Date with disaster

I don’t do dating. In fact I haven’t done dating for lots and lots of years. Casual sex; fine, a quick shag with no strings attached suits me fine. Actually, if it involves strings, ropes, candles etc, etc, so much the better!
So, last week, being asked out on a date came as a bit of a shock. Not that I minded, at least the conversation was guaranteed to be better than anything I’d get in this house!
Normally, when I drink, I turn into Norman Wisdom. Even after a wee “tincture” I’m still amiable. But I thought that I’d better behave and give the medicine cabinet a miss because the date involved a meal and coke tends to knacker your appetite. Likewise, after a belly full of beer, I’m not inclined to eat much more than cock!
To spare you the dull details, the date was not going many places fast, so I thought fuck it, lets get to the food part, and then I can bunk [sex never being on the agenda].
It turned out that my date had this department covered.
As we headed towards China Town I began to get twitchy. I hate any form of Oriental food. The look, smell, taste, everything. Not only do I dislike it, it revolts me.
As we stopped outside the door to the restaurant, I had to hold my hands up and say why I couldn’t go in. Now we really weren’t going places and we decided to call it a draw.
Probably just as well, I’m to old for this dating lark.