It's easily done, getting roped into speed-dating and it might not be such a bad idea after all, but why must we do it so speedily asks our columnist Liz Frost
The other day, in search of a challenge (as if dating wasn’t hard enough already), I launched myself into the world of speed dating. I say launched, I wasn’t so much launched, as dragged by my mate, Mel, who’s been desperate for a boyfriend for quite a while now… “It’ll be fun!” she’d said as we made our way to the Blue Room on Wardour Street.
I figured the very worst; it had to be better than going into a bar and trying to work out whether the bloke across the other side of the room was really eyeing me up or just had a squint. Or if the guy I’d been bantering with for the last half hour was laughing at my jokes or just my hair. At least we were all there for the same reason and there’d be no confusion.
The thing about speed-dating is, you know there’ll be blokes, but you have absolutely no idea what kind of blokes they’ll be. I mean, on one hand, you might be lucky enough to get a room full of Steve Jones look-alikes, on the other hand, you’re just as likely to get a bunch of chino-wearing idiots. Eyeing the abundance of Ralph Laurent shirts and giving my mate the signal for ‘Let’s get out of here!’ (a sharp tug on my right ear), I realised in horror it was too late to back out now. We took our seats to begin.
I was relieved to see that my first guy, Paul, wasn’t too bad. He was quite nice in fact. We had quite a rapport. But as soon as it started getting interesting, the whistle blew and he was swiftly replaced with Patrick, a City Banker from Billericay. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched wistfully as Paul chatted to the next girl along. “Oi, you listening to me, Babe?” Patrick was saying. His Scooby Doo tie spoke for itself. Why did his three minutes seem to be taking much longer than the last?
Judging by the rest of the guys I talked to, Paul seemed to be the diamond in the ruff (to quote Aladdin). The only problem was, whilst I’d given him a generous tick, I gave my speed dating experience a big fat zero (which was what he’d given me).
Why must we date so speedily anyway? Give me a stolen glance across a room, a shy introduction and a candlelit dinner any day of the week. Talking of stolen glances, I managed to have one on the way home on the tube. Well… he could have just been squinting, I couldn’t really tell.
Liz Frost is a freelance writer specialising in features for women's magazines. She writes for Company, Cosmopolitan, Glamour, Zest, B and Bliss. Email her at liz_frost@yahoo.co.uk, even if it's just to say hello!
