Horses, Heroics, and the Enigmatic Shrine: My Unforgettable Date with an Ex-Army Officer.

The battlefield would have been less trying.

I matched with B on a Sunday morning. Sunday mornings are usually pretty lively for matching on the apps, for entirely the wrong reasons. People usually wake up hungover and horny, and swiping while horny is never a good idea. I will take some of the responsibility for this dating nightmare because the signs were all there in B’s profile. While some women will turn a blind eye to a red flag or two if a man is: over 6’4”, I would ignore them if a man has a horse on his profile.¹

I went through a phase of matching men, regardless of what they looked like, if they merely had a horse in their profile. So, you see, some of this is definitely my fault, and I’m happy to take accountability for what comes next.

Anyway, B had not one but TWO horses in his profile, and he was actually pretty attractive. Obviously, old money rich, family money rich, but I was prepared to overlook it when he said he’d take me horse riding at his stables! Sold! B asked me to drinks at the Mandarin Oriental in Hyde Park. If he was trying to impress me, he needn’t have bothered. I was already impressed by the horses; if he’d been clutching a Kinder Bueno, I’d have asked him to marry me!

I didn’t hear from B for the rest of the week leading up to the date. It’s not uncommon, but it’s not my preference to disengage from the conversation completely and allow the first date to do all of the work. It usually ends up being a bad date.² The only contact I did have with B before the date was checking on Thursday to see whether it was still going ahead and, at what time.

My usual date attire doesn’t really suit glamorous drinks at the Mandarin. Instead of jeans and a fitted shirt, I wore a mauve Mango dress, which finished just above the knee, with a square neckline and thin shoulder straps. I hoped it said—smart and knowingly coquettish—a vibe I felt suited that particular hotel.

When I arrived, B was already waiting for me with a gin and tonic.³ That accrued him some points, and as it turned out, they were the only ones he would get. B was older than his photos portrayed, or he’d had a bloody hard paper round in the 5 days leading up to the date. I wasn’t mad; he was still a handsome chap. I used FaceTune to erase my pores; it would be hypocritical of me to be mad that he had used younger photos of himself. I sipped my gin and tonic; our initial chat was somewhat stilted. I find that this is what happens when there’s no conversation before the date. You end up needing alcohol as social lubrication. I think B knew this, as he ordered us cocktail after cocktail after cocktail. God knows how much the bill must have been.

The moment it went wrong with B was when he started talking about the Myers-Briggs test and trying to work out what combination of letters I was. As you can imagine, this sort of chat is incredibly tedious. It’s tedious when companies force you to do it on those loathsome team-building days, and it’s even more tedious on a date. It’s just not sexy, is it?

B seemed to think Myers-Briggs was some sort of cheat code for unravelling my personality, instead of merely just asking me questions like a normal person. He spouted random compositions of letters off at me, like a proud kindergartener learning the alphabet for the first time. Telling me how I was introverted, but not a leader, and other dreadful buzzwords that the test spits out. He told me we were kindred spirits because he was a leader and extroverted, and the fact that I even knew of the test was impressive.⁴

I sipped my third cocktail, which had edible gold leaf in it. I didn’t know what the drink was, as B had ordered it, but it was more interesting to watch the delicate shavings of gold leaf dance in the swirl of the alcohol than listen to B’s chat. I simply nodded away with a gentle sway as the booze lowered my ability to care.

After what seemed like a small ice age, the chat finally moved on to the even more boring subject of employment. I told B the bare bones of my career, and B went to great lengths to tell me all about the work he did.

“I started off in the army, of course.” Of course B, of course. "I went to Sandhurst at 18.” I nodded along. “Joined the Household Cavalry, naturally!" Naturally! Of course he had.

"Ah, hence the Mandarin,” I said. That made sense now, as the Household Cavalry’s camp was two minutes away from the hotel. That explained everything—the horses, the family money, the arrogance that he felt he knew everything about me from a mere 10-minute conversation, in which I’d barely said anything.

"Yes, I used to live in Hyde Park barracks. I left the army though,” he paused, trying to work out how impressed I was or was not by his former army officer status. “A while ago now.”

“How long ago?” I asked, intrigued.

“About 15 years ago”. Odd then that he was still taking dates to his old stomping grounds. Odd or sad. B went on to tell me what he’d been up to since he decommissioned. He was an English language teacher in Thailand; he was an entrepreneur; and he was on the board of a charity (which he later drunkenly confessed was a tax write-off).

All of it translated to being unemployed and living off the family money, which is fine. I think most of us would, if we could. But I somewhat resented his assumption that I couldn’t see through all his guff. Perhaps because he declared I was an INFJ or something equally useless under the Myers-Briggs and therefore incapable of seeing through his pointless deception. 

Suddenly, I was hit with a wall of deja vu.

“I used to be married,” B declared.

"Ok,” I didn’t care A⁵ was divorced, and I didn’t care B was divorced either. I did, however, appreciate that they felt the need to tell me about their past business, as it wasn’t any of mine.

“She lives in Australia now, so you don’t have to worry.” I’m not B; I assure you, I’m not. "She cheated on me with my best friend got pregnant with his baby I think I fire blanks is that a problem?” I nearly spat my cocktail out on his white linen trousers⁶. I don’t think he took a breath during the entire gargled confession. It was juicy gossip and some hideous information I did not want to know at all. I tried to entice B to tell me more, but he looked rather morose all of a sudden and ordered more drinks. It was the first time he’d been silent since I arrived.

