Left hook

The great thing about life is that it constantly surprises.

Just when you think you've adjusted to everything it can throw at you, it lobs you something else. BBC film crew? A cinch. National radio? No problem. GMTV tomorrow morning? Bring it on.

Tonight, however, I've got a whole new challenge. As predicted, my instincts are absolutely, irrevocably broken. The 'very good date,' apparently, was not very good at all. PB has not contacted me since, apart from to ring me from the radio studio to tell me what time to turn up to TalkSport tonight. In a very Producery-And-Not-Date capacity, he made it clear. When I decided to text him with Have you decided what you're going to tell everyone on air if they ask about it? [translation: Are you going to tell 3.5 million men that I'm a repulsive muppet, and - if so - do you think you could warn me first?] - I received the most eloquent of male responses: silence.

So, this evening I get to enjoy the most fun of experiences - being told that you're "great as a mate" by someone you really quite fancy - on national radio. And I won't even be able to pull my jumper over my head afterwards and knock myself out on cheap vodka, because the BBC are going to be filming it and I have to get up at 5.30am tomorrow for The Most Important Day Of The Competition (meeting the CEO of Hamilton Island).

"What did you do?" my sister asked me last night.
"What do you mean, what did I do?" I replied in indignation. "Why does it have to be something I've done?"
"Holly," she said patiently. "He obviously found you remotely attractive, or he wouldn't have asked you out on national radio in the first place. So what did you do, or - more specifically - what did you say to change that? Did you tell him your crap swan anecdote again?"
"What is it about the swan anecdote?! Seriously, it's not that bad!"
"Hmm," she said, unconvinced. "Well. Maybe it was a dare. Maybe the date was a set-up to start with, and they all thought it would be really funny and something to laugh at you about on radio. They probably bet a fiver on it, or something."
"Thanks," I replied in a small voice. "Now I feel stupid on top of everything else."
"Oh, Big One," she sighed (that's what she calls me, by the way. It's all comparitive, though: she's just irrationally tiny.) "One day somebody out there will think the swan thing is cute," she reassured me. "And then you'll be alright. In the meantime, go in there with your head held high and pretend you thought the date sucked anyway."

So that's what I'm going to do. "Mmmyeehaha," I'm going to say if it crops up. "Fine. You know. Nice food. Whatever."

Or that's what I'm planning to say, anyway. My pathological tendency to tell the truth, however, means that I'll probably end up blurting "What did I do wrong? Hey? Will somebody please tell me what I keep doing wrong?!" on air.

And that's the great thing about life. Next time I get asked out on national radio, I'm saying no. It chucks you a left hook, and you just learn how to duck.

But not before you've been firmly punched in the mouth, obviously.