He proffers a daytime date

I'm sure that means he's married. Nettie concurs, says 'trick him, or ask for his landline number'.
He sends his mobile.
I ring it.
He says call the landline. Heart soars, then he doesn't know the number, says, 'tell you what I'll ring you'. I vow to do 1471 at the end and if it's 'the caller withheld their number', stand him up.
By the time I leave the call 90 minutes later, landline number remembered, the need to do so has been shot away.
I'm glad. I'd have been gutted if he'd been married.
After that call.
He offered a daytime date because he was worried I may have personal safety issues about meeting after dark.
I tell him if I had personal safety alarm bells, I wouldn't meet him in a crowded bar on a Sunday afternoon.
We agree to go out Saturday night. Dinner, then he's coming to see the fabulous Ms Hook play in a crowded basement in Angel.

Saturday seems the longest way away.
He sends me his favourite words each day.
Writes beautifully, despite the fact he only learnt to read at 15. He designs gardens. Has a masters in urban lanscaping. Buried himself in plants from an early age apparently. Adores his work. He's happy, very funny, incredibly sane sounding in an utterly unconventional way. He's not a Tory. Doesn't have an offputting voice. Says he'll be really nervous. Said after his date with a woman who turned up in rubber, me indulging my passion for overdressing is really not going to touch the sides of freaking him out.

70 hours and counting
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