The first date is with a colleague's handsome friend. His name is Nick, he's an architect, and he lives with his dog called Max. Aside from that, I know only one other fact about him: he knows everything about me. As much as some of my closest friends and family - my own mother even. Let me rewind.
A year ago, I published Chastened, a memoir detailing my decision to voluntarily spend 12 months living and loving without sex. Now, depending on your outlook, a year is either an eternity or an insultingly brief spell - certainly not a book-worthy feat.
But the time frame wasn't the point. Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder: Hephzibah Anderson took a year off sex - and found fulfilment. It was the choosing that counted - the stepping back and taking control of a part of my personal life that seemed to be increasingly shaped by other people's expectations.
My life had not been promiscuous. I'd never had a one-night stand, and if you insist on talking numbers, my tally of partners was still in single digits - downright modest by the standards of the London media circles I moved in. So quantity wasn't the issue. Nor was quality, though looking back, one dimension was missing from the dating experiences of my 20s: love. It was a chance encounter that brought it home to me.
Almost a decade had passed since our breakup, yet he was the last man to have told me 'I love you'. This realisation was a scathing indictment of my relationship choices since, and brought into sharp focus the emotional frustration that defined those years. Relationships would begin well enough, but once we'd gone to bed, I would need something more from the guy in question, more than he usually seemed prepared to give - not the kind of commitment that's sealed with a ring, but certainly some level of emotional investment.
