I've arranged a date. Even with my maths I can work out that, at 25, he is precisely half my age. I do realise this has complete fucking disaster written all over it, but bear with me. I'm looking for a relationship, and I've made that clear on my dating profile. This, clearly, will not be one. The difference between this and my most recent balls-up is that I'm aware of that.
It's like you are walking to Waitrose to get the ingredients for a really fantastic dinner - probably something in a Nigella book - and you pass this patisserie, and the most amazing huge tarte aux framboises lures you in and then follows you home. You can't say no to a tarte aux framboises, can you? Because there may come a day when there are no patisseries open and you cannot get a tarte aux framboises for love nor money. Of course, the walk to Waitrose is still on the agenda, and the shopping list remains folded in your purse.
It is true that I'm not very good at these casual things. But I just hate to pass up a treat.
If in a couple of weeks this young chap is found face down in a pool with a bullet in his back, you'll know that my transformation into Norma Desmond is complete.