Salient

The conductor just stared at me as I squatted in the middle of a train carriage, my underwear around my ankles, weeing. “What are you doing?” he asked. Fair question.

I was on a first date with a sweet Irish Catholic boy called James.

I should have seen it coming when James asked me to meet him at the train station. Unfortunately though, I was caught off-guard when he suggested that “Hey, we should live a little, let’s take the first train that comes!” I sighed inside, wishing that I could, for once, have a normal, relaxed, uncontrived first date. Neither of us really wanted to go to the polluted seaside town of Helensburgh, but neither of us wanted to admit that we weren’t spontaneous, zany, “Who knows what I’m going to do next!” We bought the tickets, boarded the train, and spent the commute congratulating ourselves for our adventurous spirits whilst swigging from a bottle of wine in a brown paper bag.

I stared out at the littered beach, pretending to be enjoying a blissful silence whilst desperately thinking of what to say next. We were sitting in a bin shelter, supping from a third bottle of wine, trying to ignore the rotting rubbish and heavy rain. Then, without warning, he looked at me through narrowed eyes and said “You want to have sex with me, don’t you Juliet?” This was not a proposition; it was an accusation.

Normally I would have cut and run at this point, but as the train home was hours away, I instead had to spend half an hour convincing him that I wasn’t about to pounce. He had somehow seen longing in my miserable pout, and heard my slurred speech as a seductive purr.

I nodded understandingly as he told me that he wanted to save himself for his wife, and didn’t even voice my confusion as to why he would ask me out when he stressed that he would never have a relationship with a non-catholic.

Thank God for fermented grapes. Without wine, I think we would’ve ended up shouting at each other and trying to walk the hundreds of miles back to Glasgow. As it was, we got into one of the best first-date conversations I have ever had. Leaving the delicate subjects of sex and religion behind, we spent the rest of the date trying to think of things that fit into the category of ‘boring and scary’.

Death is boring and scary. Well, I’ve never actually died, but it sounds bloody boring to me. Jail is boring and scary. I did actually spend a night in a cell once, and was a disappointing criminal. I lay awake crying all night, wishing that I didn’t have to ask the guard to push the flush button outside of my cell whenever I went to the toilet. Debt is boring and scary. Car crashes are boring and scary. War is boring and scary. Pregnancy is boring and scary. Exams are boring and scary. The Phelps family are boring and scary. Hell is boring and scary. Terrorism is boring and scary. Terminal illness is boring and scary.

Running is boring. Murderers are scary. Running through Upper Hutt at night is boring and scary. You get the idea.

It was coverage of the Swine Flu epidemic that got me thinking of the ‘boring and scary’ conversation again. It must be terribly thrilling for survivalists, but Bird Flu was such a let-down for me that I’m not letting myself get excited about this new epidemic. Seriously though, does anyone have some Tamiflu? I’ll give you my course related costs!

Next time you’re on one of those insanely awkward dates, bring this conversation up. They’ll think you are vapid and a little idiotic at first, but if it turned this date around, it can turn any date around.

James and I ended up alone in a carriage, kissing ferociously on the way home. His mind was probably on how he was going to phrase his confession, but I could think of only one thing. No, it wasn’t sex—it was my full bladder. With about a litre of wine sloshing around inside me, I had to cross my legs incredibly tightly to stop myself weeing myself in front of him. At first he probably gave me credit for my piety, but he eventually noticed my discomfort and set off to see if there was a toilet on the train. When he found out there wasn’t, he joked “you should just go here”.

No, there wasn’t a second date. Yes, I am disgusted at myself when I think that someone had to clean up my wee. No, I wasn’t thirteen- it was only three years ago. Yes, I’d love to go on a date with you.

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