I took the plunge Monday evening over tea. I'd been umm-ing and ah-ing over how and when to tell my son that I'm dating. He reacted so badly last year when I told him I was starting back on a dating website. Not surprising, when you think of the utter, selfish mess his mother got herself into (and dragged him into) with boyfriends after she left me.

So here goes:
"I've started dating someone", I said. "A woman, in fact."
"Oh right," he says. "Was she here on Saturday night?"
"Er, yes. Why?"
"I thought so."
"How come?"
"I saw you coming downstairs with two cups this morning."

Ahh. Two coffee mugs, two wine glasses - not normal bedroom stuff in our house. He's more observant than I realised. And less bothered than I feared.

"She's really nice," I tell him, "for a ginger...."
"She's ginger? Ha ha, what... more ginger than Ronnie? More ginger than Jake?"

We have a laugh about acceptable levels of gingerism. And it all seems ok.

"And she likes dogs," I tell him.
"Everyone likes our dogs," he says, tapping the lurcher under the chin.

Another little step in the right direction.