Lots happened this last few days - time with my folks, a weekend away with the boys and Scottish Sara, lots of booze, one of the best gigs I've ever seen.

But more important right now, a brilliant, exciting, thrilling date. Four beers, a lot of chat, hands held across a bar table, kissing outside before putting her in a taxi home, and a steady string of flirting texts ever since. I keep doing little reality checks, frown, bite my lip and think "hang on, don't go getting all out of proportion, scare her off and let yourself down." But the overwhelming feeling is being on the leading edge of a big smile...

We'd been chatting for a couple of hours, it was going well.
"I liked what you wrote on your profile about books," she said. I hadn't read my own profile for months, I haven't read hers since the first email I sent her weeks ago, so I stick to a noncommital noise.
"I've not come across anyone else who likes E Annie Proulx before," she goes on. Oh yes, that's ok, I did genuinely finish The Shipping News recently... on DVD. No, I have also read it, honest.
"In fact, that section of 'what I'm reading' is the first bit I look at on a new profile," she says. "What about you? What's the first thing you look at?"

Oh shit! Face.... tits.... arse.... Face obviously in the photo, tits sometimes on show, arse you have to guess from "athletic" or "curvy" descriptions. But I'm not about to admit it.
"Um, well I guess I looking for....." FACE, TITS, ARSE "camping, you know, if you're into outdoors sort of stuff. You have to read right through the profile for that, umm it's not in one place...."

Pathetic. But there's no point telling her just yet that men do read books but are usually happier looking at the pictures.