Over the weekend, I had planned to meet up with someone new to my neck of the woods. They had emailed me a few months ago via another blog of mine to ask if I’d have any time to show them around a bit, maybe introduce them to some people they could make friends with. They were fresh out of Eastern Europe, coming to the UK to be an au pair. Naturally, I obliged. I know loads of people, especially people for whom “Eastern European au pair” would seem quite an appealing sort of person to get to know – exotic, caring, probably really good looking to boot.

We swapped numbers and arranged to meet up at the local train station. I had a whole day planned out – breakfast in Harrods, then a trip to one of the museums in South Kensington, then maybe head down to Southbank for a movie, or just a pleasant walk along the promenade. When I got up in the morning, it was a beautiful day. I was thoroughly looking forward to meeting this Eastern European au pair and taking her out.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I hear the words: “Are you The Unfriendly Atheist? It’s me, Cata”, to turn around and find a short, bald man with a beard.

Naturally, I was shocked. It did not occur to me up until yesterday that I was a narrow minded, chauvinistic bigot.

“So, what brings you to the UK again?”

I asked, desperate to discover that this man was after a different Unfriendly Atheist.

“I’m here as an au pair.”

Fucksticks. Of course he is.

“Oh right. I didn’t know there was such a thing as a male au pair.”
“Yes, there are lots of men doing this.”
“How interesting.”

We bought our tickets, and then as we made our way to the platform, this short, bald man gently placed his arm around my lower back, to motion me towards platform one. For those that are not aware of this manouevre, it is strictly used as a patronising symbol of ownership – that is to say a partner or spouse is entitled to use this move, a complete stranger is not. I had been tricked into going on a date.

“We need to be on platform four”
“No, the train to Victoria goes from platform one” – I cannot believe this gentleman was telling me, in my own town, which platform our train was leaving from.
“No, it says on the screen that the next fast train to Victoria departs from platform four in six minutes. I commute into work every day.”

Hah. That told him. He lives in his office. Not like me, who gets up before the sun rises to travel to a job that does not inspire me or give me room to grow as a person.

Eventually, we got on our train. I was fuming. I got out of bed for this. I wore skinny jeans because I thought I was hanging out with a tall, slender, Eastern European child minding babe. Like many people up and down the country, I’d taken part in the 10:23 campaign on Saturday, and was utterly exhausted on Sunday. And then I find out that I’m on a date with a short, bald man with a beard?

Immediately, I sent an urgent SMS to Martin, the editor of layscience.net, who is usually good at dispensing advice. How did he respond?

”I am in no way taking the piss, or laughing hysterically on the floor.”

Shortly followed by:

”Generally I try to establish name and gender before the first date, but then I’m what they call a ‘sexpert’”

“Sexpert” my tight arse. Clearly, Martin was going to be no help. Then as if by magic, my mother called.

"Hi darling, how are you?”
“Hi Mum, is everything ok?”
“Yeah, yeah. I just spoke to your brother, he’s on his way back from Swansea”
“Oh no, what’s happened?”
“Nothing, he was just visiting some friends?”
“Oh my gosh, that is AWFUL. I can be there as soon as possible if you need me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m in Victoria, but it’s ok, I can leave if it’s an emergency.”
“Oh, I see. Yeah, come over. You can tell me all about it when you get here."

And that, my friends, is what to do if your date turns out to be the wrong gender: Make sure your mum is always on your side.