Matchmaker, matchmaker…don’t give up your day job!

I met a friend for lunch today who I’m in the process of setting up on a blind date.

I take great pleasure in matchmaking my friends…whether they like it or not. 

Last year a musically-gifted pal invited a couple of us non-musically-gifted pals to a classical concert she was performing in. Being a lover of a good old fashioned money-saving DEAL I agreed – along with my friend Amy – to help out on front of house in order to get in for free. We were given two jobs: selling tickets and programmes before the concert and then helping at the bar during the interval.

Now I’m not really one to take instructions at face value. I like to add a little spin for my own amusement, usually a fake regional accent or secret task or something.

I decided to spice up the evening by informing Amy that if any hot, single guys came to our ticket desk, I would play matchmaker. Under duress, Amy agreed.

‘Twas slim pickings for the first 20 minutes. Classical concerts in church halls aren’t always a hotbed for hotties.

Then my plan sprang into action as a reasonably handsome and age-appropriate guy arrived alone. Poor man didn’t have time to even consider splashing out £1 for a programme; there were bigger fish to fry.

“Are you here on your own?” I asked coquettishly, on Amy’s behalf.

He replied in the affirmative.

Target secured.

“Ah well, we’ll HAVE to find you in the interval then. We’ll have a drink.” I smiled over at Amy, then up at him, over the pile of sexually-charged A5 programmes.

When the interval came I got my matchmaker on and made a beeline for the target. He had nowhere to hide.

Matchmaker, matchmaker…don’t give up your day job!

Reconstruction staged with actors

I asked him a series of casually intrusive questions: his name, his current job, his last job, his hobbies, what sport he played, what sport he watched, how many brothers and sisters he had, where he lived, where his parents lived, where he’d gone to uni, the three items he’d want on a desert island. I don’t remember much other than the fact he was accountant. Let’s call him Andy the Accountant, shall we?

My plan was to build up from my Andy the Accountant Interrogation to the crux of the conversation where I’d fill him in on the many and varied qualities of my dear friend and ask if he was interested in taking her on a date.

Only it was at that precise moment that I was summoned away by another concert volunteer. I was late for my job at the bar.

So I left Andy having interrogated him for a solid 5 or 10 minutes. I had smiled at him encouragingly, wanting to collect as much information as possible. AND I’D DONE THE WHOLE THING WITHOUT ACCIDENTALLY EVER GETTING ROUND TO MENTIONING AMY AT ALL.

This was 100% NOT going to plan.

When Amy and I had poured the last wines and orange juices and taken our seats for the second half,  I was disconcerted to see Andy the Accountant stealing glances and smiles at me over his shoulder from a few rows ahead. Just every minute or so. So in the remaining hour of the concert, like what…? 60 times?


I was pretty much the worst matchmaker ever. Not to mention a pretty rubbish girlfriend to old Tony B.

“We have to run away when they finish playing” I whispered to Amy. “Like RUN. I’m not joking. I’ve messed up.”

She agreed.

I was mortified to run off but I couldn’t face trying to explain how I’d played the whole thing wrong. I went to bed having notched up another disaster but sure the awkwardness was behind me.

However, arriving at work on Monday, I had an email from Andy via our reception email address. I mean I hadn’t told him where I worked or who for or what my last name was but sure….TOTALLY NORMAL BEHAVIOUR.

I replied explaining my position as World’s #1 Worst Matchmaker and that my friend didn’t even really want to be set up in the first place so sorry. My bad.

Matchmaker, matchmaker…don’t give up your day job!

I would give myself 1/10 for method but 10/10 for enthusiasm.

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