Every Wednesday, I used to meet up with a group of mates for a pub quiz. But on one occasion, Kath brought her friend Daniel* along.
He was a charming, interesting, smiley, dark-haired architect and I was intrigued. I’d never met an architect before, so I proceeded to pick his brains about his job, what sort of buildings he designed and whether I would recognise any of this work.
Then again, it was just a pleasant change to meet someone IRL.
Even back then, in 2001, the online dating scene left something to be desired as all my early dating attempts had been catastrophic.
But Daniel gave me hope.
We hit it off over a few beers, talking mostly about his work in between our contributions to the pub quiz and by the end of the night I’d agreed to a proper date for the following week.
‘Dinner at my place it is then! I’ll cook!’ he said proudly.
No man had ever cooked me anything more challenging than a cup of tea, so first impressions were good.
The next day, Daniel emailed me (yes, email, it was 2001…) the address of his inner city flat, and I was excited.
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The good first impressions continued when I saw that he lived in a modern loft-style building that screamed ‘successful young architect’, but that’s where they stopped.
When Daniel answered the door, he could barely hold himself up. His speech was slurred as he invited me in and things only got worse from there.
The flat reeked of weed, the ashtray was full of stubbed-out joints and there was no evidence that he had cooked anything other than his senses.
He did apologise for the mess, except he was the only mess that bothered me.
I took my shoes off and we sat on the sofa. That’s when he noticed the scars on my feet and asked about them.
I explained that I had needed surgery after being born with two club feet and this information transfixed him.
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‘Oh wow, so you’ve overcome a lot in your life?’ he said. I reassured him that despite my feet, I’d lived a pretty fortunate life, but he kept telling me how brave I was.
At one point, he even leaned over and stroked one of the scars and said: ‘You’re really strong.’
I should have made my excuses to leave then and there, but instead, I asked Daniel what was for dinner.
‘Oh yes, I was going to cook you dinner!’ he exclaimed. Without a word of apology, he then ordered delivery from a nearby Italian restaurant.
Mercifully, it arrived quickly, because the stoned-versus-sober conversation was weird and awkward – instead of the free-flowing, beer-fuelled pub chat, we had a stilted conversation, mostly about the weather and how he liked his neighbourhood.
I then optimistically asked if there was anything to drink. Daniel staggered over to the fridge and produced a bottle of Fanta – which, bizarrely, was a new green variety that I’d never seen before.
‘A glass of green wine for m’lady?’ he said as he filled my glass with a wobbly hand, presumably trying to lighten the mood.
It wasn’t quite Côtes de Provence, but I let him pour me a glass to go with the greasy pasta that we were eating off our laps from mismatched bowls.
And then the farts came, fast and furious.
Now I’m still childish enough to find flatulence hilarious, but this was the final straw.
The noxious combined smells of pot and wind killed my appetite – as did his giggly comments – so I told him he’d best get some sleep and that I’d talk to him later.
I didn’t mean it, of course, but I did what so many women do: let him down gently because I honestly didn’t know how he’d react if I told him what I was really thinking.
The fresh air was a relief and I was glad to be back on my own sofa – even if it was 8pm on a Saturday.
After that absurd evening, I didn’t think too hard about Daniel. I wrote off the date as a wasted hour of my life and only spoke of him when I told a few girlfriends about the debacle over a bottle of wine.
To my surprise though, a few weeks later I received another email from Daniel. The date: February 14.
Until that point, it had been any other ordinary workday, until I saw his message with the words ‘Happy Valentines’ Day’ in the subject line.
I won’t lie, it took me a moment to remember who Daniel was, but when I did, I took a deep breath, genuinely worried he was going to ask me out again. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to.
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When I opened it, a cartoon Cupid popped up and fired red hearts across my screen and the message itself was written in a red cursive font and said I had ‘overcome so many odds in my life’ before asking me out on another date.
Not wanting to be defined as the poor, brave lady with dodgy feet, I politely declined.
Thankfully, Kath, who brought Daniel to the pub that fateful night, completely understood why I wasn’t going to take things any further and she didn’t insist I give him another chance. I never heard from him again.
These days, I’m happily married but I’ll never forget that date.
Daniel’s behaviour was a weird mix of boorish, disrespectful and tone-deaf. The main lesson I learned from that flatulent fiasco was that sometimes giving someone a second chance is a waste of time.
You just have to have the wisdom to know who’s worth seeing again and who’s a walking red flag with a bottle of Fanta.
*Name has been changed
This article was originally published January 4, 2025
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