Scott free

The fact that it has taken me almost a fortnight to tell you about how my date with Mavis went should provide a big clue. With hindsight, I’d have rather gone out with Coronation Street’s Mavis Riley.

It didn’t bode too well when I texted Mavis the day before the date with the name and address of the venue I had chosen – a cocktail bar next to the London Transport Museum in Covent Garden. She was soon sending messages asking whether she would be able to find it (the museum is fairly well known and the bar has a website), would we be able to get a seat (my crystal ball is out of action) and would we be able to hear each other talk (that’s the point of going on a date; otherwise, we may as well just continue our virtual relationship)?

Anyway, I arrived at the bar at 17.50, so that I could bag one of the few seats. Unfortunately, the tables were available only until 19.30. Mavis arrived a few minutes late. She wasn’t very well dressed, but looked pretty much like she did in her picture – and was showing an incredible amount of cleavage. I got the drinks in and we settled down for a chat. I had soon filled in many of the blanks (remember that Mavis still thought I was a graffiti artist who lived in a tree-house – bizarrely, even after googling my name). The conversation was fine, the cocktails going down well and the body language positive.

But after I had told Mavis a few things about myself, the date followed the same pattern as every other date I have ever been on: me asking a not particularly interesting woman about all aspects of her life, while she showed no interest in reciprocating.

By 19.30, we had finished three strong cocktails, and I was already tiddly. We moved on to another bar. Now I don’t know whether it was down to the drink, because I was bored hearing about the minutiae of a clinical psychologist’s day or because I had exchanged so many messages with Mavis (and therefore felt that I knew her pretty well), but I suddenly zoned out of first-date mode. Rather than playing the respectful and interested man, I became a bit cheeky and tactile. I made a throwaway joke about Scotland that she clearly didn’t like (I think it was ‘I went to Scotland once – it was closed’). I then gave her a kiss. Although she didn’t seem to object to the idea, Mavis told me off for ‘sucking her lip’.

I was getting a bit fed up by now. Mavis, on the other hand, seemed very happy. It was hardly surprising, as she had said that her social life didn’t extend much beyond her local sports bar and Harvester in Brentwood. She was enjoying the novelty of a Saturday night out and was knocking back the drinks (even drinking one of mine when I started lagging).

We moved on to a much quieter bar (it wasn’t to spite her, honestly). Mavis had still failed to ask me anything about my life and I was bored firing questions at her. But we were still sitting in a very intimate fashion. So I gave her another kiss. ‘Don’t peck me,’ she said. I stormed off to the toilet. When I returned, I sat a few feet away from Mavis. She moved across and put her arms round me, inviting me to kiss her again. ‘Don’t use your tongue.’

I decided that it was time to call it a night and we got the Central Line back to Liverpool Street, where we went our separate ways. We exchanged a couple of texts, telling each other we had got home safely – and Mavis said that she was looking forward to seeing me again.

But over the next couple of days, it was clear that our relationship had changed significantly. Mavis was no longer interested in flirting (‘flirting is more serious after you’ve met’) and kept saying that she hardly knew me (that’s because you didn’t ask me anything). So we spent a few days swapping dull ‘how was your day’-style messages.

I eventually snapped, telling her that I was bored sending such mundane messages. She sent me a long, over-analytical email saying that she couldn’t believe how much we had ‘bickered’ during the date (we hadn’t; she told me off about how I tried to kiss her and clearly didn’t like my comment about Scotland), that she was bored with me continually implying that she is stupid (I don’t know what she means by that; I don’t suffer fools and certainly wouldn’t spend three weeks emailing/texting someone I didn’t think was intelligent) and that there had been a strange dynamic on our date (I agree with that – but only because it was more like a job interview). She finally joked that our ‘kissing techniques’ weren’t compatible. I was lost for words. Her ‘technique’ was to keep her mouth tightly shut, keep her lips unpuckered and sit there motionless waiting for me. There must be corpses that are better kissers. I could suddenly understand why Mavis’s previous boyfriend had slept with her only three times during their two-year relationship.

She left the door to another date open. I must admit that I emailed her back saying that we should meet again. Then another email arrived analysing other aspects of the date. This one gave me the wake-up call I needed. The only reason I wanted to see Mavis again was because I was keen for one internet ‘relationship’ to progress beyond a first date (particularly as it was so rare for anybody to reply to my emails). And because she had short hair and big knockers.

I certainly didn’t find Mavis very interesting company (she had no hobbies and has hardly travelled) and I regarded her as one of life’s plodders. I may be four years older than her, but I’ve been to nearly 60 countries; studied at two universities; had more than a dozen jobs; edited a fanzine; completed marathons, triathlons and 50-mile walks; been sky-diving, bungee-jumping, white-water rafting, cage-diving with sharks, canyoning, climbing, coasteering, skiing, snowboarding, abseiling, climbing, zip-wiring and microlighting; and paid off my mortgage. In the meantime, Mavis has been in a ‘not very good’ relationship for seven years and a ‘rubbish’ one for two. She is now renting a flat in a back-street Essex town.

No wonder Derek Wilton and Emily Bishop gave up on her years ago.