10th January, A Date - Mini golf

Nothing much is done for the first few days of January. This is an accepted fact. You’re either hungover, tired, or just reconciling yourself to the idea that a new year has begun and another is lost. So why, why do people insist on asking what you’ve been up to? Maybe if I’d been to Ethiopia or Thailand as someone I knew had done. But, when I’d met Ed’s sister a week after the party, she’d asked me what I’d been up to, and I could not fathom it for the life of me. Do tell Alexandra what you have done in the four days it's been? I had taken my mother dancing; well, it was a family event, but I’d come because my mother had asked me, and it was the first social event I’d been to since. Was that so alien to her? This is me being ridiculous. I am well aware, but it astounds me how small talk and socialites often forget common sense.

Forgive me. She is a very nice girl. I wish her nothing but the best, and I’ll be seeing her in March for a ball in Edinburgh, so by then, maybe I’ll have done something.

I had lunch yesterday with an older friend of mine, James, an impressive guy at JP Morgan. I met him on pilgrimage, so it's no surprise that he’s a lovely guy. We volunteer as carers for disabled pilgrims with the Order of Malta Volunteers. It’s my only accolade, the proud proof I have that in between all the nothing I’m doing, I occasionally achieve some good.  

This all leads me to my date tonight. Amelia Jane. Mills to her friends. I had betrayed myself and sent her a Happy New Year message. We had been talking nonstop since, and tonight was our first date. I’d been talking to a few girls, a response triggered by Charis’s boasting, proving to myself I’d moved on – but I’d dropped them almost immediately. I felt a connection with Mills. She was an artist. Unfortunately, she was also still in school. She was held back a year despite turning nineteen soon, just like Charis. Yes, I know. Alarm bells should have been ringing. I ignored them.

I could give you the whole spiel about how special she was, but I can summarise it now: She was a fake blonde with blue eyes, pretty as hell, and had a personality. Posh as well. She lived in Battersea, and her voice was electric. The six-foot-five brother who wanted to beat me up was the least of my worries.

So, here I was. 8:00 pm on a Friday outside Birdies, a mini-golf place in Battersea Power station, waiting for my date. They wouldn’t be ready for half an hour. I knew then that my reservation at the Alchemist bar twenty minutes away wouldn’t work. It was fine; sacrifices could be made.

Chelsea boots from R&B, grey tweed pleated wide trousers—surprisingly from UNIQLO—paired with a blue cable knit jumper from John Lewis and an overcoat from Mango. I’d dressed to impress, even if it was more for myself than her. She’ll take the piss, of course; that’s half the fun.

She arrived. It’s the brutal honesty that gets you. She’d put on weight. Her hair had grown out as well. The issue with online dating is that you can never tell when the photo was taken. No matter. Weight comes and goes, and it didn’t change the fact I liked her.

We embraced, a quick hug, and I went for the make or break it.

“Do you know how much a polar bear weighs?”

It was a harmless joke; she looked a little lost, but she had the spirit, and I was answered with a smile and an inquisitive look.

“Enough to break the ice.”

She laughed in the way people do when they can’t quite believe what they’ve just heard. It was a dad joke; I set the tone for the rest of the date. I wanted it to be casual and fun, like our online conversations, not awkward as we got to know each other.

It worked, she smiled, and suddenly, she was the girl I’d been talking to nonstop for the last week.

I followed it up with another dad joke, a consolation prize.

“What do you call it when a chameleon can’t change their colour?”

This time, I was greeted with an eye roll, an intimate gesture showing she liked me, but god, did I think I was that funny.

“Reptile dysfunction!”

I got a laugh. All I wanted.

We decided to grab a drink at No 29 Power Station West while waiting for the minigolf.

How would you survive a zombie apocalypse? Twenty minutes in, we’d debated Frank Auerbach’s E. O. W. on Her Blue Eiderdown and how she really needed to work on being mysterious as there was a cool art student reputation to uphold. We also had a pretty fleshed-out survival plan for the next global pandemic.

She spent the Covid era in South Africa, and I couldn’t be more jealous. I’d spent months living in Kenya but had to wait until I’d graduated school. At this point, I reckon my future lies just about anywhere except the UK. Well, a few years after the army, anyway.

9 holes, two putters, two balls, two competitors. Naturally, this required two cocktails as well. Some shocking skills from both of us, but I had the upper hand, which required creative fiddling with the scores to keep her motivated.

The fourth round was in a dark room at the back of the building. It wasn’t long before golf was the last thing on our minds. She was pretty, we got along really well, and for some reason, kissing her felt like I was being swallowed. Maybe she hadn’t kissed many people, who was I to judge, we could work on that. How hard could it be to suggest she be a little gentler? It turns out very.

And then I noticed it. I chose to gloss over it—just a temporary issue.

We made it to the sixth round relatively uninterrupted. By this point, the scorecard would have fallen under the fiction section in a bookshop. Not that either of us cared. Any awkwardness has passed at this point, and the jokes flowed freely. Nothing was safe, especially not her height. It wouldn’t have been as fun if she didn’t make it so easy.

