Earlier this evening I was stood up for the first time since I can't remember when. It was down to a technical failure i.e. I was out without his number, he had no access to emails and so on. I mean successful rom-coms have been written on less sturdy foundations.
But I did feel mighty red-faced. Like a teenager, it didn't help that the moment I got to vicinity of the pub it PISSED it down, maybe that was nature's way of stopping me meeting up with anyone with that amount of make-up on the front of my dress rather than my face.
By the time I found his number, cue endless attempts to get into my web-email (thank you phone!) and got through - fifteen minutes after we were meant to meet, he was obviously tucked in somewhere warm in his PJs and with dinner. He was embarrassed, I was embarrassed. He offered to put down his dinner, shower and meet me. But what was the point? I would have to be pretty spectacular as a date to make up for the rushing and would have to sit there for that time, so I said we'd make it another night. I then downed the (large £6) glass of wine. I now have brain-freeze, which in this instance should probably be called wine-brain from necking a third of a bottle in record time.
So if you happened to see a woman looking dolled up buying a kilo of organic chocolate around fifteen minutes ago - that would have been me.