This Saturday, I effectively went on a blind date. I say, 'effectively' because I certainly didn't leave the house with that intention but the effect was more or less the same. My intention, as such, was to make the most of the fact that I was living in Canterbury during the festival. My other intention had been to corral at least one other person I knew into going with me. It wasn't meant to be and, seeing as I am a big girl now, I decided that I wasn't going to let a little thing like the lack of a dance partner stand in my way.
Going out on my own in Whitstable never proved to be much of an issue and it's something I'm very used to doing there. Everybody knows everybody in some form or other anyway. The only time it can be a bit of a problem is if you do, genuinely, want to be alone. But then, of course, you just don't go out. However, if you are on the look-out for familiar faces, you only really need to pop along to watch a bit of pub-based rock somewhere. In fact, you only need to pop out for a loaf of bread (ok, I'm lying, a bottle of wine).
The last time I really socialised on a large scale in Canterbury, however, was when I was living there as a teenager. This might seem strange, given that Whitstable is only 8 miles up the road - but then they don't call it 'The Bubble' for nothing. Even in my teens, the Whitstable bubble started to draw me in, a bit like that big balloon thingy in 'The Prisoner'. The Canterbury scene - or at least 'my' Canterbury scene - dispersed in the meantime.
It was my awareness of this fact, coupled with the size of Canterbury in relation to Whitstable (it's the UK's smallest city, they say, but a city nonetheless) that indirectly led to the unsolicited blind date. Knowing that I was going to be spending a few months here and knowing that I was likely to want to leave the house occasionally, I thought it might be a good idea to join a new MeetUp group - I'll call them 'Canterbury Culture Vultures' for now (my choice of title, of course, revealing my total lack of culture).
The first meeting of Canterbury Culture Vultures was harmless enough. I found myself cornered in the 'vintage' section - a very sweet former nurse, with a strong affection for both 1940s dress and Sherlock Holmes, and a swing dance teacher, also with a Sherlock Holmes obsession. As you can imagine, the conversation was a bit one-sided but at least I know where to go for swing lessons now (having had a brief introduction to this in the summer, it's probably something I will try again at some point). During the meeting, a few of us mentioned that we were planning to see Geno Washington. I was planning to go simply on the basis that I am quite fond of the Dexy's Midnight Runners song 'Geno' but others had seen him in his prime. Anyway, there was general consensus that it might be a nice thing to do and, really, that was that.
Fast forward a couple of weeks, and I have RSPV'd to the 'invitation' on the Canterbury Culture Vultures website (even though I was going anyway) and am wandering around the Festival 'Spiegeltent' (which, incidentally, is a fantastically fun 1920s construction that started life in Belgium and tours around various festivals - it's name literally meaning 'Hall of Mirrors'), a little bit unsure about where I am going to sit. Suddenly, a total stranger taps me on the shoulder:
Stranger: 'Melissa - Canterbury Culture Vultures?'
Me: 'Um, yes'
This apparently kindly gentleman, has recognised me from the tiny profile picture that I added when I started my own MeetUp group for Spanish language exchange, and literally made a dash from his seat to the back of the tent in order to invite me over to where the others are sitting. At first I am quite touched and gratefully follow. I start to grow a little uneasy when, within the first 10 minutes of our meeting, I have been told where he lives (alarmingly close to my mother's house), his cultural heritage (Scottish, although he is as English as they come), his job (working for lots of very important companies in a vague, life-coachy sort of a way), the fact that he travels extensively around the country (but mainly to Milton Keynes), the fact that he used to live in London, the fact that he grew up in Canterbury, the fact that he misses his parents who live abroad. He also quizzes me more than once on why I have joined a MeetUp group and, I have to say, I am starting to question my own sanity regarding that decision at this point. I try to engage with the other members of the group sitting further down the row, but he keeps impeding my efforts. Finally, the evening's compere takes to the stage and announces the band. I breathe a small sigh of relief.
