Smale throws toys out of pram

Woke up this morning and knew it was going to be a good day. The sun was shining, the sparrows were a-twittering in the hedgerows (yes, they were 'a-twittering': what's wrong with that?) and the cat was making a sulky racket outside because she couldn't get in and we have a new sofa that she wants to claw. Yes, I thought - smiling in the sunshine - it's going to be a good one. I can feel it in my bones. And on my face. Amazing what a bit of sun can do for the spirits and the complexion (it's all the vitamin B, you know: clears zits right up).

And then I get a text. Problem, Producer Boy says. BBC have emailed me, they want to come.

"It'll be thoughtful and sensitive, promise," they remonstrated when I rang up to shout at them. "From a distance. Romantic."

"Would you like us to hold hands before we've even had a drink, and that way you can get a good shot quickly? We could skip down the street a bit, if you want."

"Can you?" 

"No."

So I threw my toys out of the pram in the most polite and English way I could. No, I said, they couldn't come. No, they couldn't film from a distance. No, they couldn't put it on the tv for millions to watch. Jesus, I said. So they've backed down, thank God. Producer Boy was - unsurprisingly - not impressed, and I was even less so. What kind of a mad world is it where asking to film a first date is considered normal? First dates can be scary and awkward and embarrassing enough (which cheek do you go to kiss? What if you talk over each other? What if you have nothing to say? What if you discover that they smell of Stilton?) without having it documented forever. There are some first dates I've been on that I wouldn't like to be reminded of the next morning, let alone four months later. (The date who picked up a temporary bus stop and then shouted at me "grab the other end! This one's coming with me," for instance.)

Anyway. It's all fixed. Date is still on (he hasn't freaked and cancelled, which is actually very impressive), BBC have been poked with a big, pointy stick, and I can relax enough to start panicking about normal date stuff. Normal date stuff like which of my clothes is the least crazy and 'cat-woman', whether to take my red nail varnish off because it looks both tarty and slightly old-lady, how long before I get there can I smoke so that he doesn't smell it on me. That's normal date stuff, right? It's like a job interview, after all. You have to hide the real you as deep down as it can possibly go.

Luckily, the sun is still shining, the sparrows are still a-twittering, and the cat is sounding increasingly pathetic on the patio outside. I shall go and let her in. 

I think it's going to be a good day after all.