I’ve also come to the conclusion that we need a new term for these ‘dates’. To me, the word ‘date’ still has quite a romantic connotation to it, drumming up ideas of flowing conversation, a proactive plan, a nice outfit, on-point personal hygiene, maybe some flowers – this last one is a bit of a reach, but a girl can dream. These social meetings that I’ve been subjecting myself to are in no way romantic. They do not deserve the term ‘date’. ‘Investigation’ might be a better word.

And I never get a second ‘date’. I also never really want to go on a second date, but the fact that no one wants to go on a second date with me is damaging my self-confidence. What is wrong with me? What kind of signals am I giving out? What am I doing wrong? Maybe it’s my face. I try really hard to appear interested. I’m sure my actions say I’m interested, but I’m also pretty sure my face says I would rather be somewhere else.

I’ve given myself one more try at a ‘date’ before I give up, and I’m hoping it will be a quick one this evening. I’ve already prepped my date, Tom, with the news that I will have to leave early because I’m travelling with work tomorrow. This is not exactly a lie as I do have an errand to run that will take me out of the office, but it is a stretch of the truth.

The saving grace tonight is that Tom has opted for a pub. Most of the men I’ve met have been doing Dry January, which means a lot of people have been suggesting increasingly involved date activities but have then been a touch too self-conscious to really enjoy them. The worst so far was an indoor axe-throwing session. As someone who does limited physical exercise, mainly because I lack coordination and have precisely zero sporting ability, I knew this would be a bad idea. But it turns out I’m actually a pretty good axe-thrower, much to the annoyance of my date, who found my decreasingly modest character increasingly irritating.

Nearing the pub I can see a man who looks vaguely like the pictures I’ve seen of Tom, although he’s got much less hair than his profile would suggest.

In a momentary panic I almost forget his name.

‘T-om?’

‘Bea?’

‘Hi.’

We go in for an awkward almost-touch of the cheek.

I plaster over our bumbling with a chirpy question.

‘Shall we go in?’

Despite it being really grey and dark outside, the pub is uncomfortably light, which wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t also extremely empty. I feel very, very on show.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ I always like to get in the first round because then I feel no guilt if I leave after one.

‘OK, great. I’m not actually drinking, so I’ll take a Diet Coke.’

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

I’ve been hoodwinked. Lured into a false sense of security, and now I don’t know what to do. At least on openly dry dates I know I shouldn’t drink, even if I still choose to. But this is new. This is a sneakily dry date. It’s making me yearn for the axe-throwing days.