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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!

X-O-X

Related Articles:

Dates Gone Bad: Elbow John

Dates Gone Bad: Posh Boy

Dates Gone Bad: Camel Mike 

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Posted by on May 13, 2012 in London

 

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Face Ache

My free time these days consists of reading/calling/blackberrying/note making/list making/nail filing and nail painting whilst making my way to and from the place that pays my bills.

On this evening’s journey, I let out an actual laugh much to the aggravation, I’m sure, of my fellow train dwellers.  This was an actual laugh, a slight movement of the voice box followed by an ever so slight high pitched noise.  It was a real laugh, not a “LOL”.  I must say, I don’t know why people use LOL.  They stick it on the end of text messages, and even normal sentences, by way of acknowledging a glimpse of humour.  Meanwhile they are as pan-faced as the day they were born!

Anyway, I digress.  Since having had a baby I’ve noticed that I may have aged a little.  I have more grey hair and I appear to have a few tiny lines around the eyes – I’m blaming it all on severe sleep deprivation but nonetheless, I have become a wee bit addicted to reading the beauty columns in the free newspapers.  I was reading an article about Emu oil.  It’s the next big thing apparently.  What has the world come to? I mean, I’m not all gung-ho outside Boots waving a placard of skinned rabbits but seriously, Emu oil? Does choosing an exotic creature make the act of smothering its bodily excrement all over your face all the more pleasurable.  Do we believe, hand on heart, that Emu can get rid of wrinkles?

You see, this got me thinking about some tried and tested beauty regimes that I have inflicted upon myself over the years.  This is what brought about my little train journey chuckle, my actual laugh with a noise!

When I was a teenager I had a monobrow, not that dissimilar to Frida Khalo. I was about thirteen and I didn’t know a monobrow was uncool.  One day a friend asked me why I had one eyebrow and not two so I relayed this childish cruelty to my mother.  She immediately inflicted such pain upon my face! Tweezers…I wish I was never introduced to tweezers because they are an automatic addiction!  Even now, I’m never out of the mirror checking for regrowth!  There had to be an alternative to tweezers.

I discovered an alternative one evening whilst babysitting at an aunt’s house.  Delving into her beauty cupboard (that was exciting in itself, she had a whole section of shelved wardrobe, mirrored wardrobe, dedicated to lotions and potions!) I came across a tube of cream with strawberries on it.  It looked nice so I gave myself a little application and suitably went to bed.  “Nice” wasn’t the word my aunty used the next day at breakfast..”Jeeeesus Christ love, where are your eyebrows?? Your mother’s going to kill me!”. It was depilatory cream.  I had soaked my eyebrows overnight in depilatory cream.  Oh well, that sorted the monobrow out!

Whilst living for a while in deepest darkest Peru, I was totally hooked on the latest craze of slug gel, Baba de Caracol.  I know, disgusting, right? Apparently the slimy excrement on the garden path after a mammoth rain session does wonders for your crow’s-feet.  I didn’t even have crow’s feet…then.  Still, on it went, every night, before counting llamas sheep in the hope I would wake up with a face like a five-year old.  I even bought a few jars to send to my mother in Blighty.  Imagine what her friends would say when they saw her face a few weeks after slug gel!! My goodness, I would be rich! No more throwing the slimy little sods over next door’s garden fence; scrape it, bottle it, smear it!

The slug gel didn’t work.

An ex-friend once told me that such creams generally don’t work and in her opinion there was only one thing to combat the wrinkles.  Her beauty regime horrified me! sickened me! I mean, I borked at the thought of it let alone to think that someone, my friend, was actually doing it!

Monthly, after cleansing and exfoliating she would apply what is commonly known as ss… ssp…I can’t even say it!  Lets just call it man juice… all over her face!! *cue heaving of the nausea kind*. I kid you not, she absolutely believed that she had no wrinkles because of this.  WOMAN buy a mirror, you HAVE got wrinkles, it doesn’t work! Apparently it is fortified with vitamins and minerals and is great for the skin, but .. it STINKS!! Who in the right mind, except her, would EVER try that as a bona-fide wrinkle remover? On a regular basis??! I hasten to add that she is no longer my friend, not because of her choice of beauty cream but because I eventually realised that she is an absolute fruit cake, barking mad, stark raving lunatic.

On that note, as Emu oil climbs its way up the chart of beauty cream must-haves, I personally will be leaving Emu where he belongs – wedged on Rod Hull’s hand and not smeared all over my face!

We women fall for some rubbish, don’t we?!  If you have tried any unusual items in the name of beauty, tell me about it and leave me a comment.  I would love to hear your story, especially if it’s a funny one!

 
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Posted by on March 14, 2012 in London

 

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