Rochelle Peachey in Newsweek:
There I was, sitting in a New Jersey Burger King, while the restaurant manager I was on a date shouted the lyrics to Rule, Britannia! at the top of his lungs. I had just started eating my Whopper meal when he started belting it out, his arms firmly placed on my shoulders. “She’s British! She’s British,” he shouted at the various people who were just getting on with their day, but were clearly wondering what on earth was going on. Well, this is going to be fantastic, I thought. I was in my mid-40s at the time, and had no real plan other than which states I would be visiting, placing newspaper adverts in New York, New Jersey, Los Angeles, Miami, and Philadelphia claiming to be a single woman looking for love.
I hoped everyone would be as weird and wonderful as the man I’d met in that Burger King, and they did not disappoint. One gentleman, after a couple of drinks, informed me that he had taken the liberty of booking a hotel room for us after knowing me for only a couple of hours—I politely declined. Another was fidgeting so much at lunch that I had to ask what was wrong.
“Take your coat off?” I suggested.
“No. I’ve got my dead cat in there,” he replied.
More here.