Dominic Ryan on Dating...
The Herald's resident twentysomething singleton Dominic Ryan puts a toe in the water of organised dating - and emerges singularly impressed.
You can't buy the moonlight, but everything else is prepaid: the candles, the mood musak, the melt in the mouth asparagus spears, the chilled Chablis.....and nine dinner partners, sifted and selected for your delectation and perfect social intercourse.
Ideal for anyone with absolutely no acquaintances. Ideal then, you might say, for any passing astronaut. You know, the shy Martian, who's in town for one night only - attending The Spice Girls Interplanetary Peace Conference perhaps? He'd love to get out and about, but zing drango squoobly, if he just don't know any earthlings. No, Mr Alien, put down that cosmic transporter! Here are nine brand new friends who share an interest in the X-Files; just try to ignore the fact that they've got eyes in the front of their heads. And you never know.......there could be that special soft-centre among the unknowns a female of the species with a secret hankering for sucker pads and anti-gravity trousers.
Okay, I confess; thus was always my preconception of the organised social outing. But the truth is out there. And the reality is that clubs for single people are fast establishing themselves not as last chance saloons for the planetary or socially disadvantaged, but as respectable and attractive options for many earthlings, of both gender, of all ages, and from all walks of human life.
Solely in the name of professional curiosity, I went along to one of these gatherings, a dinner party organised by The Raeburn Supper Club. The Raeburn was only recently established in Glasgow by Yvonne Carvel and Diane Goudie. Both are attractive thirtysomethings who carry to their new-found vocation a quiet authority and organisational savvy from previous careers in law and marketing.
When I arrived at the Cafe Serghei in Glasgow's Bridge Street - unfashionably late, it seemed - the party was already seated at a long table and swivelled expectantly, as one, towards one mightily embarrassed journalist. Inwardly, I thanked the stars I'd decided the bunch of geraniums and foil-wrapped Terry's All Gold would be a bad idea. Now I know how the Milky Bar Kid felt the first time he swung in to Mary-Lou's Whisky Parlour and asked for cremola foam.
My blushes soon faded, though. Shy of bashfulness, Yvonne and Diane are perfectly adept at making everyone feel at ease. The first thing Yvonne stressed was that The Raeburn is not a dating agency - they never organise one to one introductions. Suddenly my witty opening - "Hi, I'm Dominic! So which one's mine?" - had lost it's sparkle.
In fact, The Raeburn's aim is to expand the general social lives of its members. The opportunity to meet a potential partner is a bonus to meeting many new friends. Certainly, none of the Serghei crowd seemed overly anxious at the mating game. The hormone-driven panic conversation - "Isn't it great how they get these breadsticks exactly the same length?" - was entirely absent. Without the pressure of "being on a date", everyone seemed to relax and focus instead on simply enjoying the food and the genial banter.
So what kind of person did I encounter? Politeness prevents me from gossiping about my dinner partners. Suffice to say no-one ordered Deep Fried Soup Dragon and the only Men In Black making sudden appearances were the waiters.
The girl on my right, in the lucrative business of teeth and how to keep them, was perfectly charming. And no, that doesn't mean she had a face like cold semolina. She was ambrosia, a delightful match for any "potential partner". The chap on my left, from foreign climes and eager to widen his circle in Glasgow after the wilderness that goes by the name Dundee, was softly spoken and in his thirties.
He confided he hadn't had a date for three years. I couldn't help but admire his honesty and wondered, silently of course, if he'd be moving closer to the dentist when I vacated my position as impartial observer and dinner table buffer zone.
Yvonne and Diane admirably controlled the organisation of the table service, while ensuring no-one was ever left staring forlornly at their croutons. This latter skill was enhanced by an unassuming diplomacy and tact, thus avoiding such familiar but unwelcome interjections as: "So, Nigel, you're very quiet. Are things slow at the Toilet Duck factory?" with its attendant pause, blush and manic-grinned squirm.
Time prevented me from joining in the after-dinner highlight - the chance to improve on my Greek dancing skills, but I can't think of a better way to remove remaining barriers to a worry-free, fun night than a spot of knees-up Mama Stavros with optional crockery-smashing.