The composer

Guy no: 42
Where: National Gallery, W1
When: July 2011
Stats: 34, 5’10″, dark blond/blue, Wales
Pre-date rating: 7/10

Throughout my life, I have been a slave to my Sunday night rituals. From begrudgingly doing homework with one eye on Songs of Praise, through to thinking of excuses why I needed an extension for an essay at uni and on to ironing my crisp, white work shirts all those years ago, my Sundays have been dictated to by routine, order – things which must be done, whether I want to do them or not. My modern-day Sundays are my ‘reply days’, where I spend an hour so reading through new messages from potential dates, as dreadful telly burbles in the background and the pile of washing up takes a dramatic lean to the left.

This Sunday sees me chatting to two guys who seem equally as eager to be doing something else instead. Pleasantries are exchanged with relative speed and my virtual head swings back and forth as if I’m watching a high-octane tennis match on Centre Court. Sadly, I’m not, and just as I am preparing to draw things to a close and take a scouring pad to that pan of whatever-the-hell-it-is, Guy 42 asks if I’d like to meet for a date. I hurriedly check back on his profile to get his details. Hmm, he’s probably not as funny as he thinks he is but his pictures are all in close-up so I’m not due any last-minute surprises. As I’m quickly reading back through our conversation to check I haven’t told any huge lies which would prevent me from meeting him, the other guy drops out and says he has to go to work, so Guy 42 gets my undivided attention. Lucky him. I agree to meet him.

When you agree to meet someone on a date, there is usually a to-ing and fro-ing before you decide on a venue. It’s jaw-achingly dull, so in recent weeks I have taken to end the dithering by deciding for them. Depending on where they live, it’s almost always the same pub. No such worries here, however, as G42 hits me straight back with a time and venue.

“Let’s meet on Friday at the National Gallery.”
OK. Decisive. But where?
“In front of Raphael’s ‘Madonna of the Pinks’. 8pm. See you there.”

This is new. I have never had to meet someone by a painting before. I can’t decide whether it’s sweet, nicked from a bad film or just outrageously pretentious. I don’t want to ask where in the gallery it is (Perhaps this is a test! OMG etc!) so I agree to meet him there and resolve to do some research on its precise location.

Friday comes around and I, of course, have not even attempted to find out where the painting is. I arrive at the gallery in a sweaty, summery fluster – it’s a hot day and I have had to hotfoot it across town at great speed to make it after work. I glide around the gallery, trying to look like I know where I’m going. It’s busy. I’m getting stressed. I admit defeat and sheepishly skulk over to one of those members of staff all museums have – the ones dressed in black who look so bored from not saying anything that they would probably consider eating their eyes for entertainment. I ask for directions to the painting. Clearly it is some time since Suzanne spoke, as she has difficulty telling me where I can find the painting without running her tongue repeatedly over her teeth. Eventually, I get its location from her and race up there, slowing to a nonchalant stride as I get nearer. Playing it cool, as ever.

I stand in front of the painting, looking through it rather than at it, until I feel a presence to my right shoulder. I pretend to be concentrating very deeply. Finally, he says my name; the syllables breaking the spell of my fake reverie like Prince Charming’s kiss. I look up. Well, Prince Charming doesn’t exactly come to mind but he’s not going to scare away any crows any time soon. He smiles and shakes my hand.
“Hot in here, isn’t it?” He’s Welsh. “Have you looked around already?” He motions in the general direction of the rest of the gallery
I lie and say yes. Why do I lie? I don’t know. It’s just something I do.
“Good,” he continues, barely pausing for breath. “I’m not really in the mood for art to be honest; I’d rather just go to the pub.”
A man after my own heart indeed, but why suggest meeting here in the first place? he says he knows somewhere nearby and we leave the gallery, him talking much more than me, and quite fast.

By the time we’ve rounded the corner of Trafalgar Square I know that his friend was recently jilted at the altar and what his sister is doing for the weekend. Information is coming thick and fast. As we walk along, I try to get a better view of him out of the corner of my eye. He has an open, enthusiastic face, like a children’s TV presenter, and seems quite well groomed, even though his style of clothing wouldn’t have been my first choice out of the wardrobe. He explains to me that he is a composer and that he has been writing some music for a competition today. I try to show an interest and ask what kind of music he is but then he goes on to talk at length about a famous choral piece which he has been inspired by and starts to lose me rapidly. He clearly knows his shit. And said shit is flying right over my head.

We reach the pub whereupon he tells me he hasn’t had an alcoholic drink for over a month. I jokingly ask if he has a drink problem and he goes quite for ever so slightly too long before laughing and saying that he hasn’t, but he is trying to save money.
“Oh,” I say, “What for?” I half-expect him to say it’s for a house or a car or, hopefully, a clothing-related shopping spree, but instead he shrugs.
“Just to have savings, really. It was my mum’s idea.”
I resolve to move the chat on and so ask him about Wales and how long he’s been in London. He answers every question by putting my name at the end, sometimes pausing mid-sentence to say it too, which I find unnerving, and is a tactic I remember my bank manager employing when he was trying to disarm me and convince me he had my best interests at heart. I never believed him.

After a few jars, and feeling quite well-oiled, I make my excuses and go to the toilet to weigh up my options while I pee. As boyfriend material, I’m not feeling it. He seems a little too wholesome, and anyone who, at 34, starts saving money because their mum told them too probably isn’t going to look too kindly upon me squandering every penny I have on booze, dinners and dancing. That said, he has nice teeth and seems clean, so I would probably at the very least like to see inside his mouth with my tongue.

As I return to the seat, I see he is sitting with his eyes closed, swaying slightly. I sit down again and start to say hello, but he lifts his hand as if to silence me and sways a second or five longer.
“Everything OK?” I say when he finally stops.
“Oh yes,” he replies. “I was just running through a couple of bars in my head. It sounded good.”
At this point, I decide I’m going to have to get considerably drunker if things are going to get ‘nasty’, so ask if he’d like another drink. He carefully counts the empties on the table and refuses, saying he has to get home to finish off his composition while he’s inspired. When I joke about being his inspiration (look, I’ve had three drinks, OK?) he turns me to sharply and gives a smile only a serial killer could love.
“Not quite” is all he will say.
He gets up, and I follow. We head outside and he says my name once more, telling me it has been great to meet me, before proffering his hand and administering a very businesslike handshake. Feeling like I’m back with my bank manager again, I nod and say goodbye, before beating a hasty retreat down the nearest street toward the bus that will take me home and back to sanity.

Post-date rating: 6/10
The date in one sentence: If music be the food of love, this date was anorexia personified.