In honour of Valentine’s Day, contributor Gráinne Glynn shares her own disastrous date to the National Gallery.
Let me take you back to when I was 16 and thought giving a guy a second chance was a good idea.
It wasn’t.
Our first date was… fine. We walked around a park, chatted about nothing in particular. I left thinking the spark wasn’t there. Still, I told myself to give it a chance. After all, isn’t that what dating is about? Giving people a shot, even when your gut whispers otherwise? But hey, I was young, optimistic, and willing to give it another go. Therefore, the second date.
We decided to meet at the National Art Gallery. I arrived, grabbed a drink (he declined, not a problem), and we headed inside. Thanks to peak Covid times, I’d booked us a time slot in advance. But as we wandered from painting to painting, something felt… off. It wasn’t immediate, but slowly, like the creeping realization that you’ve left something at home, it dawned on me. He was acting strange. Distant. Uninterested. And then, the kicker, he leaned in, his voice low, and asked, “Are the paintings moving for you too?”
Acid. He was on acid. Whether he’d taken it before we met or while I was buying my drink, I’ll never know. But there we were, surrounded by famous art, and he was seeing things I couldn’t, literally. The paintings were alive for him, moving and swirling in ways that made me feel like I was the one out of step. I could’ve left. I should’ve left. But I didn’t. Instead, I stayed, half out of concern for what he might do in that altered state, and half out of some misplaced sense of responsibility. We left the gallery, the bus stop becoming our next destination.
As it turned out, we were heading in the same direction. He decided we’d take the long way home, the next bus offering a route that stretched the journey into what felt like an eternity. Two hours. Almost two hours of silence, broken only by the hum of the engine and the occasional glance out the window. When my stop finally approached, I mustered the courage to tell him the truth, “I think you’re lovely, but I’m not interested.” His response? A mumbled, “I feel the same,” as if he were still somewhere far away, lost in colours and shapes.
Looking back, I realise how much I’ve changed since that day. At 16, I didn’t yet understand that discomfort was a valid reason to leave. That you don’t owe anyone your time, especially when something feels wrong. I stayed out of politeness, out of worry, out of fear of being rude. But here’s the thing: If a date makes you uncomfortable, if the vibe is off, if the person you’re with is quite literally seeing the world differently than you are, just walk away. You don’t need a reason, and you don’t need permission. Sometimes, the most important lesson isn’t about love, chemistry, or connection. It’s about knowing your worth, trusting your instincts, and realising that the only person you’re obligated to protect is yourself.