Pablo

When I moved to Leeds for an awful PR job some years ago, knowing hardly anyone there and being single to boot, I signed up to Guardian Soulmates. I thought it might be a good way to meet new people, find out where the good hang-outs where and maybe even find the man of my dreams. Instead I found Pablo.

Pablo was a mix of Spanish, Italian and Portuguese. He was 32 – five years older than I was at the time – spoke three languages and owned his own home. In his profile picture he was sitting on a beach in a yellow t-shirt, brown-eyed and olive-skinned with an athletic physic and beautiful dark hair long enough to just graze his shoulders. In fact there was just one thing wrong with Pablo: everything on his dating profile was a complete lie.

We spoke a couple of times on the phone before arranging to meet for a drink. So charmed was I by Pablo that I spent longer than usual arranging my hair and picking an outfit, and arrived at our agreed location ten minutes late.

Scanning the bar, I was relieved to find he was also running late as he hadn’t arrived yet either. The bar was in fact empty except for the overweight man with the scruffy hair sitting at the end of the bar. The same man that was now standing to greet me with a sweaty kiss on each cheek.

Real Pablo was not only much paunchier than Pablo-of-the-Internet – and in possession of more chins – but, it later transpired, he was also ten years older (though I could probably have guessed from his hairline). I decided to stay for one drink then make my excuses, yet when he returned from the bar with a bottle of Pino Grigio instead of the small glass I’d asked for, I was too polite to tell him to shove it. I batted off his cringey attempts at flattery and flirtation for A WHOLE HOUR before attempting to take my leave, protesting that I had an early start for work the next day.

“That’s a bit of a brush-off,” he said, a whine creeping into his voice. “I’ve come all the way from Manchester to see you, can’t you at least stay for one more drink?”

I still don’t know how he cajoled me into it, but I agreed to one last glass of wine. However, when he came back from the bar with yet another bottle, I knew it was time to stop playing nice.

“I’m just popping out for a ciggie,” he said (despite the fact that Pablo-of-the-Internet was a non-smoker). “Want to join me?”

“No thanks.” You lying greasy-haired toe-rag. I smiled sweetly, then as soon as he’d disappeared into the beer garden, I grabbed my bag, ran out the front door and jumped into the nearest taxi.

Be gone, pesky rash – don’t you know I’m a master of disguise?

Well the big day is finally here – the North, a new boy and a minbreak awaits – and while the rash (I dislike the word psoriasis) is not yet gone it is much improved; less red and angry-looking. I have taken the doctor’s advice to r.e.l.a.x a bit more, which has mostly involved dozing in bed with a book (the sublime When God was a Rabbit by Sarah Winman) and the occasional stroll, in between drinking a lot of water and eating my own body weight in chocolate.

I’ve also spaffed a lot of money on new underwear, including a selection of gorgeous semi-sheer camisoles, which hide the rash while still looking pretty damn sexy. And I picked up a new faux fur scarf and bottle of Moet for tonight – if all else fails I can just get him blind drunk, or perhaps blindfold him.

Skincare-wise, I have been bathing for 20 minutes before bed in a warm tub with a dash of Oilatum before slathering myself in E45 cream and liberally applying the Dovobet gel prescribed by the doctor, which has done a nifty job of ‘drying things up’. I’ve also swapped my usual showergel for Sanex, which I use every other day on a warm damp flannel to gently buff away any flaky bits (apologies if too much information).

I’m heading oop North to Lancashire later today where Tom is dog-sitting for friends in a 600-year-old house. Tonight – New Year’s Eve – it’s just the two of us (plus three poodles), some good food and a bottle of champagne. Then on January 2nd we fly out to Amsterdam for three nights. My first real minibreak with a boy! How exciting!! T. has a list of architecture he wants to sketch for his course but I’ve told him we must see the Van Gogh museum, Anne Franke’s house and a good Argentinian steakhouse while we’re there. And Mellow Yellow. Natch.

So while I’m glad the rash is retreating right now I have more urgent matters on my mind, like how I’m going to fit a week’s worth of clothes into a hand-luggage-sized suitcase…

Ten foods to avoid on a first date

1) Spaghetti Yummy yes, but also with the unfortunate propensity to whip sauce all around your mush. Unless you’re sure you can re-create that scene in Lady and the Tramp, steer clear.

2) Edamame beans A date once ordered these and I didn’t realise you had to remove the hard outer shell before eating. Cue me chewing for an absolute eternity before excusing myself to go to the bathroom and empty my mouth.

3) Garlic bread Garlic breath = bad.

4) Vindaloo Ditto curry breath. Not to mention potential curry-bum the next day if you end up staying over…

5) Sea bream (or any bony fish) I once ordered this in a posh restaurant on a first date, and spent the rest of the evening trying to look interested in what my beau was saying while picking fish bones out from between my teeth. Not a good look.

6) A sharing platter …to scoff the whole lot yourself.

7) Veal A controversial option for some (due to the issue of veal crates and other farming industry practices). Unless you know where your date stands on the slaughter of baby cows, this menu choice might be a tough one to swallow.

8) Chipirones en su tinta (Squid in its ink) The ink is supposed to intensify the flavour, but have you seen what the stuff does to your teeth?

9) Soup JNVS (Just Not Very Sexy)

10) Salad You want him to think you’ve got some personality, dontcha?

(Image via Flickr courtesy of gotosira)