Nerves

Let's organise these questions about Sarah. There is no particular order, they're just as they come to me:

Q. What if she's a nutter?

A weird one to start off with, but it's a decent enough concern. The facts are thus: I have met her once, for eight whole minutes, and even after looking under every cushion of every sofa in every corner of my head I cannot remember a single thing about her, or indeed meeting her at all, and yet, despite this brevity, she gave the impression that she knows me a lot better than an eight-minute meeting would proportionally allow. This means I made an overwhelming impression on her, which seems extremely unlikely. Not that I utterly incapable of making an overwhelming impression on anyone - it's just that (a) I am very unlikely to succeed in making an overwhelming impression within an eight-minute time-slot and (b) I certainly gained no evidence during last Saturday's depressing affair that I may such an impression, as far as I can remember, anyhow.

Q. What it this is a set up?

Colin gave me her number, which makes me feel I am lurching straight into a suspiciously sprung-looking contraption in the hunt for a tasty chunk of cheese (not that cheese works, I've heard, chocolate is much more likely to be met with success, allegedly). I've asked him where he got the number from, but he claims he can't really remember. He mumbled something about taking a call when I wasn't around at some point, but nothing more concrete than that. Perhaps if he had a different and more detailed explanation - one that I could at least pick the bones out of - I'd have cause to be more suspicious. Colin has never disguised his opinion since he popped back into my life that I have grown unnecessarily in turns distrustful and even afraid of the female form, and I ought to climb aboard the dating horse before my shelf-life evaporates and I am consigned to the bin of pipe, slippers and prostrate problems. Maybe he's pushing. But then I have to ask myself, what have I got to lose? Especially if he's right.

Q. Have the rules changed?

Let's talk facts here. The last time I went on a date, I was more excited about the revival of Doctor Who starring the proper thesbian Christopher Ecclestone (but considerably less excited - erroneously as it turned out - at the casting of teen songstress Billie Piper as his assistant) than I was about the date itself. That would make it early 2005, nearly four years ago. And that date was a dud. I can't even remember who it was with; some female from work who guffawed like a slightly-pi$$ed hyena at all my jokes then just as (I thought) the evening was warming up told me she felt no spark and would we mind if we called it a night as some girlfriends had texted her whilst I was in the loo and asked if she wanted to join her for a girlie evening.

So, have the rules of the dating game changed? I am still expected to buy the first drink? And possibly all the subsequent ones? Am I still supposed to nod enthusiastically and smile enigmatically as the lady pours out every tiny aspect of her life, one percent of which I will find anything of interest in? Will I still not be able to burp, f@rt or scratch my @rse?

Q. What if Slumdog Millionaire is terrible?

It won the Best Picture Oscar, but it's unlikely the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences will get it right two years running, and they were right in spades with No Country For Old Men last year. I don't mind if it's terrible, or if it's brilliant, but if it is either of those extremes I'll just have to talk to someone about it, and Sarah will be there. No doubt I'll bore the knickers off her unless she's a film buff. Then there's the things she might say: "Ooh, I love films! I saw Mamma Mia four times last year! It's the best film, like, ever!!" Once I've killed her, at least I know I'll only be charged with manslaughter, and perhaps I'll get off on a mercy killing charge, but it'll still dampen the evening, somewhat.

Q. What do I wear?

Well, Colin's sorted that out for me. He cast a perusing eye over the content of my wardrobe, and - after he'd had a bit of a cry and a couple of shots of Glenfiddich - picked out a very pale blue shirt with a weird collar that I've never liked, and a pair of light grey trousers. He told me to dress up in them so he could see how I looked. I told him to get lost. By use of some very strong words.

A. What if $exy stuff happens?

It won't.

As usual, I'm thinking too much. I ought just to go into the pub, hunt out my escape routes, just in case, then hunt for Sarah. I've absolutely no idea how I am going to recognise her - I'm just hoping some neurons in my brain will fire as I peruse all the female faces and alert me to her presence. Else the pub will be empty besides her, and now me. I've always the mobile phone trick - phone her up then see whose phone goes off. Hopefully the God of Coincidences won't be in a mischievous mood else I could spend the evening chatting to a seven-foot tall rugby-player called Bruce with forearms the size of cartoon hams.

Of course, Colin has blabbed to my lads about my plans for tonight, and they've been as supportive as you'd expected, by ribbing me greatly about it. Lukas offered me a refresher course on the facts of life, explaining the necessity of contraception as he doesn't think we've room for another sibling. Gabriel made an unfortunate joke about me not taking any notice of any advice from Andrew, as "his love-life is always a complete disaster". Andrew moved to thump Gabriel one but Gabe just adopted a martial arts stance (as he always does, now) and my eldest thought better of offering a bit of violence, instead just yelling "f*ck you, fatty", before wandering off to his room.

Oh well. Three hours and counting.