Let's Coffee...

What is it about the summer that turns some people into morons? I say this on the back of my experience this week, when a quick trip into town featured the sight of twenty or so boys with their tops off, flashing their torsos for all to see. Some of them didn’t even have a shirt with them, which suggested they hadn't even left the house with one. Now, I'm not against nudity per se, but I find this kind of behaviour baffling. There’s a time and a place for taking off your shirt; on a Greek beach in August for example. But not outside WH Smith on a lukewarm April day. Hmm.

I don't often go into town (mainly because I can’t be bothered to do anything that involves any kind of movement), but this Tuesday was an exception. The day before I received a call from the Princess who asked me whether I fancied meeting up and having a coffee at some point. Yes, I said immediately. Yes, that pretty much sounds like the best idea ever, save seeing you naked, I almost added.

It's true that I was surprised by her call. I hadn’t seen her since my New Year’s Eve debacle, where I had shot myself in the foot by hitting on some other girl. Combined with the fact that in the meantime she had acquired a boyfriend in the form of Tonbridge Boy, I was beginning to give up on her. So to receive an invitation for a one on one coffee was a shock. I pondered her motives. Was Tonbridge Boy aware of this arrangement? Quite possibly not. It could be that she wanted to use me for a quick dalliance, a fling on the side. In which case I was more than ready to be used!

We arranged to meet at Starbucks at 3:30 pm. I’ll admit that Starbucks is not my first choice of coffee shop, being more of a Nero man myself, but I forgave her lack of taste and agreed to be there. I then spent the next morning getting ready for the date, choosing an appropriate outfit and rehearsing lines I could use. I set off in the balmy heat of the day with plenty of time to spare.

I arrived early. Very early in fact. A good twenty minutes or so before our arranged time. Normally in such a situation I would just go in and get something to eat, read a paper until my companion arrived. But in this situation it didn't seem like the best course of action. I didn’t want to give the impression of being overly keen, which I would do if the Princess arrived early to find me already there. To avoid this, therefore, I decided to lurk in the clothes shop opposite, from where I could spy on the people coming in and out. Once she had entered I would follow her in soon after, looking a bit flustered to give the appearance of being a busy man. But a busy man prepared to make time for her.

At just past half three, therefore, in the middle of pretending to examine a floral dress, I saw the Princess enter Starbucks. With my heart pounding, I gave it a minute before hurrying in after. She was standing by the check out, her back turned to me, and with a slightly sweaty palm I went over and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around, and when she saw me she gave me a very close hug! I felt encouraged to say the least, and could smell the sweet lemon perfume she had on. She looked amazing, with a deep blue dress that gave way at the back. I asked her how she was and offered to get drinks - for her a mochaccino, for me a frappucino. We settled down into two armchairs by the window, and I felt like I was in heaven.

Just as I hoped the conversation flowed brilliantly. Each of us was interested in the other, asking lots of questions and making funny comments when possible. There was flirtation too, as she complimented me on my haircut and tan, and I said I'd almost mistaken her for a beach model. She had a twinkle in her eye, and I could feel the room crackling with electricity.

But just as things were starting to heat up, just when I thought I had a chance, she ruined it all with sixteen  short words: ‘Oh, my boyfriend was going to join us in a bit. I hope you don't mind?’

For anyone who's ever swallowed rejection - the nasty lump that lodges itself in your throat after a failure – then this one's for you. I suddenly found myself with a snooker ball at the back of my throat after these words, not to mention a sledgehammer pounding me in the stomach. I was devastated.

Of course, I knew she had a boyfriend, Tonbridge boy, but I had thought this meeting was to between us only. Consequently, I hoped beforehand that I might turn her head, if only for an instant. But clearly this was out of the question now. One part of me felt like crying, the other half wanted to shout curses at her.

Naturally though, I controlled myself, and muttered something about it not being a problem. Which is one of the bigger lies I've ever told.

Unfortunately, she herself wasn't lying when she said Tonbridge boy would be coming ‘in a bit’. He arrived no more than thirty seconds later, and with it taught me a very valuable life lesson.

I've mentioned before about how I had spent many hours researching Tonbridge boy back at school. After learning of his involvement with the Princess, I ravaged his Facebook profile for information and threw in some Google searches too. Thus, although I had never actually met him, I felt like I knew him. And what I knew of him was not good, for me at least. He appeared to be almost without fault; sporty, clever and nice as well. However much I tried, I could find no dirt on him. Nothing to give me hope in other words.

However, anyone who's ever read Jane Austen will know about the importance of first impressions. Or to put it another way, the danger of relying too much on first impressions. In all of her novels, one of the characters is misled by their first meeting with another, after which only a huge amount of damning evidence can force him or her to change their mind. At which point the two either marry or break up. This, in a nutshell, is what happened between me and Tonbridge Boy.

As he approached our table I looked up expecting to see a well-presented young man. In his place there appeared a frat boy lookalike, dressed in garish baggy shorts, a ridiculous vest that showed off more flesh than it covered, and flip-flops. Flip-flops? I couldn’t believe it! He was no better than the idiots outside, dressing like it was the middle of summer.

Yet it wasn’t just his appearance that had me questioning my judgment - his personality turned out to be just as offensive as well. Instead of greeting me with a shake of my hand, he came up to me and gave me one of those full-on man-hugs tennis players give each other, patting me on the back like I was an old friend. He then kissed the Princess for an uncomfortably long time (which I should say felt like being stabbed in the guts), and positioned himself so that he was on the armrest of her chair, legs spread apart to reveal his inner thighs.

It's safe to say I was shocked.

But the worst was still to come. The conversation, after the usual smalltalk, fixed solely on him. After finding out where I was from and what A Levels I was doing, his interest in me was exhausted. All that worried him now was to make sure I knew everything about him, and in particular everything that he was good at. All of which was recounted in the most horrible drawl, and punctuated with frequent 'you know mate's and 'buddy', a clear sign he'd forgotten my name already.

And what a lot of things he was good at. I knew most of this already following my detective work, but it didn't hurt to have it told to me from the horse's mouth. His GCSEs had been brilliant. His sporting prowess was unrivaled. He was brilliant at debating. He was more or less guaranteed a place at Oxford, and with a bit of luck might become head boy next year too.

As I sat there listening to this I looked over at the Princess. Depressingly, she was staring at him like a lovestruck puppy, oblivious as to how much of an obnoxious bellend he was. Which, frankly, is a generous description for Tonbridge boy.

On the one hand I’m pleased to have discovered that Tonbridge boy is not my superior after all, insofar as a raving egotist is preferable to almost no-one. But on the other hand I’m disappointed, disappointed that the Princess could be so stupid as to fall for this imbecile. How do I move forward from here? Do I wish him good luck and try to forget about it all? Or do I plan some evil revenge on Tonbridge boy?

I would normally take the moral high ground and pick the first option, but since arriving back at school yesterday I've learnt some interesting information. The summer Fixtures informs me that Tonbridge will be visiting Eton on 16^th May for their first eleven cricket match, a match which Tonbridge Boy is likely to be playing in. As he told me, he once hit 32 runs in a single over, which to be fair is the mark of a decent player.

But here’s the question: can he do that with a greasy bat handle? After all, no-one looks out for people going into the changing room…