Posted On: 11/09/2014
By: Rachel Hopkins
It was all going so well. Flirty glances, flowing chat and purposeful, but subtle, body language. It was everything a first date should have been. Then he said it.
‘Should we get a bottle of rose?’
My unsuspecting first date could not have known that with those seven words, he was about to come face to face with a cataclysmic hot mess, to end all hot messes.
I must explain, wine and I fell out some time ago during a fateful night when I did just this, shared a bottle of rose with someone who could not have known the beast she was about to unleash. Sandra.
Sandra is the girl/wench I become after wine. She is loud, hilarious and has absolutely no standards whatsoever. She also takes on bouncers, policemen and stag parties at will, due to her fearlessness. The last time Sandra played out she made a royal mess of buttoning a body, which had been previously oh so chic. As it flapped around her crotch in the wind, she staggered backwards out of the toilets, probably having been punched by the hand dryer. After making like a pin ball machine, hitting every obstacle on the way down the stairs, Sandra was swiftly frogmarched from the club, where she waited for her mother to collect her, vomiting periodically in to a drain – still pouting because she thinks she is oh so sexy. She could not be more wrong.
There are only so many times you can say ‘I’ve been spiked’, before your mother gets wise to the fact that people generally aren’t following you around on every night out, throwing their drugs in your drinks then thinking ‘nah, I’ll not bother, never mind’.
Trying to be an obliging, level headed person, I said ‘yes’ to the wine and simultaneously ‘goodbye’ to a second date.
I can’t be sure of her exact movements but I can still hear Sandra screaming things like ‘Oh my god, WE ARE THE SAME’, ‘this is magical’, ‘did I just mention my ex-boyfriend again??’ and the ever effective ‘I could love you’.
All of these things equal a swift run for the hills from my male companion (who I remember also telling ‘you look like a Disney Prince’).
Funnily enough, I haven’t heard from my Aladdin look-a-like, and I probably have a restraining order with my name on it somewhere.
Follow Rachel on Twitter