When he arrives, he apologises profusely for being late (he isn’t). I give him time to remove his jacket and order a glass of pompous-sounding vin rouge. Then I launch into a well-worn speech. I tell him we’ve had fun over the last few months, but that this is our last date and we won’t be seeing each other again. He looks utterly crestfallen.
Yes, he is easy on the eye — tall with a good body — but my goodness he is dull. A banker, he has a gorgeous flat in Maida Vale, north London, refuses to ever let me pay my way, but his preferred reading material is the City pages of the newspaper, while I pore over the celebrity gossip. We just aren’t on the same page. I gulp down my glass of Pinot Grigio, stand up, kiss him on the cheek and trot out the door. No regrets whatsoever.
This was 1999 and I was 28.
