I dress sensibly, with understated elegance in a light blue blouse and a flowery skirt, intent to only impress with my wonderful personality.
        I have not seen a photo of him and spend the trip to Sloane Square checking out men thinking: ‘I hope he doesn’t look like this.’ and ‘Would be good if he looked like that.’
        He is tall and dark and dressed in black. I just wish he wasn’t carrying a green polyester backpack.
        Soft-spoken and effeminate he only wants to talk about opera and opera and opera. He asks what singers I work for, what theatres I travel to and if I can get him free tickets for Glyndebourne.
        I wonder if he is gay.
        He accompanies me to the tube station, gives me a peck on the cheek and says: ‘You have my number.’
        He doesn’t get in touch, but this is the third millennium and I don’t have friends in London so a week later I offer him a free ticket to Arabella at the Royal Opera House. He loves the show and buys me a drink afterwards.
        Another week later a colleague invites me to a party.
        I ask him along.
        He spends the entire evening talking to other people.
        Another week later my colleague tells me he invited her and another woman he met at the party for dinner.
        I e-mail him asking him to come and see Placido Domingo in I Pagliacci at the Royal Opera House. He replies within seconds: ‘It would be a great pleasure.’
        We agree to meet at the box office half an hour before the performance starts.
        For all I know he is still standing there, wondering why I never showed up.