The eighth hole was also in a room, away from prying eyes. I reckon whoever designed this place knew what they were doing. She pounced, almost literally, and on impulse, I slammed my hand behind her head before it crashed into the wall. Forceful seemed to be the theme of the evening. Yet, all my attention was distracted the entire time.

Saved by a knock on the door. The couple behind were checking how long we’d be.

“Don’t worry, Mills; it’s hardly a straight line”

I was crowing over her missed opportunity to get a hole-in-one. Immediately, I missed my shot. Whether it was arrogance or some attempt at chivalry, even I can’t tell.    

The final round was one of those spinning wheels; my frazzled mind couldn’t contemplate how Mills could win, so I confidently smacked mine in and assumed the plus one was a good thing. Can you tell I don’t play a lot of golf?

When she got a minus of 4 points, I consoled her. How unfortunate; maybe she’d win next time?

Maths, never my strong suit, though hardly hers either as she did foundation maths, suddenly became necessary as we tallied the points. I was very impressed by the results of my quick mental maths, less impressed by the actual results. I had somehow lost.

It was now that we remembered the aim of the game was to get as few points as possible. Her score had beaten mine by one. My bonus point had cost me a draw; her four minus points had won it.

“Shameeeeee” came the South African slang.

Ever the gracious winner, I’d spent days cultivating a positive impression in her mind, and I was hardly going to lose it now. For goodness sake, she knew I did charity work; if I could be patient there, I could damn well control myself now.

On another level, her smile was worth any loss at that moment.

It was too late now to make it to the Alchemist. Instead, we wandered into the Battersea Power Station. Converted from its original form into what was now an achingly modern shopping centre, I had to laugh as I watched her confidently lead us in every direction except the right one.

Control Room B is an expensive but nice bar inside the power station. She regularly comes here with her stepfather, her stepdad, as she calls him. He was the young man with bleached hair on her Instagram. Props to her mother; he was attractive, though Mills assured me he was very vain.

Tradition, she insisted as she ordered mojitos. It is not the worst tradition I’ve encountered, not by a long stretch.

Sprawled across a sofa, we were chatting about everything and nothing. As the empty glasses piled up, she got more and more determined. What started as a nervous “ooooh, there are people around” while she kissed me evolved into a complete disregard as she tried to consume my face, there and then.

Eventually, I prised her away, and she started showing me her camera roll. It was rather sweet. It was the intimacy I craved as she played with my hair while I lay on her chest, watching rows and rows of photos flash by.  

It hurt when she told me she got a three in biology. For those unfamiliar with the system, that’s somewhere between a D and an E. It’s not the sort of thing I’d typically dwell on, but this was different. By my family’s standards, even my own, I hadn’t exactly excelled academically in my younger years. Yet, despite my lack of effort, my lowest grade had been a six—a respectable B. It wasn’t humility speaking; I’m the first to admit I’ve since written essays of near-publishable quality and am on track for first-class honors at a top-ten global university. But a three? To me, that wasn’t just a grade—it suggested a lack of effort, curiosity, or maybe both.

I recognise that some people are better at specific things. As a humanities student, maths does not come naturally to me. Having Freddie explain group theory to me over drinks is enough to infuriate me. But I’m still interested!

She went to a private school. The kind where academic success is as much a product of resources as personal ambition. Her artwork, I admit, was exceptional, but it nagged at me. I want someone who chooses art because it’s their passion, not because every other door is closed.

It was a snobbish thought. I knew that. But it’s hard to ignore the weight of compatibility. The more she spoke—school drama, petty rivalries—the more I realised we were on different planes of existence. Our age might have been the same, but our worlds weren’t.

When she leaned in to kiss me again, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. There was a heaviness in the air—her bad breath hadn’t abated all night. No matter how many cocktails she had.

I wanted more: intimacy, intellectual connection, someone to challenge me, to surprise me. This wasn’t it.

I love women who challenge me, who see the world through sharper, smarter eyes. My university is full of them. So why am I here, stuck with someone who thinks kissing harder will fix everything?

We left at 23:30. Her mother had called and asked why she wasn’t home yet; I apologised profusely and assured her it would be soon.

I kept my smile plastered on during the walk outside and made sure not to let on how my feelings had changed.

I’d read about how even the most ordinary night could become unforgettable if crafted carefully. Becoming a memory, a keepsake in someone’s mind, was the greatest gift you could give. You didn’t need to fall madly in love with everyone who crossed your path. Some people were meant to be companions of the moment, not protagonists of the story.

In fact, I’d written it myself in a current Work In Progress that I still wasn’t quite satisfied with.

All I wanted now was to leave Mills happy and move on from this. I did like her; I didn’t want to hurt her. I’d let her down gently tomorrow.

Better safe than sorry.

I called an Uber.

Mills was so charmed by the fact I’d done this that she wouldn’t disentangle herself from me. I practically had to shove her into the car, and the poor driver was watching.

Walking back to the tube station, intent on taking the northern line home, headphones in, Angeles by Elliot Smith playing, I was interrupted by ping after ping.

She’d gotten home safe, and apparently, no one else had ever treated her this way before, she was so impressed. Her mum had been amazed she'd got home so quickly and lavished praise on me for my actions. All because I’d taken the time to order an Uber.

The bar was on the ground.