Ahhhh the date. Stuff of legend.
From my Facebook page:
On the last day of my holiday ride, I stop at Loxton Lekker for breakfast omelet and coffee. A chatty local remarks on my gear and we start talking.
After interrogating my marital status and domicilius citandii, he insists that I meet up with his good friend, a winemaker who lives near me. He promptly phones his friend and sets up a lunch date.
I'm amused and intrigued with the remote matchmaking attempt, but the friend's eagerness to meet unnerves me a bit. He doesn't seem to be my type, but I'm trying to be more open and less prejudiced about these things.
I contact a good winemaker friend to find out whether she knows anything about him.
Turns out he is her ex
eepwall:
Now I want to meet him even less, but I already agreed to lunch. I don't like going back on my word. My friend assures me he is very interesting, there is no antagonism, and they still kuier oor en weer from time to time. She left him because he drank too much. She even offers to join us to break the ice, but he would have none of it. Of course he wouldn't.
Sunday rolls around. My family will arrive later in the afternoon, so I have an escape built in. I look at my meagre wardrobe. Like many women I'm sure, I have lots of clothes I still plan to shrink back into, and I therefore refuse to spend money on more clothes. All that shrinks is, of course, my wardrobe - thanks, COVID - but I manage to scrape together a presentable outfit. I apply a fine mist of Eau de Whatever-Is-In-My-Cupboard, a bit of eyeliner and lipgloss, and a resolute face. I don't generally selfie, but here's a rare one.
Minutes before 12:00 I get in the car and drive to the address given. He meets me at the gate and leads me inside, telling me about all the meat cooking as we speak (roast pig, etc). My only interest in the kitchen is watching others cook, so my ears perk up when I hear that a man loves to cook. We take our seats at the kitchen counter, he puts out some small snacks - biscuits? something I don't eat - and opens a lovely Viognier; he corrects my schoolgirl-French pronunciation. He shows a picture of his villa in France somewhere and tells me of his sporting prowess. Apparently he's a runner and cyclist, who's done the Argus and Comrades many times. He recently walked one of a new batch of SA Camino's through Gouda to spend time with a dear friend. According to his Loxton pal, he was chasing tail.
After the white wine, he opens a dry red blend, which is really excellent. He brags about not drinking water, ever. He drinks wine, and when he runs or cycles, he drinks beer for hydration as it is full of electrolytes. I wonder whether all those electrolytes counter the dehydrating effect of all the alcohol he is consuming. He claims he is as healthy as a horse. According to his Loxton friend, there was a kidney or heart scare.
The wine flows, but the conversation stutters. I break the flow of his monologue, asking pesky questions and sharing pesky anecdotes. The two bottles of wine are impacting. I need to line my stomach with food, and am forced to peck at the biscuits. My gluten-hating gut growls mutiny. Then he hands over a small plate of pork, a taster. It is tasty but a bit dry and I (wo)manfully chew it down. A third bottle of the excellent red wine is uncorked and my liver whines. I ask for more pork, en he doles out chunks of crackling. It is tough and sticks to my teeth, but I masticate through it and ask for more to soak up the wine. I ask for tap water and gulp it down to appease my liver.
I don't find out what other meats he cooked because lunch doesn't materialise. Maybe he decided he's not wasting a meal on me, or maybe I was mistaken and it's a liquid lunch. Late in the afternoon, my sister phones to say they arrived, but not to worry, she has keys and they are relaxing inside. I grab the opportunity to tell him I need to leave, now, my family is stuck outside my gate. He warbles like a fast forwarding tape for a moment, skipping over subjects, and lands on "***". He quickly tries to broach a subject that needs a longer run up, or more wine, or at the very least another interested party. I tell him I need to leave now. At the gate and I give him a quick, sidelong hug, get in my car and with a quick wave, drive away.
He was never seen or heard from again.
