The omens

I had a couple of hours to kill after work yesterday before I was due to meet my date. Normally I would go to the gym, or shop, but yesterday I was ex-freaking-hausted so I went home and had a nap, like the true hipster I am. When my alarm went off, I got out of bed with resentment, made myself look as pretty as I get, and set off for the agreed place of rendezvous: a pub in Battersea.

I took a seat on a bus. After another couple of stops, a man got on and tried to buy a ticket with a five pound note. The female bus driver said she didn't have enough change so she couldn't let him on. He said it was OK if she didn't have change because he was going to take the bus to its final stop, and that somewhere in between here and there, she'd get some change from another passenger and could give it to him then. She said no, that she wasn't allowed to do this. He said that was ridiculous. She stood her ground. At this point, I was kind of on the side of the guy. It was his risk to take: if she didn't get change, he'd lose out, not her. But then he got angry. In a strong West Indian accent, he started shouting, "Why you gotta treat me like dis? Make me embarrassed in front of all dese people? I got money! I'm a grown man. I'm givin you dis money. Take de money and you give me change later. I'm married. I got six children. Don' make me look bad here. I ain't gettin off dis bus, lady. I got my money." I took his point, but he was being a bit too shouty. The driver turned off her engine. Clearly, we were not going to move. Another bus pulled up behind us. I dinged the bell, several of us disembarked and we got on the bus behind. The joys of a travelcard.

Moments later we arrived at a bus station from where I was planning to catch another bus. I walked to the appropriate stop. There was a huge crowd there. I looked in the direction they were all looking. The entrance to the bus station was cordoned off and an ambulance was parked there. No buses were going to get through. I started wondering if these signs were from Cupid, telling me to turn back.

Then I saw a guy I'd dated last year. It was unmistakeably him, standing there with his same arrogant, self-satisfied face on, still urgently requiring a slap. He had his iPod on and was carrying an overnight bag. I was immediately staggered that I'd ever thought, even for a milisecond, that he was attractive. I mean, he was breathtakingly not good enough. The power of my brain to tell me I fancy someone when I patently do not will never fail to amaze me. All because he'd had a few poncey articles published in Time Out, one of which said that some element of a shit play we went to see was 'Lynchian'. I am a dick. It made me cringe and then laugh. Meanwhile I hurried to hide behind a bus stop partition, desperate for him not to see me. He clearly saw me: I was wearing a huge yellow flower in my hair and clippy cloppy high heeled date shoes. Thankfully he ignored me too. God even thinking about him now makes me feel a bit sick. Yuck.

The first bus had had to stop unexpectedly. The third bus was not able to reach the stop and collect me. And a hideous spectre from my past had reared up to haunt me. Plus the boy I was meant to be meeting had only ever been borderline appealing over email. The temptation to run home, don my velour and eat popcorn was stronger than a tightly-woven rope, the thickness of a giant's neck, made of steel threads and coated in superglue, but I knew it would be terrible to cancel at such short notice. Bravely, I tottered on towards the next stop, where we had been told we'd be able to pick up a diverted bus. Suddenly the 344 was visible in the distance. I knew I had to sprint. I took off. And then I saw a distinctive overnight bag beside me, and realised that I was, momentarily, engaged in a race with Mr Time Out. In his so-last-year battered Converse, he easily overtook me, but we both made it onto the bus. I went upstairs, he stayed down. And that was the last I saw of him. Until we both got off at the same stop, stepping down onto the pavement in unison. I can't imagine two people wanting to acknowledge each other less. I've never walked away from anywhere so fast.

Heart still in shock after my Olympian sprint, Beyonce-style in stilettos, I entered the pub. I couldn't see my date. I scanned more thoroughly. There was a guy in the corner I hoped was him, but knew it wouldn't be. I texted my date. "Either you're not here, or you are here and look nothing like your photos." A few minutes later, I heard the door open. He looked exactly like his pictures. And he was late. His excuse was that he'd come from his parents' house where he is 'staying temporarily' and they'd left him a note saying 'Please feed the cats and tidy your bedroom.' This was not the most erotic start to an evening. Then he suggested cheating in the pub quiz. The last time I saw someone cheating in a pub quiz - in fact, they weren't even necessarily cheating, they were just using their phone, possibly to send a harmless text message but also potentially finding out an answer - I shouted out "CHEATING!" and pointed at the cretin across the bar. The people I was with wanted to murder me, so intense was their embarrassment, but I didn't care. That's how much I don't like cheaters.

He was a nice guy though. On the list of Things I Want To Kiss, he was probably above 'The Pavement Outside Tottenham Court Road Tube Station' and some way below 'Louis Walsh'. Doubtless he felt similarly unmagnetised by me. Nonetheless, despite a total lack of chemistry, we spent a happy evening together, came fifth in the pub quiz and went home our separate ways. I am tired today.