Before I start, I should point out that this post wasn’t going to be about dating.

It was due to cover, in some exciting detail, a ball I had been to recently, some musings about how much I love my beautiful niece and the need I have to buy her toys that I covet myself, such as red plastic houses in the shape of kettles which you can also carry with you in the fashion of a witty handbag.

However, as dating-wise things have reached a new low, I thought I should share a conundrum faced by women everywhere when you have to do the impossible….ask a man out. In person.

Picture the scene. You have to ask someone to a formal event, because you are the lucky lady in receipt of a beautiful invitation (or as I used to know them, a “stiffy'” which probably says a lot), and as you read to the end, in text slightly smaller and hidden in what must surely be the implied terms and conditions, it says this:  “Please provide the name of your guest  / partner and any dietary requirements.”

As anyone who knows me will attest, my dietary requirements are relatively few.  Food, lots of it, ideally encased in some form of pastry. If you ever have me as a dinner guest, I’d be delighted with a pork pie, truth be told. So that wasn’t the problem.  And neither was the Mess Dress or Black Tie dress code (not that I have ever thought that a woman could look good in a tuxedo since that picture of Celine Dionne emerged wearing one back to front with a cream trilby, and besides, it could get chilly in October. I also didn’t fancy my chances as GI Jane).

No, it was the other two words:  “Partner” or “Guest”.  As I don’t have the former, I mentally scanned my (very small) virtual little red book for a potential date.  There, I said it.  Because that’s what it was.  Here are the options of single, straight men I know whom I honestly considered asking – and little wonder  that I’m typing this holding a gin and tonic and living in fear of my friend Lesley hitting me over the head with her Celine tote (whom we call “Cedric” and speak to in French.)

1.  The man I wrote about in my last post who said he wouldn’t ever want to marry me (worth a read!);
2. The chap I met last year in London who used his kids as a defence to any relationship and said last September that he had “two nights free between now and Christmas” – that one’s mentioned a bit further back;
3. The married man from the Golf Day who swore he was single;
4. The one who has recently just come back on the scene and much to my surprise, had asked me out for a coffee last Sunday.  I had gone and we had a good time. Being a gentleman (or so I thought), he had also bought me a whole slice of cake and didn’t lecture me about food, unlike the man who once watched me eat a piece of bread at dinner and said: “So Sarah, you clearly like eating..” so he had an extra credit there.  By the way, no one had taken me out on a date for over a year, so bear with me.

Mustering my courage as we walked round a well known Wildlife Park (ah, the romance of the two beautiful Andean bears basking in the sun); I found myself explaining that I had a formal dinner to go to, and, (with my eyes fixed on feeding time in the nearest enclosure) – would he like to be my guest?

In short, it was a yes and I wasn’t even thrilled.  I was just hugely relieved and a bit pleased, the way that you are when you pass an exam by 1% (and believe me, that’s happened), because for once I would not have to turn up for a social engagement alone and sit on the chair at the end of the table whilst everyone else there was a couple and asked you if you had children, before telling you all about theirs and how amazing they were because they were really allowed to thrive at their non-directional pre-school.

Anyway, I digress.  Fast forward a couple of days and I thought I should check his professional title so that I could respond nicely, help the organisers with the table plan  and flag up  the potential excitement no doubt abounding: (“SARAH NIBBS IS BRINGING A MALE GUEST. NO SUDDEN MOVEMENTS.”) and in the third person as taught in Year 9, between our cooking, sewing and child care lessons.  Don’t scoff, I can still whip up a batch of lemon buns and make a cushion cover if required at lightning speed on the Singer.

And there we hit a snag.  Via text ( regular readers will note that there is something of a theme emerging here – no one ever calls to discuss these matters), he posed the following question, to which I have, as yet, found myself unable to construct a polite response to, not least because this would cost 7 pence.  “Is it really worth going?” he asked.  “I’m not really looking for anything serious.”  Now, had I been stood in front of this man asking him out in a borrowed wedding dress and veil, whilst filming it all for YouTube and clasping a bouquet, I could have understood his reticence.

But I hadn’t. I’d just asked him because he was seemingly intelligent and good company. And now it’s Sunday night and I was having a lovely evening, what with the Downton Abbey wedding and all, and now he has ruined it – and the saddest thing of all is that I can’t think of anyone else to ask.

So, it’s on with the LBD, a smile and a reply that Miss Nibbs will be thrilled to be attending –  alone.  Just as long as there’s pastry and plenty of port, it will be great fun.

Should you happen to be at a Black Tie dinner in a few weeks time and there’s a woman by herself smiling and necking warm G & T in the name of sampling aperitifs, don’t be a stranger – I’d love to hear all about your kids and then you can admire my red plastic teapot toy bag  – which I’ll be holding on to for luck. See you soon.