It’s the worst case scenario: five minutes before you are due to meet someone for a first date you realise you have lost your cashpoint card, and only have £2.50 in your purse. But in this case it saved my bacon.
I texted my profuse apologies to my date, explaining that I would just have a juice (even though I was secretly in the mood for a gallon of wine and huge plate of steak and chips), and dashed round the corner to our rendevous point.
My date was recognisable, though he looked shorter, fatter and iller than his picture. I knew it wouldn’t be brilliant, but I thought I’d give him a chance to talk, and at least we could sit on the terrace and watch the riverside world go by.
After a minute or two I realised he only had one topic of conversation, and was incapable of, or uninterested in asking anything about me. I lost track after a while but his monologue included: chakras, tapping (?), healing, QiJong, masters, channelling your higher being, auras, being clinically dead through meditation, and going off to live in a cave for 50 years.
He didn’t pause for breath, or sip his drink, and I was getting desperate. But I must have been good in a previous life because the divine Shanti was helping me out tonight. ‘I have go home and phone the bank to cancel my card’. Dash.
When I got home, I measured up my sitting room for new carpets because I was so desperate to do something normal.