A TALE OF 3 SUITCASES.

Quite tragically, I've been going on terrible dates for quite a number of years (with a few non-starter 'relationships' sprinkled in-between for added trauma). The good thing about this is that even if we succumb to Lockdown 2, I won't run out of content due to a vast backlog of hopefully entertaining horror stories. The main con, I'd say, is that I can feel ice forming around my heart and I'm probably suffering from long-term PTSD. Which is a vibe.

So, this story is a couple of years old. An oldie but a goodie, if you like.

Dean and I had been speaking on Tinder and WhatsApp for a week or so when he suggested we should do drinks and dinner. At the time my flat was mere seconds away from Westfield, and he absolutely insisted we meet there, so I didn't "have far to travel home on my own". What a charming gentleman, I thought.

On the night of the date - about 25 minutes before we were due to meet to be precise - Dean text me asking if he could "drop a bag" at mine, just while we were out so he didn't have to carry it with him all evening.

My thoughts went something like:

1. No, I don't want him to know where I live.

2. How big is this bag? Weird.

3. Where has he been with said bag? Weird.

4. Am I just going to sound really mean if I say no?

5. Perhaps I should just be chill and say yes.

   
   

So, as you can imagine, your favourite mug over here (HI) messaged him back; "sure, no problem" with a pin on Google maps to show my location.

Right on time and cheery as you like, Dean appears on my doorstep in a lovely suit - I assume he'd come from work - with three ginormous suitcases and a camping-style backpack. The type of suitcase people take when they're moving to another country. Also the type that would fit bodies in if you were a serial killer, I noted.

I opened my mouth to enquire as to WHAT THE HELL was happening, but was silenced as Dean squeezed and shuffled past me into my tiny flat, attempting to wheel all three suitcases with him, having to move sideways due to my narrow hallway. A real spectacle. I basically had to stand in the washing machine cupboard to avoid being run over.

"I'm so sorry! I've been staying at a hotel for a few nights! Sorry - I think I just scuffed the wall. Quite hard to move all these!!"

He had indeed "scuffed" the wall (see: gauged a deep line in the plaster from a wayward suitcase buckle). In my rented flat. You know, the type of rented flat where money gets deducted for damage.

Despite all this nonsense, we actually made it to dinner. And I'll give it to him, he paid for numerous expensive drinks and all the food with his very shiny card. Which might seem at odds with what I have to tell you next.

During the apres-dinner chat, it came to light that DEAN WAS HOMELESS.

D: "So I've not been honest. Well, nah, I have. I AM staying in hotels a bit, and sometimes with my mates. My tenancy ran out on my flat and I've not got a new one yet. It's all mad."

Me (trying to relate to his shambolic life): "Oh, that's stressful I'm sorry. How come you've not got a new one yet? It does take a little while and it is so expensive renting in London."

D: "HAHAHA, I got money babes, don't worry! I just don't like most flats. I'm into luxury, you know. I've been between addresses for over six months but no flat I go and see is the one for me. I know it's only renting, but the vibe has to be right."

Me (starting to suspect I am in indeed in the presence of a lunatic): "Oh, gosh. How many have you viewed? What's wrong with them all? Surely it would be better to have somewhere than nowhere?"

D: "Mostly they're too small. Or I don't like the kitchen or colour of the walls. Or no light. Natural light is so important. Like, your flat, it's probably fine for you but it's SO small and dark, and I couldn't even get in earlier!!"

Me (fuming): "I mean you did bring three huge suitcases with you. And I like my flat. I'm happy I have somewhere to live even if it's a studio..."

D: "Oh I didn't mean it like that babes. It is small but it's up to you, innit. Everyone has to live within their means. HAHAHA I don't think I could even stay with you tonight!! I'm a big guy, I'd feel soooo cramped, so I'll find a hotel in the area."

Needless to say - the SHEER AUDACITY of this homeless snob meant I didn't even finish my last vino before suggesting we should abort the date posthaste. The final straw has been him declining an offer I had never made - that takes some special level of delusion.

In (one of) the most awkward silences of my life, we walked the five minutes back to my "probably fine" flat and I watched Dean struggle his way back out of the hallway with his gargantuan belongings. I don't clearly remember if I even said bye, or whether I just closed the front door.

Thankfully, neither Dean nor I ever attempted communication again. It was an unspoken and very mutual "delete number" situation.

For all I know, he still hasn't found the right "vibe" anywhere, the poor lamb. Or maybe (20 months later) he has found 'the one' and is living in some palatial South Ken dream home with wide corridors and lots of light? I wonder if he makes a habit of declining non-existent invites to stay at girls' houses? I wonder if he ever thinks about the £75 worth of damage he caused to my perfectly adequate little flat? The big questions remain unanswered, I'm afraid.

Anyone else been on a date with a waif or stray? L x