Rhode Island Red

I went to meet Kathryn. Everyone says "be yourself." Yes, but which one?

I had a haircut (Moorgate Barbers, 4.50), polished my new shoes (Save The Children, 4.99) and dusted myself with the expensive perfume I found on a train a while ago (along with a bra). I mean, I found a bra at the same time, not that I put a bra on to meet her. We can get round to that when we know each other better.

She walked in; a friendly hello kiss. Tallish, and wearing a loose grey top in an artificial material which she kept wrapping about herself, something I wanted her to stop doing, as she had an attractive front elevation; and jeans. I banished the fleeting thought that that's not really how you dress for a first date by looking at her lovely reddish-brown hair flowing onto her shoulders. When I came back from the bar I noticed that she looked quite shapely from behind.

I was curious about how a middleaged American mother of two ends up doing a PhD in Lancaster. She's from Rhode Island, and followed her husband over here for his job, before they split up. We talked about how surprised many people are that one can remain on good terms with one's former partners after a break. When she said that some men she's met though the dating site find that a bit odd, I wondered if I had just acquired a competitive advantage.

Talking about academic interests has great potential for the bland restatement of shared political positions and slow sage-like nodding of leftwing heads, but she's got an interesting topic and was disarming about her lack of knowledge about it. More of it though was about how children acquire traits not present in their parents, culture shock when arriving in London, the advantages for single parents of home deliveries from the supermarket, and why Americans can never pronounce "Edinburgh" correctly.

She was drinking halves of cider. It got better and a bit more sweary as the drink took hold. "Would it be artificially extending the afternoon to have another?" I ventured, suggesting a third. She readily agreed and went for her purse. "No I'll get these," I said. "You're a cheap date."

At the end there was no hesitation about suggesting a return fixture. The "where to put the valedictory kiss" problem was fixed with a spot about an inch to the left of her lips. I went to another pub to write some notes for this blog entry, where my mood was flattened by a friend's monologue about a croft he's purchased, the building work necessary on it, and the intricacies of planning law in the Western Isles. He'd bought me a pint so I felt a bit trapped.

In the evening, I went to a wine tasting and manfully soldiered my way though six wines of Tuscany, one of which, being entirely beyond my means but utterly delicious, I bought. A man on our table was translating the labels for us and it emerged he was learning Italian in order, so he said, to try to move things on a bit with an Italian female friend of his.

I was probably being a bit chatty with my friend's girlfriend, and at one point I thought I saw a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. But then he's a psychologist so a professional person watcher.

Back home, Csilla was being friendly and chatty as ever. I opened the wine (a little lip-bite of regret that my £18 wine was being used for such a routine occasion) and Csilla indicated for me to sit there as "we have something to say." She called Stefan down and I quavered with worry.

They are moving out at the end of next month, being seduced by Preston. Preston! But it's nearer their jobs, and as Csilla gracefully said, chapters in life come naturally to an end and this is ours. I'll be sorry to see Csilla go; less so Stefan. Promises to keep in touch, offers of holidays on the Adriatic coast, and the wine wasn't wasted after all. "You should tell Kitty to move in, and fall in love," she said.