I am not referring to the place where David Cameron lives in the above title, but simply to the number of my latest date. Number 10. Ten dates in three months. Three exhausting months.
Number 8, the repressed stockbroker was just that unfortunately.... No display of any emotion at all and a bit cool and guarded for my liking. Talking to him on the phone was so awkward, I felt relieved when it was over. NEXT!
Number 9, the excitable entrepreneur, proved to have a bit of a drinking problem. He displayed this flaw a few days after our first date with a very long, rambling and terribly suggestive voice mail... at only 9pm in the evening. It was followed a few hours later with an even longer, slurred and terribly confused voice mail, asking me lots of questions and then answering them himself. Quite bizarre. At 12:30 am, I was rudely awakened when my phone rang again. In my semi-conscious state, I stupidly answered. Before I had even finished saying hello, he started laughing hysterically. He then ranted and hiccuped, belched and fell off his chair, he dropped his phone, tripped over something, called me his sister and hung up. It was not amusing nor attractive. NEXT!
So to number 10. I feel terrible even referring to him as that because he is not a ten but an eleven... and all I will say for now is that he is a wonderful, charming Irishman. Butterflies be still.
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