Then! Weeks later! Out of the blue! The Serious Spaniard texted. He couldn’t apologise enough about what had happened (well as much as one can in 160 characters or less) and asked to treat me to a night out to make up for his terrible mistake. It was a sneaky date that didn’t count as one of my six agency meetups, and I’m one of those ridiculously optimistic Pollyanna types, so I said yes, though I asked to meet earlier than 9 (or 10!) pm. Which meant eating by myself with Serious Spaniard watching me, as he really didn’t have dinner til 10pm, but whatever. I chose one of my favourite bars at South Bank, The Sardine Tin, which unfortunately not enough people loved as much as I did, for it is no more.
Well, all I can say is that what you give out to the Universe, you get back. He was certainly educated, smart, loved theatre (though found art galleries boring and was “neutral” regarding music, which was potentially problematic), but I realised too late that I had forgotten to add “sense of humour” to my essential wishlist. I’ve never met such a serious man in all my life. I ended up becoming a super ditz, telling stupid stories, tossing hair, giggling at the slightest opportunity, anything I could to get a smile out of that guy, let alone a laugh. Two and a half hours later of listening to a monologue in broken English on the Franco Prussian War, I just couldn’t cope with any more, put up no objection to him paying for the tapas, and bailed.
And so ended the tale of the Serious Spaniard.
Until he texted a few days later saying how much he had loved the date.
But that was then really the end of the Serious Spaniard tale.