Robyn’s Nest

Tonight one of my friends and I are both going on dates, although not with the same guy and not at the same place. That would be awkward.

But we do share the same opinion on dating. It’s a bit of excitement combined with a lot of effort, and usually the result is disappointment. It’s not that we’re being overly negative here, just talking from past experience.

But I least I know Date Guy is tall enough for me. I text him to ask his height - the alcohol consumed on the night we met has clouded my memories somewhat - and told him I was trying to decide whether I should wear heels or not on date night. Yes, he probably thinks I’m odd now, but at least I know he’s not short. I couldn’t lower myself - literally - to date a guy shorter than my 5ft 9ins.

Anyway, Date Guy is a couple of years younger than me and someone I met on a night out before Christmas. We became Facebook friends, swapped mobile numbers, and have arranged to meet several times before now but something always got in the way.

So, tonight’s the night. And who knows, maybe if we like each other we’ll have a second date in September time?

PS The picture above depicts some dates (the fruit variety) - I was trying to be clever - but they could mistaken for pieces of poo. I felt an explainatory note was called for here.

They say lessons are learned the hard way and oh boy did I learn one today. Having spent the last two months sitting on beanbags, awaiting the arrival of my dream sofa  - a black leather corner jobby - today I experienced bitter disappointment.

Today was the day when I should have been able to put an end to beanbag nights and embrace the comfort of my brand new sofa, on which I spent a small fortune.

But no. I was tortured by grief when the delivery guys made it all the way up the stairs to the front door of my flat only to tell me there wasn’t a cat’s chance in hell my sofa would fit through the door, round the pokey little hallway and into my lounge.

“There’s got to be a way,” I protested. But no. These guys are the experts and although there were very sympathetic - and kept calling me sweetheart - the sofa went no further than my welcome mat. Aaarrggghhh. I didn’t even get to take the plastic covers off and touch it. It was almost mine.

Maybe it’s not meant to be. Maybe I am meant to have an ordinary and small two-seater. Or maybe I am destined to spend my evenings on beanbags. But I did learn a harsh lesson today - use a bloody tape measure before splashing the cash!