Let me introduce you Glen, The Master Interrogator....

Not to be deterred by date number one, the eternal optimist in me thought that I am brave/stupid enough to dip my red painted big toe back into the water for a second crack at this dating thing.

Therefore, after a match on Tinder (cue gasps and crossed fingers that this guy wasn't just after a shag, and if a coffee date ends in some horizontal folk dancing then times have changed A LOT) we arranged to meet for a cup of Joe to see if we clicked. Mind you, we'd only been chatting for a day before he suggested the meet up but at least if he was a dud my witty remarks and jokes wouldn't be wasted on a no goer.

10am, My Mistress cafe, Clayfield.  The scene of the crime.  The sun was high in the sky, the hipsters and their French Bulldogs were out in force enjoying avo on toast (apparently you'll never own a home if you eat avo on toast) and I was waiting outside for Glen to turn up - pretty sure I smelt a gas leak, I was hoping that when he arrived he didn't think it was me leaking the gas.

There was a 10 - 15 minute wait for a table, this place was pumping - oozed atmosphere and the coffee is meant to be amazing so I was quite chuffed with my suggestion of location.  I was early and Glen was late so I was waiting at a table inside - first comment after Hi was "it's loud in here". Great observation Glen, I was thinking it added to the character, but sure, turn your hearing aid down to dull the noise then bro.

Should have realised then that it would all go downhill quite quickly.  Insert commencement of interrogation here.  The 411 on Glen to help form a picture in your head; 39, works for Department of Immigration but currently applied for a transfer to Border Force so he can be 'in the field'.  Apparently shy, a homebody and from how much he talked about his best friend Kieran (and that's the way he referred to said friend) has quite the delightful bromance.  Glen is 6 foot 2 (he told me this, apparently height clarification is important), never been married, no kids, quite skinny (underweight, he also told me this), rents in Clayfield, earns $56,000 per year (he also told me this - thanks for the info champ but I couldn't give a flying eff) and then the questions started.

In conversational inverted commas for effect and his words exactly, my responses are in brackets....

"What nationality do you think I am?" (You look kind of Mediterranean). "I'm Philippino and Torres Strait Islander, is that going to be a problem?" (That's an unusual combination, but no").

"I'm very skinny, a little underweight, I've tried putting on weight but I just can't.  Is that going to be a problem? The last girl I went on a date with didn't like how skinny I was.  We went for drinks and after 5 minutes I knew she was a bitch.  She criticised everything about me.  After half an hour I told her she was a bitch and left". 

My internal monologue was screaming ANGE GET UP AND LEAVE NOW!!!!! But I couldn't, I was laughing on the inside and could see the poor kid was nervous so I stayed.  At least he didn't think I was a bitch because he stayed seated....for the next hour.

Basically the next 45 minutes was him talking about every other thing he didn't like about other girls he's been on a date with thus far, and then confirming if I was someone who did and thought the same.

Coffee ended, and he suggested we go for a beer. I said "sure", because I am a people pleaser and can't say no. WHY WHY WHY ANGE?! GET IN YOUR CAR AND DRIVE FAR FAR AWAY. SPEED IF YOU HAVE TO, THE COPS WILL UNDERSTAND - AND ONE MAY EVEN BE HOT.  I've always made poor life choices when it comes to men so why not extend the torture for another hour.

Location change to The Hamilton Hotel.  Choice of beer, me Japanese, him XXXX Gold.  Cue him telling me the previous woman (the 5 minute meeting, aka the bitch) looked down on him drinking XXXX because it wasn't a craft beer "is that going to be a problem Angela" - no Glen, you drink cats piss if you want to, fine by me.

Interrogation continues, me with mostly one word replies only. 

"What do you see your wedding to look like?" (I've never been asked that on a date before, especially after an hour, but small) "Mine will be big, my mother is one of 12, there's about 150 family members alone.  And it would have to be cheap because weddings are a waste of money - would that be a problem?"  (Mate, slow down, we've had coffee and a beer and I'm currently looking for the exits - I didn't actually say the bit about the exits out loud).

"Do you want kids?" (Yes) "How many?" (Two). "You're 33, you realise after 34 the chances to have kids is harder?" (thanks for the fertility information champ, I wasn't aware of the fact that my ovaries are drying up as I scull my beer and I have 6 months till they're completely fucked. I have polycystic ovaries anyway so I probably can't have them easily but I appreciate the info on how much of a barren woman I will become upon my next birthday, thumbs up!).

A lot more questions were being fired my way but I had my nose in my glass sculling the pale liquid so I could make like Road Runner and get the heck out of there.

I used having to pick up my friend Chantal as the excuse to deploy the emergency landing gear to make like a Shepherd and get the flock out of there. The inflatable slide was ready to go.  The doors had been thrown out of the aircraft.  The oxygen masks blowing in the breeze, and I was first out of the plane.  Screw the pregnant women and children first business, this was a dire situation!

So how did it end you ask from the edge of your seat as you wipe away tears of laughter.  The obligatory hug of someone that's letting you down gently, the nice to meet you, talk soon (hell no Mr) and I left skid marks in the car park as I sped home - away from Glen.

He messaged me half an hour later with "Well that was fun".  I politely told him that it was nice to meet him but I didn't feel any romantic chemistry there.  How could he not have picked that up already I thought to myself - clearly I'm that charming, go me.  Glen has since unmatched me on Tinder - sad face.

Moving on kids, up next, Bachelor No. 3.  I won't mention his name cause that date was not horrible and he is probably reading this blog as it came up whilst trading war stories (his are even more hilarious). Hey there Bachelor No.3, wassup?

Just a sample of great Tinder options available....

Mate, your poetry is mindblowing...