Dear Diary,

I truly don’t think I was cut out for this whole dating thing. As a matter of fact, I should have seen the signs a long time ago, but I’ve always been an optimist. Probably the same reason I became a doctor. I like to, shall we say, look on the bright side of life.

During my recent trip to India for a study of perpetual bachelors, they asked why we had decided to turn a cold shoulder on old-fashioned romance that ended in holy matrimony. And boy, were there some good and crazy anecdotes. But none from me. Uh-uh.

Good old me just said the reason I don’t go on second dates (unless the first is with a prude who insists on seeing me twice before she sees my bed) is because I’ve read too many books to still believe that wedded bliss works.

If you think this is me admitting that I lied by an act of omission, then you’re right. I could’ve told them some things. I could’ve told them about the girl in Class 4 that I liked but then I made the mistake of telling her, and she beat the crap out of me. You might have heard about that one.

I could also have told them about that time when I was 18 and I asked a girl out. She was from a posh neighbourhood, although with my coming from Kawangware, any place sounded posh to me.

Thing is, I wanted to impress her, so I decided to take her to a hotel in town. For a jobless guy right out of high school, that was a huge undertaking. But I was smart enough to know I had to get my math right.

The trick was to have enough money for the most expensive thing on the menu. That way, I was guaranteed she’d eat whatever she wanted. If I was lucky and she ordered under my budget, then I’d order something that would cost the difference. Neat, huh?

Turns out my suspicions were correct. We got to the restaurant and she ordered a whole chicken, plus a side order of chips for good measure. A whole damn chicken! When the waited asked what I’d have, I asked for a soda.

“I’ve already eaten,” I explained to my date.

No, I hadn’t eaten. Save for the fare back home, a soda was the only thing I could afford to pay for after the whole damn chicken. Sorry if I still sound bitter about it. It’s probably because I still am.

She ate and we talked. I said I wanted to be the best doctor in the world; she told me everything about Justin Bieber and something called the ‘Bieber Fever’. I asked her what she wanted her future to be.

“I don’t have to think about stuff like that,” she said. “I’m too beautiful to worry about the future. Men will come for me when I’m ready.”

I couldn’t fault her. She was 18 like me. All my doctor talk was mere conjecture. What I faulted her for was the way she ate the chicken. She took small bites all over and left it on the table, said she was full.

I couldn’t let it go to waste.

I called the waiter over and asked him to pack the leftovers to go. “For my dog,” I explained.

When it was time to leave, the waited handed me a huge bag. Inside it were the leftovers from just about every table in the restaurant. “Your dog is going to have as lovely a day as you did, sir.”