Sitting at the table, practising my casual look, I get a text from Toby.

Sorry I’m running late, saw a lost dog on the road and had to find the owner.

It’s as if he’s reading my mind, and I immediately accept this as a satisfactory excuse.

Don’t worry at all! Take your time! Poor little puppy.

Turns out he’s twenty-five minutes late. My casual pose doesn’t last for twenty-five minutes. Its cut-off point is eighteen, and my maximum wait-time is thirty. He’s cutting it pretty fine.

A man casually points at me.

‘Bea? Are you Bea?’

I nod.

The man then points to himself. ‘Toby. I’m so sorry I’m late, so rude of me.’

At first glance he’s quite attractive, but obviously shorter than his photos would lead you to believe.

He takes off his jacket and settles into the seat opposite me.

‘Did you find the owner?’

‘Huh?’ He looks at me as if I have two heads, and then his eyes widen in understanding. ‘I mean, that might have been a lie, sorry. I was running late and thought the dog story would be an acceptable excuse. You seemed pretty dog-obsessed.’

I can see how he came to this conclusion. I sent him a lot of dog memes to illustrate my varying moods. It seemed a safer option than using words. And it’s true, I do love dogs, but I don’t particularly like that he lied or that I was gullible enough to fall for the story.

It all rests on his answer to my next question.

‘How do you feel about cats?’

‘Not good. I don’t understand why their skin is so stretchy.’

If he’d been pro-feline, I would have stood up and walked away.

A bottle of wine and a surprisingly pleasing plate of meat, cheese, crackers and some odd pickled items later, I am delighted to report that what happens is a pleasant surprise. I like him just enough to potentially date him. We have a nice evening; he tells me about his family (his mum sounds nuts), his job (‘I’m kinda like Santa’ – by which he means he runs a website that sells cheap gifts, a comparison I find quite amusing, unless he genuinely thinks he’s like Santa Claus, in which case we have a problem), and his friends. I even think there is some flirting going on. Part-way through, I note that I keep copying his physical movements, so I try to stop, but then I become even more stilted, so decide to let my body pose in whatever way it likes.

Unbelievably there are no lengthy silences, and like a modern-day romance, we have a cheeky goodnight kiss outside the bar. He’s a good kisser, despite being short. (Maybe he’s a good kisser because he’s short? Have I been missing a trick here?) Mainly I’m proud of myself that I actually remembered how to kiss someone. I had plenty of time to prepare when I noticed he came back from the loo chewing gum. All in all, a good date. There is hope! I feel the giddiness of hope!