“Lady Jalebi is a young, vibrant Londoner quite happily living the single life and playing the field. Her anxious parents however, think it’s high time she settled down and are on a quest to find the perfect Desi guy for her to marry. From set ups to speed dating, join her each month as she provides a light-hearted insight into some of her weird and wonderful encounters on the long journey to find The One.”

I cringed with embarrassment as I heard the glass smash. Heads turned, waiters rushed to the scene, and the flurry of activity surrounding our table made me want to disappear under my seat. The guy sitting opposite me smiled apologetically, yet remained unfazed as if this were a regular occurrence for him. I was on a date with Mr. Clumsy.

I felt slightly irritated; this wouldn’t have happened if he had just sat by the bar where the waitress had initially placed us. Instead he asked us to be moved just as I had sat down and the waitress had walked away. Confusion ensued as the waitress first ignored him, and then failed to understand the request with her limited knowledge of English. Another waiter came along to translate and then the manager intervened, mistakenly thinking we were harassing his staff, while I hid behind the menu trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. Then just as we were finally being shown to a window seat he managed to knock over a glass and smash it loudly, causing an even bigger commotion. Smooth he was not.

I had met this guy last weekend at a Bengali ‘networking’ event my mother had badgered me into attending. I had spotted a few familiar faces there, one of them being my friend’s older brother. I quickly introduced him to a friend closer in age while I had moved onto his younger friend.

This guy was Northern and very cute - clean cut, good hair and well dressed in a smart tuxedo. The only thing letting him down was the hideous floral bow tie he was wearing. I had gotten to work straight away, disarming him with a smile and a constant stream of banter whilst getting him to let me undo his tie within the first five minutes of being introduced. I always was a fast worker.

The event itself had been fairly average, much like the undercooked food on my plate, with a few unspectacular catwalks down a makeshift runway and a scantily clad girl performing a risqué solo dance. The only thing memorable was the surreal experience of having to endure a Bengali Elvis thrusting and warbling his way through an unrecognisable collection of songs. Then the DJ had come on, and everyone started screwing imaginary light bulbs with gusto. Mr No-Tie proceeded to dance by my side in the enthusiastic manner of an epilepsy sufferer. I mentally gave him an A+ for effort. Even though he was dripping with sweat, he still somehow appeared attractive, my judgement being substantially clouded by the vast quantity of Coke sloshing around in my system. He had smiled dopily at me and shoved his phone into my hand - impulsively I had decided to give him my real number.

Subsequently we were now engaging in our first date and I was feeling less than impressed. I hoped things could be salvaged once we had both relaxed a little. Over some olives and humus we exchanged stories and jokes. He seemed nice but a little dull, and there didn’t seem to be enough chemistry or wit. In fact, by the main course he was as dry as the chicken he was complaining about. The tales he told were so long the punch line came, went, and he would still be talking. I tried and failed to maintain an interest and ended up checking out the waiters instead.

I had over-estimated how long dinner would take, and by 8pm we were done. I wanted to go home but it seemed rather rude to end the date so early, so I suggested moving on to Haagen Dazs café for some dessert. This time as we entered, I was relieved to note that there was no fuss or flying glasses when we were seated.

That and the expectation of chocolate ice-cream helped improve my mood, at least until the waiter set the table. Then I saw such a look of disgust on Mr Clumsy’s face that I instantly assumed there must be elephant droppings on the cutlery. No such thing- it was simply wet. I was desperately hoping that there wouldn’t be another showdown and tried to appease him by offering to swap with mine. Crisis averted, I was left to endure a full five-minute rant on how shocking the service was. It was to be expected given he worked in the hospitality industry, but I was finding his anal nature a huge turn-off.

Thankfully the food came soon after, and I tucked in just as his phone went off. It was his family from Newcastle calling, and as he hadn’t seen or spoken to them in a while, he had to take it. I smiled with polite understanding, presuming it would be a short conversation. Alas it was not. I was treated to a rather loud ten-minute conversation in Bengali where he spoke to each individual member of the family, repeating the same mundane conversation at least four times and laughing goofily at the same joke. He even spoke to his 3-year-old niece. Ordinarily that would have been cute, except that I hate baby talk, especially when it’s on a first date that’s already not going well. It took all of my restraint not to grab the phone, shove it into his bowl of ice cream, and pour hot chocolate sauce over it.

By the time he finished his call I had already finished my dessert, and was waiting patiently for him to start his. Then, with a distinct lack of dating etiquette, he decided to open The Ex-Files. I would normally never discuss previous relationships on a first date other than in the briefest of terms, finding it far too personal to share with a virtual stranger. He, however, had no such qualms, and was happily chattering away about his last love. I found myself nodding dumbly as he graphically described how amazing the physical aspect of their relationship was. It was a deal-breaker and no matter how hot and almost funny this guy was, I had no real desire to see him again. As I made my excuses to leave, he tried to kiss me goodbye. No chance, I thought, and swiftly turned to offer my cheek instead. I feebly muttered something about calling him again before ducking into the tube to escape. This guy was really not my type: he was less sugar daddy, and more sugar cane - brown and sweet, but totally unrefined.

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