I decided not to write about dates... But this one doesn't count

My life is a comedy routine and I should currently be practicing. Sharpening my wit and picking up tips over coffee with the funny man. Only I am trapped in a flat on the Mile End Road.

To recap, I meet the funny man a couple of months ago. Decide he makes me laugh and therefore I am getting to know him. Only trouble with this plan is at the moment in question I was plastered, having shared a bottle of wine with Sam to wave her off back to the land of marsupials at lunchtime and decided in the post traumatic stress disorder that followed that to carry on with the vino into the evening was a good idea. I don't let this deter me, and chat him up, somewhat incoherently. I think it's fair to say my first impression was probably memorable, though who wants to be remembered as the girl who can't sit straight on a bar stool?

I offer my phone number, he declines, he says, on the basis I am heading to Edinburgh, then drops me home. I send him an email saying 'come on, my numbers worth having, and to be that trashed is a rarity' and he replies, 'ok, let's meet for coffee when you are in town'.

In the two months between then and now we have texted sporadically. I have so far failed to convey my wit or charm through this medium, but somehow, whether through dogged persistence on my part or generosity of spirit on his, managed to retain the coffee date.

In Italy the girls and I have much merriment with the whole thing. They gently mock how pants I am at flirting. They scream 'no' when I make little comments like 'I think I may wear a sun hat, you know those sixties floppy ones, I love them'. Amy says 'all he'll think is BIG HAT BIG HAT BIG HAT / lunatic' . Ailsa says ' go in Hessian so he doesn't think you've made an effort' or words to that effect. Louise chipped in with the suggestion I cover up my cleavage, but after much conversation we all agree that this really would be out of character and being me is the best strategy.

Come the morning of the date itself I am all calm. The weather is fabulous, I shower, iron my clothes, have a chat with Amy's cleaner then leave her in the flat whilst I wander round the East End getting to grips with what's going on with the housing market. With an hour and three quarters to the date and a 45 minute walk to the venue I am pleased with my timings as I return to the falt. Happy again as i re-exit, feeling casually glamorous at quarter past two.

half an hour later I am sweating profusely, chatting to Amy from my mobile outside her front door. 'no, there's not normally a problem with it locking' she says. 'didn't you lock it earlier?'(no, the cleaner did and I've only been here two nights and always left when someone else is home during that time). 'try the drawer, there may be a spare set of keys' she says. Sadly.... 'just get one of the locks shut' she says, sadly....

15 minutes until I am supposed to be there. I have scrapped the walk plan and decided to get a cab, only the sodding door won't play ball. So I call him say ' look, we need to change plans. I can't lock the front door'. To his answerphone. Amy meanwhile has said, 'get him to come to you'. Only he hasn't responded to my message. I call Ames, say, 'look if he comes here, how do I let his car in?'

The answer to this apparently is that the funky gate opening gadgets are in Amy and Si's cars, parked at their respective workplaces, but I can haul the rubbish bins in front of the gates and fool the sensor into thinking it's a car. Given these rubbish bins are the size of a small field and made of the kind of metal more oft seen on bridges, the sensor is hardly making a big leap. They practically are cars. Only they weight a tad more and have last nights vindaloo smeared where the window would be. My sense of humour kicks in at this point and I am envisaging the guaranteed success of saying , 'stay there, I just need to wheel this giant trash can out'. In my heeled boots, before explaining that he can either house sit or go get milk for his coffee.

In any event, he doesn't call. Whether this is because he thinks that a girl who can't close a door is too blonde to date, or he left home without his mobile and is still sat in the park waiting for a hatless woman, I don't know. My money would be off the latter though and I suspect that's the last we'll hear of him.