His onscreen name is 'Mad as a hatter'. In the photograph he is laughing a laugh from the bottom of his heart, so happy and content it makes me want to laugh along with him.
        He has a hundred ideas of what went wrong with my dates so far then says he is most likely not my type. He is amused by my shoe shopping addiction but points out that my husband will have to be richer than he is. He calls me lovely but weird. He asks me so many times why I keep chatting to him that I almost delete him.
        When he finally invites me for dinner he makes meticulous plans on what bar he wants to meet in first and what restaurant he wants to go to after.
        The day of our date he asks if I’m sure I want to go through with it. He calls it offering me ‘the chance for a graceful exit’. Being a gentleman, he would understand perfectly well if I wanted to cancel.
        I wonder which of us is more paranoid and fear another Date from Hell.
        I get to the bar early but although he had to travel all the way from St. Albans he is already waiting for me with a large glass of red wine. I’m not a heavy drinker at the best of times but this day I skipped lunch. On my empty stomach I need to be extra careful so I only take little sips.
        Conversation flows easily. After the worrying cancellation offer he comes across as surprisingly confident. Tall, slim, blue-eyed, his laugh is as infectious as I had imagined it from the photograph. I talk a lot about myself but I get a feeling of him holding back on purpose while he is observing my each and every move. I like that.
        Time flies. Suddenly we need to hurry to catch our reserved table and I gulp down what is left in my wine glass.
        The restaurant looks busy and booked to the brink. The waitress leads us through the noisy crowd downstairs to a quiet table in the left hand corner.
        ‘It was not easy to get this table,’ he says with a proud smile.
        ‘Best table in the house,’ the waitress nods.
        Before I know it he has ordered a bottle of wine. I try to take it slow but after a few more sips, the drink hits a very wrong spot. My words produce an alarming echo in my head. Another glass and they turn into the wittiest, most amazing and intelligent words ever uttered by a human being.
        Cutting the steak is awfully difficult. Dunking potato chips in ketchup is a hilarious activity. Licking chocolate sauce off a spoon has never been so sexy and seductive.
        Wine bottle and glasses dance samba on the table. My Friday date becomes the most attractive man I have ever had the pleasure to dine with. The waiter is equally attractive. And the waitress. And the couple next to us. And every single person in the room.
        Life is wonderful. I am wonderful. My laugh is just as charming as his and I adore the world and the man who keeps pouring the wine and pays a three-digit figure for my delightful company.
        I am still utterly enchanting when he walks me to the tube station.
        Only when we look into each other’s eyes do I realize something is not right.
        I cannot focus properly.
        Who the hell is this guy?
        I suppress a burp and elegantly pretend it is a giggle.
        He doesn’t laugh.
        ‘Godda go ‘ome now,’ I hear myself say.
        I wonder if he watches me stumble through the ticket barriers. I turn around to give him a dignified wave good-bye, sort of a ‘Queen releasing her loyal subject’ gesture. He is gone already.
        
When I wake up the next morning with a head the size of a watermelon I have a slight suspicion that my conversation was not as smart and funny as it felt with a one percent alcohol content in my blood.
        I chat him up to thank him for dinner. He says I am very welcome. Before I can apologize for the effect the wine had on me he signs off.

This was date Number 17. I am fed up.
        Home alone all weekend in my silent and empty flat I search the male profiles on Matchnet.com. I have met everybody who was potentially interesting. Who else can possibly be out there? How do people do it? How the fuck do they all end up as happy couples?
        Tired of looking at the duds I switch to the other side and study the profiles of the women online. The most popular one seems to be the girl in a skimpy bathing suit with a fake tiger pattern.
        I dislike her immediately – as one dislikes blonde, skinny women with big breasts.
        I hit the contact button:
        PinkParanoia: Hey, I know I am defeating the purpose of this site but I am wondering if you are as tired of the guys on here as I am.
        Lovey: Yeah! Don’t think they actually know what they want other than a quick shag and if they don’t get that they move on to someone else.
        PinkParanoia: So true.
        Lovey: Whom have you dated; maybe we have met the same guys? Saw a man from St. Albans – sort of your way!
        PinkParanoia: Mad as a hatter?
        Lovey: Yep, have you met him too?
        PinkParanoia: He was one of the nicer ones.
        Lovey: He was nice but on a mission to meet as many girls as possible.
        PinkParanoia: I doubt I will see him again.
        Lovey: I saw him four times so doing better. But didn’t shag him so he moved on.
        PinkParanoia: He did take me to a very good restaurant though.
        Lovey: Not in Soho …
        PinkParanoia: Yes. Very busy, but very expensive.
        Lovey: That’s funny that must be his date venue then. He took me there too and paid.... making me laugh
        PinkParanoia: So he is a regular.
        Lovey: Clearly men are creatures of habit.
        PinkParanoia: This is why he gets the nice table.
        Lovey: Ha ha – he was very particular about the table; the one in corner downstairs.
        PinkParanoia: YES!
        Lovey: Back left.
        PinkParanoia: This is GREAT!!
        Lovey: God, laughing so much. This is better than talking to men.
        PinkParanoia: Much better!!! Who else did you meet from London?
        Lovey: Only this boy from South Africa.
        PinkParanoia: And?
        Lovey: He is very young but …