Things about which I am clueless

Posted on July 18, 2009


Of the many things about which I am clueless, dating is at least in the top 217. Along with Ceawlin Henry Laszlo Thynn, Viscount Weymouth and A Little Spice, the first album by English R&B band Loose Ends.

(Technically, now that I’ve hit ‘random article’ several times on Wikipedia, I know enough about each of the above-mentioned things (except dating (although Wikipedia does, of course, have an article on dating, so education, here I come!)) – ie: that they exist – that I am no longer clueless about them so my whole thesis is in disarray.)

(Or not. On second thought, it actually strengthens my argument about my cluelessness in regards to dating, reducing the competition among things about which I am clueless.)

So anyway, dating.

Right. Um… Yeah.

A story: Once upon a time I was ‘kidnapped’ into a date. Cunningly disguised as a lift home, the date suddenly pulled off its mask – à la Drew Barrymore pulling off her James Earl Jones head in Charlie’s Angels – to reveal that it was actually dinner on Victoria Street.

This twist middle startled me, no doubt, but, like the entire third season of Alias, I went with it because I thought ‘how bad could it get?’

And, like the third season of Alias and the two that followed it, the answer was: very.

Some back story: I don’t like Victoria Street. I’m nominally a fish & chippocrite, for the completely non-political/ethical reason that I used it as an excuse to get out of eating the gristle my step-dad would serve us as kids. Also, I hate cabbage. (Explanation, for non-Melburnians (yes, that is the correct spelling, thank you very much): Victoria Street is a cabbage-hatin’ fish & chippocrite’s culinary equivalent of Gordon Ramsay’s head exploding.)

Next: Boring, uncomfortable conversation accompanied by the date’s insistence that I try the quail. Like my cat Yuri nosing curiously about for a snack in the Redback nest, I agreed. Long story short, the quail had an argument – possibly about being dead, and about being eaten – with my insides and, well… it won: I haven’t eaten quail since.

Around about this point, the date realised it had left its wallet in the car, so went to get it, but came back looking ashen. The car had been broken into. The wallet was gone, along with an expensive amount of electrical equipment.

I paid for dinner.

I’m still not entirely sure if it was a date or a con.

Posted in: Me! Me! Me!