Maggie and the Tenner Dilemma – Marcello M Dating Blog

Maggie and I decided to meet at the South Bank – being home to the British Film Institute and Royal Festival Hall it was my default spot when wishing to appear cultured. It was also home to a myriad of chain restaurants masquerading as rustic eateries. It was culture-lite.   

iammarcelloUnfortunately, I hadn’t accounted for the Saturday afternoon tourist crush. We met in an open, heated beer tent adjacent to the throng. I couldn’t think why she would pick this place, presumably a Jason Bourne style accomplice was to have me in his crosshairs throughout.

This was our first date, arranged via text after a few frivolous emails. I was only on my second online date and already beginning to find such text exchanges wearing. At this stage, it’s clear the time for witticisms has passed and the correspondence serves only to fix the meeting. It was down to brass tacks – Where would we meet? At what time? Shall we book somewhere? Have you aged considerably since your profile pictures were taken? And so on.

By now, the value of quick-fire repartee has greatly diminished. Both parties have agreed to meet, that is it.

There is no further requirement for sharp, twitter-eque messages – particularly en-route to the date itself. No one wants to read supercilious remarks about London busses or the unpredictable nature of South West Trains. A scathing text critique of the tube network can appear ill-judged – believe me, I’ve tried it. Yes, once the transport-texts have been exchanged, the die is cast. Now it’s all about first impressions.

As someone who frequently has to engage in public speaking, I like to think I am rather good at making a favourable first impression. On arrival I saw Maggie reclining and studying the Thames. Promising so far, I thought, she has the confidence not to engage in faux-texting while waiting. She also looked better than her profile pictures, again promising suggesting perhaps a lack of vanity.

“Hello,” I said with my back to the sun.

Maggie squinted up at me. The tables either side were full.

“Hi there.”

“You look nice.”

“Thank you.”

“Hey, let’s pretend we met in a normal way and not on a computer!”

A couple next to us looked over.

“Sure, I’m ok with that.”

She stood as I went in for the double-kiss; missing the target I met her ear – through the hair.

Maggie tried to sit, not expecting the second peck. I quickly withdrew, only just averting a clash of heads.

We soon settled into a gentle rhythm of organic cider and bad house white. Fortunately it was bright so I had an excuse to wear my sunglasses. This allowed me to evaluate Maggie’s figure at leisure. She asked about my work in HR and I tried to sound sincere:

“People are our greatest asset,” I said to which Maggie nodded.

I was trying to recall more of the profession’s greatest hits when she left for the ladies’.

In her absence, I ran through the usual ritual of phone checking, hair fixing and composing a sharp line for the return.

Presently, Maggie arrived with two drinks.

“Thanks,” I said, “great view of the Festival Hall. An interesting building, don’t you think?”

She glanced upwards, “I guess so.”

“Did you know, it was built as part of the Festival of Britain?”

“I did not know that.”

“Yes, it opened in 1951 or thereabouts.”


I was trying to remember the rest of the Wikipedia entry when she cut in:

“Look, is that a tenner over there?”

A few metres away a ten pound note was blowing up against a table leg. At the table sat two bald men in football shirts.

“It is,” I said.

“What do you think?”

Trying to disregard my own financial preferences, I tried to come out with the ethical answer.

“Leave it,” I said.

“But it might belong to one of those guys.”

“Of course, but who are we to assume.”

“Sorry, I don’t get you.”

Playing for time, I shrugged:

“Let serendipity take care of it.”


Maggie gave me another moment before getting up and retrieving the note. She asked the men if it belonged to either of them, it didn’t.

She went into the bar emerging later with two half pints for the men. After passing them on she fetched two glasses of wine for us.

“Four drinks for tenner,” I said, “that’s cheap.”

“I put in some money myself.”

I watched the men drinking their half-pints. They looked over and raised their plastic glasses.

I said, “I would have just kept the cash myself.”

Maggie frowned so I added:

“Selfish but I suppose I just can’t think outside the box.”


The sun was dipping down behind the Savoy on the North Bank.

“Listen,” I said, “do you think we could start again?”

Maggie laughed and agreed but of course it was already too late.

No matter, my next date was already rolling around in my mind.

Rosie – a thirty-two year old maths teacher from Hoxton. A bohemian type with something of the free-spirit about her, her profile was arresting. I’d give her that. Moreover, we were meeting in Shoreditch and I do pretension so very well.

I rubbed my chin; maybe I had time to grow one of those straggly beards.

About the author

Marcello M is our male dating blogger. Follow Marcello M @MarcelloMLondon

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