Never mind - we're back with another brand-new Weekly Series that will take us right through to the New Year. Ladies and gents- please put your hands together to welcome Bethany Quinn with Doomed Date Diaries...
Doomed Date Diaries by Bethany Quinn
'We're going to have such a great life together- can't you see?'
I couldn't. To tell you the truth I've always been hopeless with graphs, especially on a first date. I'd only met him fifteen minutes earlier. What with all the wedding plans and sorting out what the kids would be called I'd barely had a chance to touch my glass of Bulgarian Merlot. I took a sip and instantly wished I hadn't. It tasted like the stuff dentists give you to gargle with after lengthy and expensive root canal work. For the prices they charge I think they should let you drink champagne.
Nigel was trying to explain what 'Figure D' meant again but I wasn't really listening. I was trying to place a guy like Nigel somewhere on the x y axis of my love life. I was struggling. I can't help it. Nigel just isn't a name I immediately associate with moments of passion and wild abandon. He was alright looking, but I think his face could have done with a bit more chin.
I guess Nigel realised he was losing his audience so he played a short animated presentation that he'd labeled 'How Happy Nigel and Jenny Will Be.' Call me cynical, but I wondered how many times he'd changed the names already. Apparently I was the pink line and he was blue. It all looked very uphill.
'That's a positive trend,' Nigel said enthusiastically.
'Oh,' I said.
From what I could make out we seemed to drift apart a bit in our late thirties but Nigel said that was merely a 'blip of uncertainty' in case we had a 'little accident'- his words not mine- and had a third child. He made it sound so tempting.
When Nigel went off to buy some more drinks I got a piece of paper out of my bag and drew my own chart. I called it 'How Jenny Thought The Date With Nigel Went.' It started off on the left with high expectations, but quickly tumbled in a curve that was less like a graceful swan's neck and more like an opera singer being pushed from a ninth floor window. I left it on the table and made a dash for the door before he came back.