Tag Archives: Dating

Mozzarella Heels

Shortly after I started officially dating the Italian, he went off to Italy on holiday for his nieces christening.

He called me everyday which was, I admit, very impressive. You see, that’s the thing about foreign men, they don’t hold back. There’s none of this call you in three days rule, or only call before Wednesday if you want a date at the weekend. None of that! It was so refreshing to have a net a guy who put it straight, “I’a like’a you, I think’a you’a like’a me, so’a wanna hang’a outta with’a me or no?”.

And there you have it, day calls from his holiday. Sunning himself, eating pizza, drinking Spritzers and thinking if me – bliss.

One day I couldn’t quite believe my luck. The conversation went something like this:

*phone rings, incoming call from Venice*

Him: I’a was in’a the town’a today, you’a know, and I’a saw’a the’a gorgoose pair’a shoes on’a woman’a

Me: Really? You were looking at Women’s shoes. Interesting.

Him: Yeah, I was’a in’a the town’a for’a santhin (something) and’a I saw’a those shoes and’a thought’a I’a gona get’a you’a a gift’a’

Me: Well that would be very generous, thanks, sounds lovely.

How lucky?? I had met this guy, an Italian guy, who was in Italy shoe shopping for me!! Oh the excitement, I was going to get myself a nice little pair of Prada sling backs!

A few weeks later when he returned, we made arrangements to meet up. He arrived with a box and wearing the biggest smile. That was it, I was hooked, he had me at “shoes”!

He handed over the box and I slowly unwrapped the brown paper. Peeling back the first corner I spotted a P, my heart sank – he had really bought me a pair of Prada shoes!!

I peeled back a bit more to reveal an A. Ok, odd. Slightly confused. Not Prada. I looked again, definitely not an R, it was most certainly an A. The Italian looked on with brown puppy dog eyes willing me to hurry up and open it.

I ripped back the paper to reveal a word: PALSE. To me this meant nothing. To him it meant the world. He practically jumped up and down on the spot with excitement, salivating.

Its’a from’a my’a Nonna’s village!!!!” he squeezed with delight.

“What is it?” I asked with a half cocked head

La Mozzarella!! Mozzarella Palse!! It’a was’a made’a this mornin’a..” he said waving his hands in a motion that suggested I should have known what the heck he was talking about.

Rewind. Let me digest this. Where’s the shoes?? The shoes that the stylish Italian woman in the town was wearing? The shoes that prompted you to want to buy me a gift?

Still in Italy, that’s where the shoes were. In their place, sat on my lap was a box containing four balls of mozzarella. Was I supposed to be thrilled at this concept? He wanted me to willing eat a cheese knowing that it had been the contents of a cow’s udder only hours before??

Seriously, I would have SO preferred the shoes!

This was the first of the Italian’s odd gift offerings. If you want to read how he almost blinded me with a christmas present, check out my post Amore Mio.

Red shoes, Prada

Red shoes, Prada (Photo credit: Wikipedia)



Posted by on May 31, 2012 in London


Tags: , , , , , , ,

The Italian: A Date

The Italian called me to advise “we’a goin’a far’a, dress up, yea..”.

So, first date and all, dress up I did. I had spent the last fifteen months in a bikini and flip flops so the opportunity to dress up was fantastic. I had a few days to plan my outfit: jeans, casual white top, black blazer, nude nails, minimal make up (I had a really good tan so didn’t overdo the face) and frostings of jewels.

The shoes were a slight issue. I only owned flip flops so I had to borrow a pair of very nice black heels from a friend. The problem was that they were a size too big and anyone who knows me, knows that I can’t walk in heels! I’m like Miss Piggy on crutches! But I had no choice so out I went wearing the borrowed stilettos.

The Italian picked me up promptly at 6pm. Rather early for a first date I thought but he sold it to me by saying we were going to a lovely place and had to be there on time. I was wooed.

The wooing didn’t last for long when at he bottom of the drive way was a scooter and perfectly perched on the seat were two helmuts. “We’re going on that?” I said in a ‘please say no’ tone’.

Well yea, we’a an’a goin’a far“. I reluctantly slid the helmut over my perfectly straightened hair, rubbing the blusher off my cheeks in the process, and shut the clamp firmly under my chin.

As we sped off sounding like a hair dryer on speed, the Italian slapped me on the leg and winked at me through his visor via the wing mirror. I was not impressed!

After about a ten minute ride, I noticed we were heading towards the M4. Are you kidding me?? we’re going on to the sodding motorway, on a scooter?? Is that even legal??

I was freezing! It was July but in England that means nothing. I was on a scooter, on a motorway, in stilettos and wearing a t-shirt! As first dates go, this wasn’t starting out well at all.

On my travels, I had picked up an amazing necklace at a jewelry market on the outskirts of Bangkok. Naturally a first date was the perfect time to showcase it. Wrong! As it was blowing for e gail wind on the back if the scooter, the stupid necklace had gotten entangled in the helmet strap under my chin. I was freezing AND choking!!

