Remember the date

Well, after much fannying about and emailing I went on a date last night. Being me, I managed to sabotage my appearance early on in the preparation process by dousing both my eyes with shampoo: the albino-rabbit-blazing-red-eye thing is so not a good look. However, in a frock and emo quantities of black eyeliner, I set off.

And the datee in question was great: good looking, articulate, amusing and good fun. I managed to chat for a good few hours without marking an arse of myself (I think), and thoroughly enjoyed myself. And, no I didn't snog him (I can see you're desperate to ask...). We parted at 10:10 for me to walk back to my car and for 300 yards of the Headrow in Leeds I had a big grin on my face: I'd done something grown-up pretty well. It felt significant.

So then I checked my phone. And two hours beforehand the babysitter had tried to contact me to tell me my son had woken up to find me gone. The poor wee thing had cried inconsolably for nearly two hours because he wanted his Mummy. And where was she? Blithely drinking fruit juice in a bar where you just can't hear your phone. I zoomed home to him and he clasped my hair so tightly to try to feel secure again. Just heartbreaking.

And that's when I realised: when I remember the date that's going to be the feeling that will stay with me. Guilt. You can't do both things: you are either a single girl or a single mother. And I'm the latter. So, I'll remember the date but I don't think I'll be repeating it.