The only thing that Goodbye, My Lover was psyching me up for was a funeral
The robes come off, you check each other out for a sphincter-crushingly awkward ten minutes, then you get dressed and proceed to speed date as normal. At least, that's what the tickets said.
The atmosphere fizzed like prosecco: we giggled, hugged, compared choice of hairstyle (top and bottom), admired each other's underwear. (a few girls chose to keep their bra and pants on, but others decided to try the full monty with me). In general, the atmosphere was full of mutual support and sleepover-esque solidarity.
(A word to the wise, though, for whoever compiled the playlist: if you want to put women at their ease, lay off the James Blunt. )
Bit cheeky, but the way I advertised it was to get people here, and I knew deep down that people would go for it which is what they did
In we shuffled, in our matching Matalan robes, to a reassuringly dark bar filled with small tables. Boys on one side of the room, girls on the other, with barely repressed giggles and fear sweat in the air the temperature was turned up to the max, presumably to make sure the women had something to look at when the men stood up.
It was then that Rob informed us that, as predicted by my friends and family but strenuously denied by myself, the clothes would not be coming back on anytime soon.
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