Whilst holding on to the side if the scooter with one hand, I tried to unravel the necklace with the other. My toes were rooted to the scooter step to try and keep myself from falling off. I was effing this and effing that under my helmut and wondering why I had even agreed to go in thus date. I was probably right anyway, he was gay!

Finally, after just over an hour we arrived in Windsor. I got off that scooter like John Wayne, my legs were permanently set to straddle mode, my head had been almost decapitated by my not-so-lovely-anymore-necklace and I hadn’t felt my feet for that half hour!

I composed myself and slid off the helmet to reveal a nest of matted nots that even a pigeon would have requested to be rehoused! I looked a state!

The Italian escorted me and my birds nest into Browns restaurant in Windsor where I immediately made a run for the toilets. Where, I ashamedly borrowed a strangers hairbrush to sort out my locks.

Luckily the meal was nice, the company was, well, different, and the journey home which I was dreading was mildly better as I dressed up in the winter wets that we’re hidden in the scooter seat! Seriously, if there had been any windows on that scooter, any street cred I had would have well and truly gone out of it!

You’a weren’t’a cold’a eh?” he asked. When my teeth had stopped chattering I told him bluntly “had have I known I would be on a scooter going 70mes an hour down the motorway, I would have dressed appropriately, so yes, I was/am freezing!”.

“But’a i’a told you’a to dress’a up!”

“I did!! Ive got jewelry on and everything!!”

“Yeah but’a in Italy when’a we say’a ‘dress’a up, we’a mean’a dress’a Up a’warm’a”

Oh well, we were not in Italy, we were in England and dress up to me means “wear something’ pretty Darlin'”, not get out your long johns and warmest balaclava!

And that amici, has been the basis of our relationship so far – lost in translation and reading between the lines – and mostly getting it wrong!


Posted by on May 27, 2012 in London


Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

Dates Gone Bad: Meeting The Italian

This is the final episode of Dates Gone Bad although this really wasn’t a date, more of a chance meeting that led to a date, that led to a proposal, that led to a lovely lovely wedding.

I’m kind of sad that my dating era is over because although I’ve had some great ones, most of them have been pretty shoddy and therefore highly amusing!

Anyway, I thought I would try to end this little series on a high note by telling you how I met my husband. I’m kind of setting the scene for the intro to the English/Italian mix that we’ve got going on.

I had been travelling with friends for over a year and when I had exhausted every last available penny, it was time to come home. As it was a last-minute decision, I had to give notice to the tenants that lived in my stamp sized apartment.

In the meantime I went to stay at a friend’s house whilst she was still in deepest darkest Peru.

One day, after trudging through every job agency known to man, I opened the front door only to be blinded by a cerise pink hue shining out from the living room. I was then deafened by screams, shouts and raucous laughter. What on earth was going on?

There he was. All tanned and dark, speaking at a billion decibels and waving his hands all over the place. There were ‘Madonnas’ and ‘mamma Mias’ being thrown in at any given opportunity. That explained it, he was Italian.

I had never been to Italy. I was never interested in it. I had no intention of going until I was at least a pensioner. There were far too many exotic countries to go to first and Italy was way down my list of priority visits.

He must be gay, I thought. Italian and gay. Loud, Italian and gay! Great, as if my day hadn’t been hectic enough. Only a gay, Italian gay man, would command that amount of attention in an empty room! I couldn’t be bothered with it.

I failed miserably to ignore the din coming from downstairs so went to introduce myself. “Ciaoooo! I’ma Gian Lucaaaa” he bellowed as though I was about ten miles away from him. (His name isn’t Gian Luca by the way, but it is something that requires a bit of a hand wave when pronounced!).

Once I had reassured him that I wasnt yet ready for a hearing aid, and he turned the volume down a notch, he was actually quite a nice guy – and not gay at all. How did I come to know he wasn’t gay?

Well, he was at the house visiting a girl he knew. She was living there. She was from Rome and she was extremely fortunate in the lady bump area. Gian Luca practically had his head buried in her cavernous cleavage for the best part of an hour whilst she was gossiping about someone they knew. A gay man wouldn’t do that, right? He barely came up for air!! No, definitely straight! Cerise pink, lots of it, but definitely straight!

Eventually, the girl from Rome took her chest to bed and I stayed up until the wee hours discovering that Gian Luca was actually a really nice guy. Nice. I hadn’t opted for “nice” men before but something about him was luring me in.

Before I knew it, it was 3am and Gian Luca had to leave. As I walked him to the door, he kissed me on both cheeks, rested his massive hand on my tiny shoulder and said “so’a I pick’a you up’a at’a eight I clock’a?”.

For what? When? The look on my face must have appeared confused. “You’a not’a doin’ anthin’a Saturday night’a eh? Then’a I pick’a you up’a, be’a ready, we ‘ava nice ‘a dinner. Ciao Bella!!”.

