in the car on the drive down to the coast.”

“Did you?” I couldn’t help but look at her chest as I spoke.



“Well, we got a bit of attention from a few other cars,” Miss Indecisive said with a smile.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes,” she said with a laugh and a coy smile.

It seemed that there was a naughty side to Miss Indecisive. She was becoming more interesting by the hour. I didn’t expand the conversation on that topic, but perhaps I should have.

Before we knew it, it was midnight and we were the only people left in the pub except for the two black-shirted guys who were noisily cleaning up. I had no intention of pushing my luck and trying to go home with her. It just wasn’t my style. I was looking for a relationship, not a plaything. Giving her the impression that I was just after sex would have destroyed the prospect of a serious romance.

I paid the bill and escorted Miss Indecisive to her car. It was cold and windy, so I offered her my jacket which she politely declined.

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said as we stood next to her car.

“You’re welcome,” I said and kissed her on the cheek. I avoided her lips because I didn’t want to catch her cold, but I did take the opportunity to give her a hug.

I put my arms under hers and pulled her carefully against me. I could feel her body against mine and it felt good. For a moment she rested her head on my shoulder before pushing herself off of me and getting in her car to drive off. She smiled and waved at me before speeding off in to the murky night.

Miss Indecisive certainly had my attention…