I look in the bathroom mirror, comb my hair through and clip it so that one side of my hair is pulled back behind my ear. I put on a creamy glittery eye-shadow I got free at work and then immediately wipe it off. What am I doing? I am going on a daytime date, I do not need glitter. God, it’s been so long since I’ve been on a first date, and it shows. I decide to wear a floral dress and white high-top Converse shoes. Marcus has decided we should meet at the Barbican arts centre for an exhibition and a coffee. He has a lifetime membership pass. Honestly, my first thought was thank fuck he hadn’t booked crazy golf.

As I approach the building, I see him waiting in the lobby area wearing an oversized denim jacket. Hands in his pockets. A man self-confident enough to wait on his own without needing to scroll on his phone. His eyes light up when he sees me.

‘Hey!’ He walks over and gives me a hug. ‘So, I got us tickets for this exhibition all about AI.’

‘This series will explore the relationship between humans and technology,’ I read off the ticket. ‘Sounds intense for a date. We’ve skipped the crap film and bowling bit?’ I pause. ‘I’m into it.’

‘Great. Let’s go and pretend we’re intelligent and then have a nice big drink after.’

We wander around the exhibition and it is a little strange. There are half-eaten robots, big metal talking dogs, self-driving car simulations, USBs plugged into skeleton heads and holograms that feel so real, I flinch. One of the digital projections on the wall reminds me of a mix between Nineties Windows Media Player and the eyes of Kaa, the snake in The Jungle Book. The next projection makes a huge, unexpected bang and emits some fake smoke, and I find myself grabbing Marcus’s arm.

‘It’s a weird time we’re in, isn’t it? We’re so close to having self-driving cars, but then also have an HMRC website that is so slow and shit and politicians who don’t know how to tweet properly.’ I laugh.

‘Ha. I gotta say, I do hate how much time my girls spend on their phones. Art-directing countless selfies,’ he says, shuddering.

‘Yeah, I bet. It must be hard to know what’s doing damage and what stuff is actually a positive influence on them.’

‘True.’

‘I’m not perfect. I am glued to mine,’ I say.

‘It’s just difficult to know what they do all day on their phones. I can’t monitor them that closely any more. They are nearly adults, and it feels wrong to ask what they look at.’

‘You need a secret squirrel,’ I say.

‘What’s that?’ Marcus laughs.

‘A secret squirrel is the James Bond of the rodent world,’ I say, sticking my front teeth out over my lip.

‘You are so weird,’ he says, taking my hand.

We go to the bar, sit on stools. I awkwardly climb onto one, making a squeaking noise.