Ashley and Eva

By the end of August the world usually feels sun-bleached and amiably tired, like we’re in a permanent state of waking up on a beach towel after a nap following a lunch of heavy carbs. Tan-lines, frizzy hair, freckles, melted Soleros, sunscreen with caked-up lids, loose Carmex at the bottom of your handbag. Ordinarily, we would be ready for autumn, scarves dry-cleaned, umbrellas poised, boots shined – but this year, given summer was barely a hot whisper in our ear and a quick three minutes in the air fryer, it’s sad to have to say goodbye. We only just got here, we’ve barely wrung out our ‘invisible’ trainer socks, you can’t even see a line on my wrist where my watch has blocked out the sun (the sexiest tan-line no matter what anyone says). Shame.

The summer of love is almost over. Here to breathe its last with us are Ashley, 33, a doctor, and Eva, 32, a buyer for works in film and TV, possibly the longest job title we’ve had in years. Take a polite glance at their full date in the Guardian and then regroup here, for one more lick of the Magnum.

Ashley | Eva

What were you hoping for?
Someone to go along with my hare-brained schemes, and open all the links I send.

What kind of links do you think Ashley sends? LADbible? TikToks of the #ohyes dance trend? (Big fan.) Zoopla hovels in zone 5? We must be told.

What were you hoping for?
An evening of fun chat in an air-conditioned room during a heatwave.

Sure, online grocery shopping is convenient and someone wheels your perishables to your door but until you can go to www.ocado.com, put your arse to the screen and feel sweet, chilling air-con up your thighs, they could never make me hate Kennington Tesco.

First impressions?
Beautiful, intriguing and confident.

Like Kate Moss licking a Twix lengthways then putting it back in its packet and selling it to you for £3.50.

First impressions?
He seemed shy and a little nervous. I felt bad because I was slightly late.

BURN THE WITCH! Only joking – being slightly late (three minutes) is actually the optimum arrival time for everything except funerals and the Next sale.

What did you talk about?
Her appearance on Never Mind the Buzzcocks. Her dad performing his own arm surgery. Guys who don’t ask questions on dates.

Psychiatry. Conspiracy theories. His love of rollerblading (a big bombshell). Football (he’s Man United and I’m Arsenal, which was a huge issue).

I feel like I’ve woken up in an episode of noughties occasionally funny comedy Coupling.

Guys who don’t ask questions on dates – a lack of curiosity is perhaps one of the least sexy attributes you can reveal on a first date other than, oh I don’t know, voting Reform, buying Bryan Adams records, or wearing animal-themed pouch underwear?

Conspiracy theories – actually this is the least sexy thing. There are no good conspiracy theories. None. Not even that Avril Lavigne one.

His love of rollerblading (a big bombshell) – Oh a year or so ago, I could’ve commented ‘He’s just Ken’ or something but that reference is now seeing out its final days in the local rest home for very specific, outdated memes. Rollerblading is something I have never understood. I do remember being a child and, despite having the balance and grace of a Belted Galloway, was obsessed by the idea of roller boots (the regular kind) and a friend and I would share her older sister’s discarded pair, scooting about on ONE ROLLERBOOT EACH. God, I read that back and it’s like I’m talking about the Blitz or something. Somewhere out there, a right-wing columnist is having ‘REMEMBER WHEN FROST GATHERED ON THE INSIDE OF OUR WINDOWS AND WE ALL SHARED A ROLLER BOOT AND DINNER WAS ALWAYS SPAM FRITTERS’ on a by-election pamphlet. Ugh.

Football – you would not believe how fast I have lost interest in anything these two have to say. Football. I can’t believe people care about it. I understand the euphoric feelings – much similar to the way my appendix twitches when I hear the middle eight in ‘Like A Prayer’, I suppose – and even the sense of belonging, but I will never understand actively enjoying the feeling of opposition, or your love for your team superseding everything else. Never try to explain it to me, by the way; my physician said I am to avoid all talk of football to avoid dying of boredom.

Good table manners?
Elbows on the table.

Yes, except he didn’t know what orange wine was. He was into pale rosé though – huge plus.

Elbows on the table! BURN THE… oh no we all do that one, don’t we? Don’t we? I remember being told not to at school, which seems laughable now, as if I were a pupil at Madame Horatia Blenkinsopp’s Academy of Deportment, Elocution, and Napkin-Folding and not a state primary in West Yorkshire. Who cares?

