The dating game and a reminder of Thursday

I make a date through my favourite internet site in the world. Entrepreneurs take note. There's a site called the pink sofa, run by women for women who date women. It's fabulous, avoids being seedy, creates a playful space through which to vet potential dates. You write a profile, tick lots of boxes, can add a photo if you like, can chat through rooms or msn messenger one to one, and can get to know other singles in your area in an arena that allows for nutter screening and a pace as slow as you wanna take it. I'm sure there's scope for a straight version.

I decide after a week or so of chatting to the classical violinist that a bottle of wine is in order. Arrange to meet her in London Sunday night at a fabulous bar hidden inside the left hand pillar that provides a fancy entrance to Euston station.

I spend the day with family, rush home to get ready. Time's tight so I opt for my 'do my make up on the tube' routine in order to play with outfit planning. I decide on a new frock. Very Courtney Love, red silk swathed in black netting, it's the perfect shape for my shape and a manages to make me feel like a rock chick cum ballerina. Amy screams 'no, beautiful dress, but goes against the first date etiquette'. The code that dictates you don't look like you've tried too hard. I ponder this, then decide, no, bugger it. I love this dress, I feel fabulous in this dress, I'm confident enough right now to overcome any 'mad mad mad' first impressions it may create. I'm in a, I want to dress up, I want to stand out, I want to be me and this is so me, mood. If she doesn't want to see me again because I've worn a flouncy fabulous frock to a lesbian bar on a first date, so be it, she ain't my girl.

I leave with enough time to be five minutes early. I get to Moorgate where I'm due to change tubes, ping. Suddenly I'm more Courtney Love than intended, standing on the platform in a frock that has no space for a bra, with the right strap snapped and my boob out.

Holding the snapped strap in a feeble attempt to preserve modesty I ask a couple of French tourists if they have a safety pin. A tough one to translate in any language, and beyond even my grade A GCSE. I'm aware of the time, decide wasting more is not an option. Leg it across the platform, run across the main road when the train pulls in to the stop I started from, tear up the stairs, pick a couple of items from the pile on the floor, pull them on and after a quick 'looks lovely' from the previous sceptical housemates, repeat the previous journey, minus dress disaster, with a lot more running than I'd have liked. Arrive for first date with make up sliding in a tide a sweat off my chin. Half an hour late, to discover the chosen venue is closed. She's waited though, bless her.

I keep thinking 'I thought dating was supposed to be fun'. Two dates, first one I can't get out of the flat, second one, well, you know the story now.

She's lovely. Pretty in a way that is so Nigella Lawson I kept expecting her to run her tongue round her lips or give the wine bottle a blow job. Luckily, she does neither. She's very posh which unnerves me a little. Not out to her family which unnerves me more. But sweet, and funny, and very keen despite the fact all of the 'I'm me and that's fabulous' aura, of the dress trying on era, has firmly dissipated in the nightmare of getting there.

We share a bottle of wine (although I share less than her as she's driving home), have a few nice hours before I walk her to her car and she let's me know she wants to do it again. When I get home she's messaged to say thanks for a great time.

The night bus takes me past all 4 bomb sites, there are posters everywhere with the faces of the missing. The pavement outside Kings Cross has become an impromptu memorial, cluttered with lilies. The rescue workers in orange tabards carry a stretcher to a van. It's obvious if it contains a body, it's not one in one piece. I say a prayer on the bus. Ask for evidence of life for those still searching. Give thanks, realise again how very lucky I am.