From Salsa to the Scottish Impostor

Remember my Polish work bestie? The one I gushed about in an earlier post – queen of spreadsheets by day, secret salsa siren by night? Well, she invited me to one of those infamous salsa nights. You know, the ones where everyone's sweating, spinning and pretending their hips aren’t screaming for help.

I tagged along thinking, “Sure, what’s the worst that can happen?” Well. Buckle up.

Enter: The Tall British Man. You know the type – posh, awkward, looks like he’s read Pride and Prejudice unironically. Think tea with milk, emotional repression, and questionable dance-floor confidence.

Let’s talk about his salsa moves.

Or should I say, lack thereof?

Stiff as a board. I’ve seen ironing boards with more rhythm. Every time he attempted a spin, I felt like I was part of a health and safety demonstration.

And yet… he asked me out after. The audacity. I said yes. Because obviously, I had questions. Chief among them: “If this is how he moves on the dance floor, how tragic are things going to be in the bedroom?”

Spoiler: It didn’t get that far.

We went on the date – and let me tell you – it was an utter car crash. Not a cute, rom-com “spilled wine and shared laughter” kind of crash. No, more like a head-on collision with awkward silences, opinions about oat milk, and him saying “My mum says I’m a good communicator.”

I should’ve known.

Anyway, I mentally yeeted him out of my life, filed him under Exhibit: No Thank You, and moved on.

Fast forward a few months – my mate’s wedding. Gorgeous venue, stunning dress code, and I’m feeling like the main character.

And who do I see?

Him. Salsa guy. Date disaster. Mr. Wooden Hips.

But wait – it gets better.

He’s dressed… in a kilt – he looked like he’d fashioned it out of his Nan’s curtains. And here's the kicker – he’s not even Scottish. Not a drop. Not a single McAnything about him.

But that wasn’t even the weirdest part.

He was lugging around this massive duffle bag. I’m talking borderline carry-on luggage. Hitting everyone in the back of the head as he strutted around like some kind of Highland Games reject.

Naturally, everyone was like, “What’s in the bag, mate?”

And he, cool as you like, goes, “There are two parts to my outfit.”

TWO. PARTS. TO A FAKE SCOTTISH OUTFIT.

Sir. You’re not Braveheart. You’re not even brave enough to wear odd socks. Please, calm yourself.

Safe to say, that duffle bag made it into every group photo. Like an unwelcome guest with a personality disorder.

Me? I stayed well away from the chaos. I came, I slayed, I avoided the ick in tartan.

But oh, the wedding antics didn’t stop there. Oh no. The duffle was just the beginning.

Want to hear how I accidentally started a Conga line, got adopted by the bride’s aunties, and maybe snogged someone slightly inappropriate? Read the post about the wedding.