We agree to meet by the original Les Miserables venue.
        At 7pm sharp I wait in front of the Palace Theatre.
        It is raining.
        He is late.
        It takes us three phone calls to figure out that he is waiting in front of the Queen’s Theatre where they moved the show to three weeks ago.
        I ask him to come to the Palace Theatre, which is the building I was referring to when we set up our date.
        He doesn’t know where the Palace Theatre is.
        He asks me to go directly to the Atlantic Bar & Grill.
        I don’t know where the Atlantic Bar & Grill is.
        He asks me to walk down Shaftsbury Avenue and watch out for a blond man in a grey suit with a black briefcase.
        Hopping from puddle to puddle, clinging to my wind swept umbrella I chat up seven blond men – one of them asks for my phone number – but arrive in Piccadilly Circus without having met Atlantic Man.
        I ask him man to come to the Criterion Theatre.
        He doesn’t know where the Criterion Theatre is.
        ‘Just come to Piccadilly Circus,’ I sob. ‘Just find the wet heap of pink clothes in the gutter. I’m the crying wreck underneath.’

He looks better than his photograph but when we finally settle at the bar he opens the conversation with: ’How nice of you to come. I’m not actually looking, but it is wonderful to spend Friday night in female company.’
        I put my conversation skills on ice.
        He orders pint after pint and doesn’t notice that he is the only one talking – something about being betrayed by his business partner – and his wife – possibly both – most likely in his own bedroom.
        He frowns at me ordering cranberry juice but when I say I need to leave he asks:
        ‘So when are the two of us going to have dinner?’
        I’m too shy to reply ‘would never suit you?’
        I smile and shrug and wait until he finishes his last pint.

He e-mails twice to ask me out and disappears when I’m busy both times.