Getting to Know You

Jennifer Renee

I had agreed to meet Peter at Queen St Station in Glasgow. I had been feeling quite apprehensive on the journey from Edinburgh, it was a blind date, although we had previously spoken on the phone.

I turned left out of the station, as he had directed me, to find him waiting (illegally parked) in a rather smart black car. On sliding into the passenger seat I had a good look to see if he matched up to the description - not really - pin striped suit, spiky hair, red glasses! Oh no, very Glaswegian I thought. However, never one to be deterred easily, I decided to defer judgement.

Off we sped. As we drove through the streets of Glasgow, he gave a running commentary about the different buildings, their ages and origins, famous people who had lived there, events that had taken place there. Interspersed with this information were several anecdotes about his own escapades or about people he knew. It's true what they say about folk from Glasgow, they can talk the hind leg off a donkey.

After about half an hour of this we drove off to Kirkintilloch where he had been invited to a 50th birthday party. We entered a large room upstairs in a pub. There were two or three people dancing in the huge space, several couples seated around the walls and lots of small boys sliding along the floor on their knees.

"This doesn't look very exciting," he said, handing me a large gin and tonic, "do you want to go somewhere else?"

I thought it would be most impolite to leave so soon after we had arrived, but what the hell I mused, I'll probably never see any of these people ever again so why waste time?

We drove back into Glasgow and he took me to a pub/club where you had to use guerrilla like tactics to gain access to the bar. The place was so crowded and noisy that we had to shout in each other's ears to have a conversation. However, the entertainment was superb, great singers, comedians and dancers. And the passing crowd in various flamboyant/skimpy/downright weird outfits were almost as much fun as the action on the stage.

After an hour or so he managed to convey through a combination of sign language and stentorian shouting that it was time we left.

This time, in direct contrast, we entered a quiet and sophisticated bar and sat in a luxurious leather booth where we had a chat about ourselves and how we had come to be on a blind date in the first place. I managed to get a good look at him at this point, it had been almost impossible before. Not bad, I thought, but I still couldn't get over the red specs and spiky hair.

"Are you hungry?" he asked eventually.

I wasn't really, I was on my fifth gin and tonic by this time. He had been on fizzy water all night.

He obviously was though so I replied politely, "Well, I could eat something."

Quick as a flash, outside to the car again (or "motor" as he called it) and off to a, well, the best description I can think of is "a Chinese cafe". It was like a greasy spoon with oilskin tablecloths, vinyl covered benches and strip lighting. It was set up like a canteen with the food on offer laid out in heated stainless steel containers behind the counter. We queued up(even at 2a.m. it was packed) and pointed at the dishes we wanted, watched as they were ladled onto plates and carried them over to a table where we squashed in beside an almost comatose drunk and a vociferous woman in a lurid pink raincoat.

The food was delicious. Quite the best Chinese food I had ever had. Peter ate voraciously and finished his plateful in about three minutes flat. I found that I was actually quite hungry and finished my own meal quickly too.

"Right. I'm going to show you the best view in Glasgow," he announced as we hurried out of the cafe as if we were in a state of emergency. Straight back to "the motor" and off to the countryside outside Glasgow.

"Oh oh," I thought, "If he's going to kill or rape me, now is the time.

Not a bit of it. he drove quickly and expertly out of the town and up to a high point a few miles east of the city. Although it was dark it was indeed a wonderful sight.

After looking at the view for less than a minute (and not even trying for a tiny peck on the cheek) he asked me if I wanted to go home. By now I was quite tired after the long and eventful evening and was happy to be driven back to Edinburgh. He was the perfect gentleman (or perhaps he didn't fancy me?) and drove me home, not even asking to come in for coffee. The end of a perfect evening, well night, it was 4 a.m. after all.

Well you might ask, what happened next? Did he disappear into a cloud of exhaust fumes from "the motor", never to be seen again? Did we meet again and have another whistle stop tour of another variegated mixture of places?

Dear Reader, I married him.