If I cry every night for four months, I should have enough tears to fill a foot spa.
Which is ironic. Since the person I’m crying about said he was addicted to my feet.
But clearly not the rest of me, because as contemporary London dating goes... nothing lasts and everyone is instantly dispensable.
It’s a merry go round of souls being kicked in the teeth.
No matter “We’re connected by so many strings it’s unreal.” No matter “I need you always.” No matter “I adore you.” No matter anything.
It seems, these days, you can say anything and it’s outrageous if anyone actually takes you seriously. How very ‘70s.
I might as well date a cyborg from the planet Zog.
We could spout gobbledygook over sushi, maybe shake up a bag of words and read them out randomly. Or just play word association without the word association. That would make as much sense.
Or perhaps I could rent a lie detector from Jeremy Kyle and pop it next to the wine cooler on our table for two.
Wire it up to the cutlery and assess the peaks and troughs as my date spouts his twaddle;
Says he loves his mother. Liar.
Says he loves the seaweed. Liar.
Says he likes my eyes. True. But cheesy.
Says he’s just been promoted. Liar.
Says he’s 6’2”. Liar.
Says he’s not just interested in sex. Guess what?
On the off chance all lie detectors have been snapped up at Whoppers-R-Us, I’ll just have to enrol in a course at Quantico.
With FBI Grade lie detection skills, I’ll instantly weed out time wasters and twaddle talkers.
I’ll assess in seconds that a ‘meaningful look’ is merely a myopic squint and trapped wind.
I’ll spot that a sexy pet name is just handy if he forgets my name.
I’ll shrewdly ascertain that my hand passionately taken is nothing but an aid to prevent him tripping up in his height-enhancing shoes.
Anyway, must dash. The foot spa’s almost full.