Equally, who cares about orange wine? You either know something or you don’t. I haven’t drunk alcohol for a long time but I do like the look of pale rosé, it seems so elegant and cool and summery. And at least you know somebody drinking it won’t dash it in your face – it’s too expensive.

Best thing about them?
She quickly made me feel at ease and comfortable.

He’s a doctor and seems smart.

Note the difference in reply: Ashley tells us how Eva made him feel; Eva tells us what Ashley is. Translation:

Describe Eva in three words.
Funny, charming, girl boss.

FUNNY, like hearing someone in the next cubicle realise the loo roll has run out.
CHARMING, like a vampire trying to sell you blackout curtains.
GIRL BOSS, like a slogan you’d see written on a cheap mug in Clinton Cards – GIRL BOSS on one side, and on the other, Minnie Mouse in a bikini, but also business spectacles and a mobile phone in her hand/paw/claw (what is it, is she actually a mouse?!)

Describe Ashley in three words.
Honest, chatty, sarcastic.

HONEST, like a plumber who charges you only for the time it took to gently tease your discarded hair extensions and interdental toothbrushes out of your U-bend and not the two-hour drive to get there.
CHATTY, like your nextdoor neighbour over the back fence when you’re trying to bury your husband’s body under the patio.
SARCASTIC, like any gay guy given two minutes to warm up in a long queue in a provincial O’Neill’s – ‘Oh a steak and Caffrey’s empanada? Sounds DELICIOUS, Clodagh, I simply MUST have the recipe.’

What do you think Eva made of you?
She kept her cards close to her chest. So, I’ll assume she hates me.

I’ve read ahead and the answer seems to be:

What do you think Ashley made of you?
He said he enjoyed the date. He called me a “hardballer” who “takes no fools”.

I’m sure he’s lovely but Ashley sounds a bit knackering, tbh.

And … did you kiss?
I would never kiss on a first date.

Wouldn’t you? NEVER? Why?

And … did you kiss?
We had a friendly hug and a wave.

A wave! Might as well have sent him an email.

If you could change one thing about the evening, what would it be?
My passion for rollerblading didn’t go down too well.

Another bottle of wine and some more tiramisu, but I had an early start.

I wonder if the rollerblading would’ve gone better after that extra bottle of wine. Is it a dealbreaker, a man who rollerblades? Is this one of those ‘ick’ things? Are we still doing that? They were quite fun when it all started, all the weird (and some totally reasonable) things that gave people the ick but, as with everything, it just ends up as an excuse to be horrible about someone straying from the very narrow criteria on acceptable behaviour society seems intent on enforcing. Anyway, we don’t have to date anyone we don’t want, and if the dealbreaker is that you don’t like the way they lick their lips before they eat a crisp, or use the word ‘poop’ then you are perfectly within your rights to avoid them at all costs.

Could I date a rollerblader? Here are the only things I need to know about this hobby: Do you put your rollerblades AWAY in a cupboard? What colour are your elbow and knee pads? (Only purple and turquoise are acceptable.) Are you going to expect me to join you rollerblading because I can barely stand up in my Adidas, it would be like adding wheels to blancmange. And do you use your rollerblading for good – by which I mean toning your ass rather than being part of a gang of elite rollerbladers who rob jewellery stores?

Anyway, here come the scores:

Marks out of 10?
10.

6.

I think the lesson here is, save all mention of your rollerblading exploits until the third or fourth date when they can’t imagine life without you, perhaps stop talking like you’re a marionette being operated by two BuzzFeed junior writers sharing a can of Monster, and maybe be less hung up about what people do and don’t know about wine. And the football thing, never mention it.

Anyway, I don’t think we need Russell Grant to predict the final answers but let’s endure them anyway.

Would you meet again?
She said she’d “think about it”.

I think as friends but I’m not sure the spark was there for me.

Good luck to you both! Eva, please option one of my books! Thanks!

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Something to remember about the review and the daters that I put at the end of every post

The comments I make are based on answers given by participants. The Guardian chooses what to publish and usually edits answers to make the column work better on the page. Most things I say are riffing on the answers given and not judgements about the daters themselves, so please be kind to them in comments, replies, and generally on social media. Daters are under no obligation to get along for our benefit, or explain why they do, or don’t, want to see each other again, so please try not to speculate or fill our feeds with hate. If you’re one of the daters, get in touch if you want to give me your side of the story. Where do you go rollerblading, and do you do it in a pack, and in lycra? Also: what is orange wine? Is it from oranges or just wine that’s orange?

Ashley and Eva ate at Bar Jackie in Soho, London W1. Fancy a blind date? Email blind.date@theguardian.com