*AUDIO QUACK*

I went to visit Sausage* in Washington D.C. I had never been there before, so we did all the tourist attractions; The White House, Lincoln Memorial and JFK’s grave; she also booked us into a speed dating event.

I had this fantasy of what the event would be like; a dimly lit rooftop bar filled with men in suits who say words like ‘congress’, sail yachts, shiny thick hair and bleached teeth. I’ll find one in the crowd of democrats, and we’ll be getting along very well, and then, in an accent that will remind him of The Crown, I’ll have to break the news to him that I live in England.

“You know I’m not from around here.”

He will laugh at the coincidence that has occurred because he is, in fact, a journalist for the Washington Post and is going to move to London at the end of the month – and the rest would be history. 

That was the fantasy.

After a long, long, long session of outfit changes, Sausage and I hit the road for the 40-minute journey. As we drove down the highway, I wondered what kind of questions to ask an American… 

“If you were a doughnut – what doughnut would you be?”

“Were you a real-life jock?”

“How did you make your teeth so white?”

We pulled off the highway to Alexandria where the bar was located. I was very aware that was no sky scrappers near by, that could potentially hold the snazzy rooftop bar that I had in my head. We drove past a Wendy’s, a nail bar and waffle shop – all awhile rapidly approaching the little pin on the Google map.

Then, the Sat Nat lady told us, “You have reached your destination.”

Sausage pulled into a roadside car park where there was a 7 Eleven and a laundrette, squeezed in between the two was a narrow bar with a lit-up sign saying Hops N Shine. Through the window was a line of men in caps and plaid shirts hunched over their beers. And behind them was a row of tables one chair either side, ready for the single people.  

The engine rumbled for a minute.

“…Sausage,” I said, “where did you find the ad for this speed dating event?”

“I can’t remember,” she whined out as she stared through the windshield in horror.

(It’s important to note at this point of the story, that Sausage is a lovely person, she is, but in the 20 years of our friendship I have grown to love and hate Sausage’s casualness to detail). 

A nice looking woman in a dress walked across the car park and entered the bar.

“She looks normal,” Sausage said with a spring of hope in her voice.   Three more well-dressed women appeared one at a time, and Sausage and I looked at each other suspiciously. We didn’t need to say the question out loud – Where are all the men?

Suddenly, one man emerged in a long grey coat that matched his hair colour. He had a tucked-in shirt and a clean-shaven face. From his looks, I assumed he was 44, enjoyed golf, and divorced with two girls, Christina and Rachelle. He entered the bar, and the gaggle of single women, who had now made friends, stopped their conversation and turned like lions would if a rabbit had hoped into their enclosure.

“Let’s give it five. More men may come,” Sausage said as she gripped the steering wheel with anticipation.

In a chick flick, this would be the cue where two friends, Ryan Reynolds and Henry Cavil, appear, but this is not the movies – this is the life of two 31-year-old women in 2023. 

We watched the woolcoat man go to the bar and order a pint, oblivious of the single woman hovering just far enough behind.

“I mean…he’s not awful” Sausage mumbled, then sighed in despair at her own desperation.

When the man received his Budweiser, he was also handed what looked like a white piece of paper. I thought at first it would note saying, ‘RUN’, but then we watched him stick the white piece of paper onto his wool coat. He then proceeded to flatten it down for safekeeping. We leaned forward and squinted.

“Is that a…a….name badge?” I whispered.

Sausage smacked the car into reverse

… and we drove away as single as we came.

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