I don’t normally do this…

I’ll admit to something. I reached the age of 19¾ without ever going on a date.

I’ll admit to something else: I managed to be involved with a guy for a couple of months before even going on a “date” with him.

We English are a funny people, aren’t we?

I’m not going to say I was opposed to dating, but I had never really fancied it. The idea of putting my relationship on show for random strangers, the awkwardness of posh or expensive restaurants, and the forced chatter of two relative strangers had never much appealed to me.

But when my other half told me he wanted to take me out, I decided to throw away my worries and go for it. After all, we were anything but strangers and wouldn’t run out of things to talk about –what could go wrong?

As it turned out, quite a few things gave the evening the potential for disaster.

First things first, we had no idea where we were going. This wouldn’t be that much of problem, except that I wanted to wear some ridiculously high shoes that severely impeded my natural ability to walk. But I love those shoes and if I was going on a date, then so were they. They were my confidence shoes, and I was going to need them as my boyfriend was more nervous than me – I wanted to make him feel comfortable.

And, of course, I wanted to look good. I wanted him to be proud and happy to walk next to me, even if it did mean I would get checked out by slightly creepy guys in the Chinese takeaway we walked past on Walmgate (never actually having been “checked out” before, this was a much-needed, if unexpected, confidence boost).

Then I left my bag behind me on a bench and would have lost my phone, wallet and keys had a lovely local woman not chased after me. The thought of how close that was still leaves me a bit shaky. It would have certainly ruined my night.

But we managed to pull through these things. Eventually we decided on a place and got a table in a better than usual pub – with some equally better than usual food – though not before my date had almost had a panic attack over whether he could take me to a pub and whether we’d get seats. He could and we did and we were soon having ridiculous amounts of fun being silly amongst smart and mature-looking people (which we are not, having just been IDed at the bar and having easily fitted into a crowd of school children earlier in the week).

And I felt special, especially when he pulled out his wallet and insisted on paying. Now I am a firm believer in the fact that one half of a relationship should never feel obliged to buy the other half dinner – or anything, as a matter of fact – but when they offer it’s the most amazing feeling. Like he really wanted to be there with me.

Although I guess it was only fair. I had made him a sandwich earlier in the week.

We ended the night in a most unusual place, given the nature of the occasion and the nature of my dress. We ended the night in McDonald’s.

Yes. My boyfriend took me for my first McFlurry (a Smartie one, if you’re interested. The best apparently). And I loved it. I loved sitting in McDonalds in my red mini-dress and platform shoes. I didn’t mind that it wasn’t a fancy restaurant, or that I’d almost left my bag at the pub or that there was a gang of juvenile chavs shouting to each other. It still felt special. More so, because it was comfortable.

Now I’m not going to say I’m a “convert” to “dating”, or that it was good to get out and do something different. I’m not going to say that it made my relationship more exciting and new, because I don’t think it did – I don’t think it needed to.

What it showed was that it doesn’t matter where you are: as long as you want to be with the person you’re with.

Besides, I may say “bowling” like a posh southerner; but that doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy pub grub and a McFlurry on a first date.

I’ve discovered I wasn’t disinclined toward “dating”: just the picture of “dating” that my expectations had painted.

Never say never.

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