There’s an abundance of those shows on TV,
The ones where strangers meet in circumstances
Different to the normal ones that hold the world in place.
One day, I applied for one. The type with food,
Cooking to be precise.
I made it on.
He cooked for me in his London flat, with camera crew
Packed into the space. Hardly romantic,
And I found myself perspiring, needing a drink.
I downed a gin and tonic, before he served a starter.
Soup, velvety and smooth,
Then chicken with a white wine sauce
And chocolate sundae for dessert.
He didn’t pick me as his favourite,
He went for Becky, a gorgeous blonde who laughed
At all his jokes and touched his leg, underneath the table.
I shouldn’t care, but I do,
Rejected on TV, an audience there
To watch my red faced shame. I’ll never go again,
On a dating show.