I always thought my perfect date

would go like this (well more or less):

we’d fly to Paris in his jet,

he’d wear a tux, I’d wear a dress

by Calvin Klein or Lagerfeld,

to-die-for shoes by Jimmy Choo,

and nestled snugly round my neck

Tahitian pearls – a string or two.


We’d dine at Le Palais Royal

our faces lit by candlelight,

he’d order lobster thermidor

and feed me, bite by perfect bite.

And after dark we’d stumble on

La Fontaine de la Lumière. 

We’d make a wish and then we’d kiss,

his fingers running through my hair.


We’d walk together hand in hand

across Le Pont Louis-Phillipe.

Below, the waters of the Seine

would lay the stars beneath our feet.

And when the Sun rose in the east

and sister Moon sank in the west

I’d watch the city shrink below

and lay my head upon his chest.


Then yesterday I met a man

who asked me out, and I said yes.

We drove to Northwich in his van,

he wore a fleece from M & S,

I wore my oldest pair of jeans.

I had no time to wash my hair

or even put my make up on.

Sounds crazy, but I didn’t care.


We opted for a Maccy D’s

and sitting on the plastic bench

ate greasy French fries with our hands

(the only thing remotely French).

And afterwards we went to see

Tom Hanks in ‘The DaVinci Code’.

The Paris captured on the screen

was beautiful, but left me cold.


And when the ushers chucked us out

we walked together arm in arm

along the Macclesfield canal.

Who’d think old junk could hold such charm?

And when the dawn broke in the east,

and stained the clouds in peach and red,

it found us in his basement flat

sardined into his single bed.


I can’t recall a thing before

last night. It’s all gone up in smoke.

Forget about the perfect date,

I’d rather have the perfect bloke.


© Helen Lewis 2010

13 responses to “Perfect

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