The Surgeon!

Next indeed! My next date, post-Vestman, involved a medico-legal drama in the form of a man, who by reason of his profession, became known as The Surgeon...

We agreed to meet for dinner at a restaurant, renown for its extensive wine cellar.The moment I arrived I knew it was a mistake, but politeness prevented me from leaving immediately. It was only dinner and, as it turned out, one of the most entertaining evenings I'd had for a long time - just not in the way I expected.

Whilst I like to think I'm not shallow, The Surgeon was clearly not known for his sartorial elegance. His shiny, pale grey suit and blue poly-cotton shirt did little to conceal his significant girth, while his cheap polyester tie bobbed up and down on his stomach like a red warning flag. His physique, coupled with his sweaty, balding pate, made it obvious that his profile pictures had been taken several years earlier. His assertion that he was 5’11 also seemed on the optimistic side. Momentarily, I brushed aside his appearance, in the hope that personality, intelligence and wit would prevail. I hoped in vain…

Following my date, as he waddled to his seat, I decided the sooner the evening was over the better…and not because I was overcome with lust and wanted to whisk him home for a night of passion.

Having declined starters, we both ordered game and the sommelier arrived to offer advice on a suitable alcoholic accompaniment.

            Would you like some assistance, sir?’

‘No need,’ bellowed the Surgeon, ‘there is only one choice. I know my wines’

I cringed, as neighbouring diners turned to stare.

            ‘We’ll have white.’

            ‘Certainly, sir...' said the clearly surprized, but ever professional, sommelier, 
            '...something light and dry?’

‘Yes, Liebfraumilch,’ answered my companion, without recourse to the wine list.

Having narrowly avoided choking on an olive, I decided drastic action was required so, liberating the wine list which didn't even offer that German classic of the 70's, ordered a flavoursome red instead.

            ‘Certainly, madam,’ said the, clearly relieved, sommelier.

Half an hour later, during which The Surgeon did not stray from his favourite topics – himself and his evil ex - I felt obliged to ask why he had married such a harridan. After all, he’d been in his thirties, so couldn’t blame the union on youthful ignorance.

            ‘Why do you think?’ he said, dribbling redcurrant jus down his tie.

            ‘No idea’.

            ‘Long legs, long hair, good breeding stock.’

Predictably, he didn’t notice the collective thud, as my jaw and those of fellow diners hit the floor. Instead, he continued to denigrate his erstwhile spouse and her foolishness at leaving him, when he’d given her everything a woman could want.

            Whilst I had ideas of my own as to why the poor woman had fled, I still felt obliged to ask what it was that should have kept her in the matrimonial bed.

‘So Peter, what is it that every woman wants?’

            ‘Big house, big car, crunchy gravel drive.’

Enough. As I stood to leave, as fast as my not-so-long legs would carry me, I didn’t like to mention that my own recently gravelled drive had cost considerably less than the block paving I would have preferred. Maybe she thought he was as tight as his shirts! NEXT!