I headblogged a lot of the way through our conversation, vignettes about her life and people I would never meet. I headblogged all the times I've been sat in this seat, in this room, in this situation pretending to be the best version of myself, letting some table candle frame my face to look interested.
In the drafts on my mobile phone is written the sentence: "You can't compete with somebody who knows the nook."
That seems to be the way of things on these interdates, a constant battle against somebody's history and her own tussle with mine. Back, forth.
This grapple with the past and with drink, with questions, nodding, smiling and looking concerned, with being off-hand, confident and self-deprecating, all the factors of another blind encounter getting rougher and rougher to the point of frustration.
I defy anyone in the midst of these interviews not to wish themselves at home watching old episodes of Dragon's Den on Dave, sucking the last biscuity bits from a Cadbury's Yellow Snack packet and wondering if it's too late to put on a wash.
Even on the good dates this is me, quipping for all my life's worth and being all lovely, listening intently while silently and painstakingly holding in a piss.