“Do you want to come back to mine? I make a famous martini.” He eventually whispered. By now, I was drunk, and he had dropped into the conversation his 3-story house in Chelsea more than once. I was sort of curious to see what it was like. B was very clearly not getting a second date, but maybe he’d be fun for a night, at least I wouldn’t get pregnant. I knew it was a bad decision at the time, but I was also smarting from a breakup, and I wanted to feel wanted.

We jumped in a black cab when B declared:“I don’t understand why men are feminists; it’s ridiculous.” I contemplated whether I could perform a parachute roll out of the moving taxi, finally making use of all the PE I’d been subjected to at school, but the doors were locked. I felt like I’d been somewhat duped and semi-kidnapped. I knew his comment was designed to start a bit of a mental sparring match. I suspected he wanted to regain some dignity after his confession, and by engaging me in a pointless argument, he felt he could win. But I couldn't be bothered to duel with Mr. Briggs. You don't punch down after all. 

When we arrived at B’s house, I wondered whether I should make a dash for it or go inside. My curiosity got the better of me. It was indeed a beautiful 3-story house in Chelsea. Decorated with deer antlers, mahogany bureaus, original Victorian tiles, and what looked like commissioned family portraits. It was suspiciously tastefully done given the choice of devour. B led me to the first floor, where the kitchen was to make me his famous martinis. Upon tasting it, I could only assume it was famous for being revolting. The GG Allin of drinks.

“Let’s go to the living room.” B announced. I walked through the white, plush, thick carpet, so decadent it spread between my toes, when I saw an enormous framed photo, two metres in length. It read ‘Sandhurst, 2001’. This seemed a bit of an odd decorative choice, but I assumed that was all that remained of his army career.

When we got into the living room, I realised how horribly wrong I was. It was what could only be described as a shrine to the Household Cavalry. There wasn’t even a TV; instead, there hung a painted portrait of B dressed in his ceremonial uniform on a black horse. There was also a huge statue of a seated jaguar; it was matte black and festooned with even more household cavalry paraphernalia. Upon the Jaguar's head lay B’s service dress hat, by its side B’s old riding crop, and by its paws his ceremonial gloves, neatly laid one on top of the other.

There were photos of B on parade, beaming proudly from underneath a shiny gold helmet that had plums of red horse hair sticking out the top of it. There were photos of B sitting on top of a tank, and there were photos of B in his regular green uniform covered in mud. There was even what I hoped was a display saddle. I shuddered, and I gulped my rancid martini. I didn't know what was worse—the assault on my eyes from the decor or the assault on my mouth from the martini. Either way, all my senses were at war.

(Photo taken from Wikipedia, it’s not B)

“How long were you in the army for?” I asked.

“About 5 years,” B answered. I realised in horror that that meant B had spent 3x as long out of the army as in. Sometimes I worry that the army is a cult. You can get out any time you like, but you can never leave.

I sat tentatively on the sofa, where B was already sitting. He took this as an invitation to kiss me. I let him, mostly because it was an excuse to keep my eyes closed. It was a terrible kiss, his stiff tongue poking in and out of my mouth. I winced, but undeterred B tried to feel me up. I let him, because I was mostly numb from all the drinks. That was also awful. His fingers were so rigid, it was like being groped by a claw machine. Then it got worse as The Claw started to make its way under my dress. Now you should know, I have a rather intimate piercing, so he doesn’t need two hands and a map to find it because the treasure is already marked with a ball bearing. Somehow, B missed it entirely and started to scratch at my flap like it was a lotto card, furiously and without reward. So much for any enduring navigational skills. This was when I finally had enough and pushed him off me.

I was prepared to let a lot of things go that night, but being poorly groped by Iron Fingers was not one of them. The mystery of why his ex-wife cheated had been magically answered.

“I’m going to leave,” I said. B looked taken aback and confused.

“What why?”

“I’m not feeling it; I am going to leave. Sorry.” I said I didn’t present it as anything more than fact. I didn’t want to give him room to convince me to stay.

“Ok! How will you get back?”

“The bus.” Thankfully, there’s a bus that stopped 2 minutes from B's that takes me to my front door. B looked revolted when I said ‘bus’. Perhaps I had given him the ick with my ability to travel on public transport.

“Let me walk you,” he offered, in an attempt to be chivalrous. I let B walk me to the bus stop; it was 0100 after all. We got about 20 seconds into the walk to the bus stop when B said, 'Okay, you’ve got it from here", and almost ran back to his flat. I didn’t care; not only did I used to get the night bus home all the time, but it meant I got rid of B quicker and I didn’t have to stand there with him awkwardly at the bus stop. Heaven forbid he try and kiss me again.

So there I stood at 0100 at the bus stop, with my mouth burning from the martini, my eyes assaulted from the shrine and, a sore flap. And that’s why, ladies, we don’t ignore the red flags on a Hinge bio.

1. Yes, what you’re thinking right now is true. I am…horse girl. I know the shame, but I was enamoured from my first pink, My Little Pony (Cupcake). It’s not my fault!

2. And boy was it!

3. There is some debate about whether it’s safe to accept a drink you haven’t seen being made on a first date. It’s not unreasonable to be concerned; safety for women is paramount on a first date. If you politely explain and ask for a fresh one (offer to pay for it) and he’s a bit of dick about it, that’s unlikely to be a good sign. Mostly because it shows he doesn’t have empathy or understanding for the dangers women constantly face from men. It’s unlikely he’ll have empathy and understanding in a relationship. On my date with B, I accepted the gin and tonic. I hadn't really thought about it until it was pointed out in a police pamphlet.

4. Don’t let him loose in PWC, he’d fall in love with everyone.

5. To read about my date with A,

6. The white linen was giving 90s boy band, you know the type who can’t dance, so just act very passionately in white linen. (Scroll to 1.33 for example)