By SingleinShires

Saturday night was a farce. One of those nights where you start to question whether this is your actual life or there are in fact hidden cameras recording your every move and someone out there is sat watching and laughing at you. The The Last Single Girl meets The Truman Show.
The night started like any normal night out. Myself, my Partner in Crime and 2 males friends meet for dinner and head in to town for drinks. But the minute I walked in to a certain bar it dissolved in to weirdness. The bar we were in is not particularly up-market but it was 11.45pm and I had been at the cocktails. It has two dancefloors and isn’t populated but hair-swishing, bitchy teenage slappers like a lot of bars/clubs are. There’s no attitude; everyone is far too old to care about having an attitude, we just want to dance like idiots to 80s disco and 90s club classics in one room or cheesy pop tunes in the other. And dance like idiots we usually do.But I have clearly spent far too much time in there in recent months.
Within half an hour I am walking from one room to another and see a guy I’d been chatting to the week previously. He was a nice enough guy, not my type but had bought me a couple of drinks so I felt obliged to give him a number when he’d asked. I just neglected to give him my actual number. Of course I didn’t give him a completely wrong number, or my ex’s like I have done before, I actually only ‘mis-typed’ the last digit. So there he is, this short, dumpy little man waving his mobile phone at me, whining “why would you do that? I thought you were a friendly person”. I apologized and told him to swap the ‘8’ for a ‘0’ and he’d have the right number. I then legged it, rather embarrassed. Most blokes ask for your number and never call, typical that this one did.
I escaped out on to the terrace at the back of the bar to find the 2 boys and use them as a wall to hide behind in case the little man comes after me. As I’m sat there, huddled under the outdoor heater, relaying the story, my phone buzzes. My immediate reaction is that it is the same guy testing the number out and I have visions of playing hide and seek with him all night now. But no. It’s Facebook Messenger with a new message: “You look very lovely tonight”. Oh crap. This one was one that had asked for my number a while ago and I’d told him my battery had died and I didn’t know my number off by heart. I’d only been talking to him because my feet hurt and I couldn’t run away. It had been 3am and my new shoes had cut my heels to bits so I was perched on a table in the corner of the dance floor swaying my legs back and forth like a child watching my mates dance. This guy had come and sat with me to ask if I was ok and I politely chatted to him. I seem to remember he was into marathon running and was trying to get me to train with him, and being drunk I probably agreed. Instead of getting my number he then tracked me down on Facebook and I stupidly accepted the request (I’m nosey).

Anyway, I read the message and start laughing and telling the boys that I have another one to hide from. Their reaction is of course to look at me with despair and shake their heads. As I’m laughing and telling them which particular stalker has messaged me I’m aware of someone stood just behind me… yeah you’ve guessed it. He’s sent the message whilst stood at the next table. Who does that? Weird stalker people do, that’s who. Any normal bloke would have just come over and said hello so it’s his own fault if he heard anything he shouldn’t. Although I don’t think he had judging by the fact he continued to stand there and try to make conversation. The conversation was a bit awkward:
“How are you?”
“I’m well thank you”
“Did you see my message?”
“Yes I did, freaked me out a bit. You could have just said hello”
“I wanted to tell you that you look pretty”
“Thank you, I’m flattered. Normal people say that face-to-face. Only stalkers’ use Facebook Messenger when they are 10 feet away”
“I wanted to see you smile when you read it”
“And did I smile?
“No, it was kind of a grimace”
“Yes, because it’s weird”
“Ha ha. So how’s your new job going?”

At this point I explain I don’t have a new job whilst kicking one of my male friends under the table and staring at him. He takes the hint and interrupts to ask me something and I then excuse myself and run and hide in the toilets.
Next door to the toilets is the cloakroom. The cloakroom attendant grabs my arm to tell me I am beautiful and that I should go for a drink with him as I obviously like him as I flirt with him whenever I walk past. I must stop smiling at people then. I was being friendly not flirting, so miserable face in future.

By this point all my hiding has meant I have lost the 3 friends I came out with. PIC is off dancing with some random and the 2 boys, for once, aren’t outside smoking. So I spot a sofa from which I can people watch and chill out. That lasted all of 5 minutes. Next thing I know I’m joined by 2 men in their late 40s who tell me they see me in there all the time and have been waiting to spot me alone. I’m then asked if I would consider dating an older gentleman that was poor of money but rich in affection. I’m not sure which one of them they meant; maybe they wanted me to choose. I didn’t hang around. I pretended I’d spotted the PIC and ran off.

I wander round and find the PIC and the 2 boys in the other room so I plonk myself down to watch them dance. The boys were on the periphery of a group of girls so I couldn’t interrupt that mission and the PIC was still being spun round by the random. Turns out the random had a friend in the form of a tall, drunk, ginger Scotsman. I was polite, and we chatted, and in parts he was quite funny. I am a pro at chatting to the ugly friend of whoever the PIC has pulled so it comes naturally, but because he was drunk he was repeating himself a lot and a broad Scots accent is hard to understand when being slurred I was losing the will to live. After the night I’d had I really could not be arsed to spend the night smiling and nodding whilst watching everyone else have a good time from over said friend’s shoulder. So I said I was just popping outside and would see him in a bit. I didn’t consciously choose not to go back but I didn’t.

Next thing I know, tall ginger Scot has found me:
“You left me” he shouts at me.
I snapped: “I said where I was going, you weren’t on your own as your friend was with my friend right in front of you. Besides, I don’t even know you.”
“OK, fair enough” he slurs, “Do you want a drink” and as he says this he thrusts forward a half full bottle of rose wine. I decline.
“Fair enough, more for me” and takes a large glug directly from the bottle.
At this point my mind is made up. I’m going home and I’m staying away from that place for a long time!!

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