I've been feeling like a representative of a certain Danish beer company lately. I don't normally do Blind Dates but this one was probably the best in the world.
I can't help taking most of the credit. I was the one who suggested my friend and in-law-in-waiting, Baby Face, try Internet dating. I was the one who mentioned a site called woo.ie. In fairness to her she was the one who, against all my expectations, logged on and put a description of her likes and dislikes on the web, deciding against including a photo. She was the one who decided, after rejecting three others, to go ahead and answer French Man's mail.
The date was in Dublin so she had come down from the North for the weekend with a couple of my other in-laws-in-waiting, including eight-year-old Stefan. As usual, I wasn't sure whether they were actually going to arrive until they were in the door - they have a habit of changing their minds at the last minute - but I had prepared for them just in case.
He doesn't come right out and say it but I know my boyfriend likes me much more when we have people staying for the weekend. If I say so myself I am an exemplary host. I make breakfast banquets. I buy proper napkins. I get up before 10am. Basically I become the person he wishes I was all the time. I've even been known to iron.
Take last weekend. We had an unprecedented four people staying over. I planned menus and spent a Saturday morning in the Jervis Centre buying random items - party poppers, kitchen roll, monkey nuts, white chocolate ghosts - in an effort to make the weekend swing.
On Saturday night I made shepherd's pie for six. A proper, grown-up one featuring a splash of Worcestershire Sauce and a blob of Bovril. Neither my generous squirt of tomato sauce nor my carefree glug of red wine were in the recipe but both were added with a confident culinary flourish. The dish also called for me to dice carrots, something I haven't done in a while. The pie emerged triumphant from the oven, volcanic mince meat bubbling through mashed potato mountains, and people actually cooed over it as though I'd just produced a particularly appetising baby. The broccoli was al dente. The napkins were blue damask. The diced carrots were shaped like very tiny dice.
On Sunday night it was time to try out the new Jamie Oliver cookware. (It took having three people staying over for me to finally invest in a casserole dish.) I was making a pork and wholegrain mustard casserole, which I fretted over a little bit because I forgot the clocks had gone back and so put it in the oven too early and by the time I realised my mistake it was half cooked already with still an hour to go. The roasted pumpkin accompaniment was a big hit, as was the casserole, which even Stefan ate not knowing that I had a bag of chicken nuggets in the freezer in case he was feeling mutinous. It was all followed by my boyfriend's peach and pear cobbler with custard. But the main course was yet to come.
My mother was over for dinner, too, and she tried to calm Baby Face's nerves with tales of her own vast experience of Internet Blind Dates. It's only one night of your life, she said. If you don't like him you can always make your excuses and leave, she said. Then she looked at the clock which was edging closer French Man's ETA. Of course sometimes they don't turn up, she said.
Both being spectacle-wearing types, my boyfriend and Stefan had over the course of the weekend founded a pop group called The Speccy Boys. French Man texted Baby Face just as The Speccy Boys were about to take to the stage in the dining room for a gala performance. French Man wasn't expecting to have to leave his car at all but Baby Face wanted to bring him in so we could give him the once over. We didn't mind.
The guy was like an indie version of Thierry Henri. Talk about Va-Va-Voom. Tall, dark and very, very handsome he sat in the packed dining room while I nearly spilt wine over him in the excitement and he was grilled by my mother. What part of France? What are you doing here? What nice eyes you have, monsieur.
Then it was time for the Speccy Boys to sing Oh My Darlin Clementine. Hope you enjoy this, especially the French boyfriend, said Stefan. It turned out that French Man played guitar too and no, he didn't mind singing, so he warbled Eric Clapton's Layla, and soon we were all blushing because the lyrics included lines like "Make the best of the situation/ Before I finally go insane/ Please don't say we'll never find a way/ Don't tell me all my love's in vain".
Then my sister arrived for a visit and straightaway she was all "so, what part of France?" and "what are you doing here?" before the Internet friends decided it was maybe time to go on their actual date. Baby Face swanned back in at a reasonable hour all smiles. Was there a spark I asked? Could be, she grinned. He texted her later. You were lovely, he said. I, for one, will be watching this space.