Geno, it must be said, is superb, but I spend the first 30 minutes completely on edge, as my unsolicited blind date checks my every response and persists in interrupting Geno's highly-polished, stage patter with his own, less than polished, responses to it. I find myself thinking 'oh god, it would never work...I'm trying here, but our sense of humour is completely incompatible for a start'. Then I find myself thinking 'Melissa - YOU ARE NOT ON A BLIND DATE - and, incidentally, for the remainder of your natural life, never actually agree to go on one'.
I wish I could say it ended there. Half an hour in and, desperately in need of more alcohol, I decide to slip away to the bar. I leave my coat - I am prepared to sacrifice it, if necessary. It's quite warm for an October night, after all.
Leaning on the bar in the Spiegeltent, I start to take in my surroundings. The place is extremely pretty and I am imagining myself transported back to the 1920s. Next to me is a very glamorous black lady - kind of Tina Turner-esque but younger. Basically, I start to do what I do best and drift away with, I suspect, a kind of dreamy, pleased-with-myself-for-having-got-away look on my face. Suddenly, my eyes catch on to something just over my right shoulder. It is the slightly accusing stare of my unsolicited date. I immediately stand bolt-upright and, with my voice pitching up about three octaves, say something positive and meanlingless about how great Geno Washington is. I'm happy to notice that the Tina Turner-esque woman greets me with a warm smile of agreement at this moment. My unsolicited date also agrees and says something unconvincing about wanting to get a drink in before the others. I, meanwhile, stand resolutely next to the woman at the bar. She is my new best friend for the time it takes him to get his pint and slope away.
After that, thankfully, things start to look up. I disappear outside for a much-needed dose of nicotine from my trusty vapouriser. Sitting there, I take in the people outside. There is the young compere, doing the rounds and making sure everyone is having a good time. I also notice that there are all sorts of people there. People of varying ages and nationalities but most of them well-dressed. It's nice to see. They all seem pretty relaxed. I spy a small group of Whitstable folk, including an old friend who spent an evening very loosely and lightheartedly chatting me up in a bar a few months prior to this evening. I decide I'll go and say hello, after a sending a picture via Whatsapp. When I put down my phone, he saves me the bother by coming over himself and giving me a much-appreciated hug. We chat for a few seconds about how amazing Geno Washington is for a man of his advanced years and then he disappears inside to dance. I decide I should probably follow his example and do the same.
Dancing at the back of the hall is kind of fun. It's probably what I should have been doing all along. The women either side of me are clearly enjoying themselves and I start to do the same. I also realise I quite fancy the young compere, even if he is almost young enough to be my son. Later on, during another nicotine break, I get talking to a couple outside. The guy is pretty ravaged by drink and has clearly been 'on one' all day but they are friendly and talk about the tent with enthusiam. They tell me I should come down for the last night party and I make a mental note to book my ticket. Earlier in the evening, Geno had talked, somewhat incomprehensibly, about how you can buy a 'mojo' on the streets of Louisiana. I am starting to feel like I am getting mine back.
This feeling continues as the evening draws to a close. I seem to have struck up a kind of dancefloor friendship with the woman next to me and I am making jokes with random strangers. The compere walks past and catches my eye. Yes, it feels a bit wrong that the only person I am attracted to is a man probably no older than 30 (if that), but I couldn't care less at this stage. Geno's worked his magic. That's all that matters.
Although I have already surrepticiously grabbed my coat whilst no one was looking, at the end of the night I decide to hang-around outside for the other Culture Vultures. My unsolicited date greets me enthusiastically and kind of announces me to the others, even though I have met most of them before. It makes him happy though, so I go along with it. It's also nice walking back to the car park with them. Mojo restored, I even find myself joking with my 'date', even if it is slightly at his expense. I realise, of course, that I have no choice but to walk home with him and steel myself for the prospect. 'Never mind', I think. 'My mojo will protect me'. And it does... although I make sure there is a good few metres of physical space between us before I turn and wave goodbye.