And with that he threw on his helmet, jumped on his Vespa and sped off into the night, his cerise pink t-shirt still glowing in the distance!

Come back next week to find out how the Italian nearly strangled me and gave me frost bite on our first date! Nothing ever goes according to plan!


Related Articles:

Dates Gone Bad: Elbow John

Dates Gone Bad: Posh Boy

Dates Gone Bad: Camel Mike 

1 Comment

Posted by on May 13, 2012 in London


Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

Dates Gone Bad: Elbow John

Recently Marie Claire tweeted about one of their bloggers, Lucy Robinson, and how she turned a series of horrendous dates into a two book deal with Penguin.  Isnt this everyone’s life? Dont we all have bad dates? I certainly have! And I think it suffices to say that I kissed a lot of frogs, A LOT OF FROGS, before I met my prince.

So I got to thinking that whatever Lucy can do, I can do just as good.  Over the next five weeks I am inviting you on a “Date Night” where I will relay a few tales of my worst ever dates. It has been hard to select only five but, lets see how it goes.  Names have been changed for obvious reasons, except for the last one as that actually is my husband!

Without further ado, let me introduce you to…..*cue drumroll*


Years ago when I shared a flat with the friend who made me blog, we decided that maybe our “type” wasn’t our type at all because we were still single. Not for the want of trying I might add.

We were both career girls, attractive (modest), funny, could hold our G&T’s well (did I say we? I mean her!) and could think of no reason why we weren’t getting dates! Naturally we came to the conclusion that either all men we met were gay (which isn’t entirely a lie as we both lived with one at some point..) or, we were obviously far too attractive to be approachable (I say this in jest.. I am not, repeat not, Samantha Bricks!).

Speed dating

We booked ourselves onto a speed dating night. In an attempt to increase our man supply. It was at a well-known club in central london which was dimly lit (at the time I thought it was sultry, now I know it was to disguise the goods!).

I’d never been speed dating before but it was exactly what it says on the tin: dash round 30 something blokes, two mins each, suss out who you might like and then have a cheeky snog at the end of the night, huddled in the corner while Lionel Richie belts out a slowie.  If you get an actual date, you’re lucky.

I did. I thought I chose well. I steered clear of my “type” and chose John from St Albans. I thought he was a Hugh grant / John Cleese lookalikie – I know, I should have called it a day there and then.

Date Night

We arranged to meet on the corner of Leicester square, by the iron fence, opposite Chiquitos. When I got to the corner, I held back a minute, as you do, to take a sneaky peak at the good. Nnnnooooooo… Beer goggles!! About turn.. Run, head down, sprint…quick!

Uh oh too late! He’d spotted me. I had to go through with it. I took a deep breath and thought oh we’ll, it’s a free drink then a trip to loo to call my mate, to call me, with an emergency!!

I said my hello’s praying to God that I wouldn’t bump into anyone I knew. We (he) found an outside table (God no, not outside!) at a pub off Leicester square.  Bless him. Whilst trying to be all masterful, he reached across the table for the wine list. WHAT THE…??? His long hairy fingers, on the end if his long hairy hand, on the end if his long hairy arm, opened the wine list with a gasp.  He mesmerised by prices. I was mesmerised by the hairiness.  Reddish blondish hairiness.  WHAT THE…?

And then I saw it.  As his hairy  arm reached across the table, I noticed the elbow. WHAT THE…?  You know those cheap shirts from cheap shops, the ones that come in a plastic packet with a plastic dog collar and the shirt is wrapped around a cardboard square with little plastic pegs to keep it in place?  you know the ones?

Elbow John was wearing one.  How did I know? You mean, other than the fact it was off-Lemon, not quite white, not quite yellow, not quite lemon – off-Lemon.  Other than once I took a proper look, it hadn’t been ironed so still had the creased and bends of once having been wrapped around a cardboard square.

How did I know he was wearing a cheap shirt? Because, I tell you, because, as his hairy arm reach over the little plastic peg that had been once holding the shirt in place, was still attached to the elbow of the shirt!!! I was mortified!! I, me, moi.. was on a date with a yeti wearing a £2 shirt.

To this day, I don’t know how I choked back the laughter.  Whilst he was, still, musing over the cheapest wine on the list, I made my lavatory excuse and called the friend who made me blog.  Five minutes later:  “Poisoned?! What do you mean the cat has been poisoned?? Ok, calm down, I’m on my way!”. We didn’t have a cat.

And as I sat on the train home, thanking my lucky stars I was single, I could only hope that the yeti and his plastic peg shirt had made it back to St Albans in one piece.

I’m sure you all have had similar experiences so do leave me a comment below with your funnies – I could do with a good belly laugh!



Posted by on April 18, 2012 in London


Tags: , , , , , ,

%d bloggers like this: