My big gay second date

So Friday night - official Date Night, lest you should forget - I set out for Second Date with a man we have affectionately nick-named Gramps. On account of the fact that he is old. We think. Anyway, I've bagged a second date which is quite an achievement in itself but what's more, Gramps has invited me round to his house. Me and him. Alone. In his house. Score! I'm looking forward to putting my new-found pashing knowledge (Nick Fisher, we salute you!) to the test...

Wait. What's that you hear? Oh yes, that's right...ALARM BELLS. This is me, after all. Of course this couldn't go to plan. Gramps being Gramps, he lives in the burbs. So I get my shots, renew my visa and head way out West, arriving on his doorstep respectfully, but not unreasonably, late. He answers the door - a good start - and we get to enjoy a slightly awkward greeting. I eventually sidle past him into quite a grand hallway whilst he bumbles on about how messy it is (it is pristeen) because he's having his kitchen ripped out. Somehow within roughly two minutes, he's decided we can't stay there, he's got his coat on and is ushering me back out the door. Dagnamit! We drive to a pub. Great - he is driving and you know what that means. Yes, friends, he won't be drinking meaning that where I might have relied on alcohol to break down some barriers, I will now be solely reliant on my feminine wiles. Fuckingtons!

We get a drink and sit by the river. The sun is setting. It's almost romantic. Er, except I'm dragging the conversation along like one of those World's Strongest Man competitors with a lorry strapped to his back. It dawns on me that so far - and I mean so far in our entire acquaintance, not just second date - he is yet to ask me a single question about myself. As already evidenced, I am Google-Clean so it's hardly as if there's not stuff he could be asking. Perhaps this is just the problem with dating egocentric artist types. Or perhaps he's just not interested in me...in which case, why the hell am I here? The sun goes down. Gramps mentions it's chilly. Twice. We go inside before he can whip out a tartan rug....

We grab a conveniently available cosy little inglenook table and decide to get food. The menu is suspiciously extensive - and one stop short of pictorial. Everything sounds gross. Nevertheless we order. Or rather, he orders and comes back telling me that he thinks the gay barman fancies him. Great talking point, Gramps. Well done. As we wait, he comments on how he likes my watch - finally, a glimmer of interest in something to do with me besides my job. He asks to see it. I oblige. Then he puts it on, says how nice it is and asks if I think a man could get away with wearing one the same. It's basically a LADIES BANGLE for the love of god! "No." I say. "What, not even a designery man like me?" he asks. "Er no. It's clearly a girl's watch. For girls." I say. Gaylord I think.

Saved by the food, he gives the watch back. We eat. We talk about Dan Brown. I incredulously say I think his books are crap. Gramps disagrees in the most condascending of ways. There are some people at a nearby table having actual fun. They are talking and laughing and shit. Gramps mentions that they're really noisy. Twice. We HAVE TO MOVE TABLES. To get away from the fun-having, laughy people. Well, I say we move tables...what really happens is that he literally sprints across the pub leaving me to gather up my two bags, scarf, coat and drink. Whadda gent.

We sit at the new table. Gramps NODS OFF. No, I'm not joking. Okay, so the guy is jet-lagged from his recent trip but WTF?! We leave. As he drives me to the tube, I ask him where his new kitchen is coming from. "Oh I designed it myself and a joiner is making it for me. He did a really good job when he did my dressing room last year."

Dressing room?? What??? I think I'm still laughing a little bit when I get out of the car. And so endeth second date. Time to go home and get off with my own knee I suppose.

In retrospect, all I can say is: Gramps, dude, come out of the closet...dressing room...whatever you want to call it...