1) Mandy

Sit down and let me tell you the funniest, saddest story you ever heard – it’s called 'Mandy'.

I met Mandy through the Personal Columns. Lovely things the P.C.’s.  You read them on a Sunday morning, pick one (or get a waitress to pick one out at lunchtime – I always like a second opinion) then call in the afternoon.

First you hear her recorded message.  Now a girl, uninterrupted, on a phone, is a joy to listen to.  Personal, intimate, honest and uninhibited.  She sounded young, fun and sassy.  And looking for a confident, older man. Which I am.

So I record my message.  Much harder for me.  I hate monologues and, after hearing my own words rattle around the room for a while, I resort to: “So if you like the sound of my voice give me a call.” Because it’s always the sound of the voice that counts, not what's said.

She did. She called me. And she was young, very young.  And I’m older, the right side of 50 but not by much, and I’m talking to a 20 something and she finds me ‘quite exciting’ to talk to.

So we arrange to meet.  Not just to meet – we plan the whole afternoon.  We'll meet on neutral ground, Pont de la Tour, by London Bridge.  Which is half way for both.  She's from South London, I'm from the West. So London Bridge suits both. And if she likes ‘the cut of my jib’ down to Chiswick, by the river, for lunch.  Then, I explained, however well it was going, I had to watch United play because girls are girls but football is sacred.  And her father and brother are big Arsenal fans so she laughs but understands.  This is going well.

I leave in good time, allowing 2 hours for a 1 hour trip – max.  I stop off before I catch the bus and buy some flowers from Ellie at the open-air florist.  “What should I buy for a first, blind date?", I ask, “Tulips - not too heavy”, she says. I buy the tulips. This is going to go well.

Well, I get to Hammersmith and the tube gates are shut.  Shut and nobody knows why.  “Get a replacement bus”, they say.  No problem, plenty of time.  Go to the despatchers.  “Which bus do I get for the South Bank?”, “Where?!” He’s no idea. The South Bank is not a bus stop.

It’s chaos.  I find a bus with ‘City Centre’ on the front, get on and am told it’s going to Fulwell.  Where?!?!  No problem, I’ll walk to Olympia and get a cab.  And I can check out a place to meet Christine next week before taking her to "Viva Espana".

Get to Olympia, find a Pizza Express to meet Christine (that’s safe) and call her to tell her. And I see a pub called "Flower in Hand" while I've got a handful of tulips. Good sign.

So then I’m waiting for a cab at that big junction over the railway bridge.

And waiting.

And waiting.

Running from corner to corner as the lights change.  There’s plenty of time but this is getting ridiculous.

A cab finally appears. Thank Christ.

 “London Bridge”, I say, relaxing with my tulips in the back.  No problem, this is going to work out fine.

I relax and phone a friend.  We discuss the odds on England winning the World Cup, at length. Only when I finish do I realise we’ve only gone 500 yards.  It’s gridlock.  Oh no, Chelsea are at home, West London is closed!

I panic, “Earls Court is round the corner isn’t it?” I ask, with just a hint of desperation,  “Yes mate, just round the corner”.  I jump out, heading for the tube. And realise immediately I've left the tulips behind, in the cab, in my haste.  I turn but he’s turned, gratefully, out of the traffic, and is gone, northwards, with my tulips on the back seat.  This will be someone's lucky day but, I'm beginning to suspect, not mine.

And Earls Court is not round the corner, it’s half a mile away on the other side of the Great West Road.  Fuck.  Still, after a yomp, I get there. Now all I need is the District Line and all will, still, be well.

1^st train: Edgware Road. Useless.

2^nd train: High St Ken. Useless.

3^rd train: Terminates here. Useless, is this a joke?!

At last – District Line to Upminster.  This is going to be all right.  Close, but fine in the end.

‘Due to problems with the lights at Embankment, all District Line trains are suffering severe delays.’

We crawl towards London.  Stalling in tunnels and shuffling into stations.  London Bridge is starting to look a long way away.  Pont de la Tour even further.

And then: “Due to problems beyond our control this train is terminating at South Kensington”.  You cannot be fucking serious.

I alight, as they quaintly still say, and phone Mandy.  No answer.  ‘Call again later’ – no voicemail, I hate that.  This is not looking good.

And to realise the full awful enormity of this scenario you should know one more thing. 

When I talk to a girl on the phone for the first time I always ask “Who do you look like? Not ‘What do you look like’ – which gets you height, dress size and, occasionally, vital statistics that mean something to other girls but not a whole damn lot to boys. But say “Who?” and they always tell the truth.  Girls are incapable of exaggerating their own looks; they spend far too long in honest, self-critical, appraisal.  So if they say “Nobody” or “I look like myself, really”, then, lovely as their personalities may prove to be, they ain’t no lookers.

I’d asked Mandy and she said, straight off, “A young Bridget Bardot”.

I’m a 40 something year old bloke on a date with a 20 something year old girl who looks like a young Bridget Bardot (only the sexiest woman in the history of the planet) and she finds me ‘exciting’ on the phone, and I’m running late.  I’m never late.  Well known for it. Pathologically punctual. But now, of all times, I am running, or rather crawling, late.

Stick or twist.  Tube it, or get out and get a cab from South Ken.  Now, I’ve spent hours trying to catch a cab at South Ken, no way. I'll trust in God, Ken Livingstone and the London Underground. We'll get there.

I phone Christine for a second opinion and she agrees.  I mention the lost flowers and that’s a mistake, she says she’ll expect a surprise then, not 'just' flowers, when I see her next week.

The train comes.  We can still do this.  But again we crawl to Embankment.  I jump out.  Fuck it, cab it.  Out to Embankment.  I wait, I wait.  The sun’s in my eyes so I can’t see the cab lights so, like a dumb tourist, I hail everything that’s black and moves – going either way.

A cab.  The Embankment.  London Bridge.  Then down into the Town Planning nightmare that is Bermondsey now they've built up the river.

I get out, run through the passage, through the doors of Pont de la Tour and … And I’m half an hour late.

And she’s gone.