Everyone knows of that wet blanket who comes along and poops on the party.

But I certainly didn't expect anyone spoiling my ladies' night last week at Club Kyo on Cecil Street, especially since I took that Friday off with my heart set on painting the town red.

Let's just say it wasn't my idea of fun to have the bass of great music thumping in the background while I listened to a sob story of one very jilted lover.

He was a familiar face, someone I had known on a hi-bye basis for quite some time. And now he really needed to talk, so I listened without prejudice - until the rambling began.

"My girlfriend and I broke up because she had to move away," said a very sober Mr D.

"But, I'm fine, I'm fine," he added, his eyes turning glassy as he struggled to stop what looked like an ocean of tears.

Zoned out

Oh no. Here we go. There is no point regurgitating what else went down because honestly, I zoned out while the conversation went on.

Mr D and his buzzkill thankfully disappeared, but the one thing I could remember was thinking "what a waste".

He was definitely one of the cuter guys around with some pretty suave moves on the dance floor too - a sight that's quite the rarity in a sea of rhythmically-challenged wannabes who park themselves on the dance floor, ready to swoop on any woman left alone for more than five seconds.

Yes, I had one of those come straight up to me and throw his hands around my waist.

What is it with men having perpetually the worst methods of stepping up to a woman?

After I grabbed both his hands and issued a stern and straightforward "no", he turned and headed in the other direction.

I wasn't being mean, but dude, you've got to be kidding if you expected anything remotely different.

The night couldn't have got any worse, but it wasn't anything that a few drinks with girlfriends couldn't solve.

Just when I thought all hope was gone, a white knight walks up a few nights later, restoring my faith in blokes.

No sleazy intentions, no melancholic moping, just a good ol' conversation.

On another occasion, a bunch of friends and I got together to celebrate a few November birthdays when a new face, Mr Z, popped up among the crowd - and immediately changed the "quiet guy across the room" impression I initially had.

The night started at one pub on Kim Tian Road, where we got to talking about the most random topics that made time fly before we adjourned to 28 Hong Kong Street.

Behind the old-school Peranakan doors lay an array of monstrous cocktail concoctions with mouthwatering tapas options, and Mr Z kindly and very willingly educated my clueless self about the truffled mac and cheese balls and fried chicken on waffles with maple syrup.

Even though I honestly don't remember any details from our exchanges, at least it was a smoothsailing, interesting enough encounter that didn't make me cringe at any point.

The plus point? No mention of any exes or broken hearts.

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