Tuesday 14th June

Dear Diary,

I have a date with the most gorgeous-est boy in the whole world.

Foul language and bag-hurling notwithstanding, DC-Dreamy texted me yesterday afternoon to ask if I wanted to go for a drink with him.

I do. I really, really do, I squealed at my phone.

I have spoken to him, face to face, on two occasions thus far and on that basis, am firmly convinced that we are absolutely perfect for each other. I have been ‘Googling’ wedding venues and practising my new signature.

I need to check with Friends Kate, Sophie and Karen that they have the second week in June 2012 free and also need to choose a theme for the wedding.

So much to do. So little time.

When I delightedly rang Mum to tell her about her new son-in-law, she put a bit of a downer on the whole thing with her wholly unfair accusation that maybe I am rushing into things a bit. Well, she actually started crying which, I initially took to be relief at my delayed but clearly blossoming romance. However, after three or four minutes spent listening to her snorts of laughter, I was then treated to her muffled, but choked attempts to relay what I’d said to my then ‘guffawing’ Father.

Before disconnecting she announced that ‘I had really cheered her up’ and, still chortling, hung up.

Oh blah, blah, blah.

Whatever (and that).

Well, unsupportive parents aside, I can tell just by looking at him that he’s tidy, intelligent, kind to animals, interested in history and likes reading. He also, no doubt, thinks that I’m a good driver, agrees entirely with all of my (many) opinions and will very much enjoy watching Jennifer Anniston movies with me.

We are a match made in heaven and anyone who doesn’t agree with me must either be a Bitter-Betty or has never experienced the overwhelming power of ‘love at first sight’.

I personally have experienced ‘love at first sight’ tonnes of times.

Granted, none of those relationships ever actually worked out, but none of the catastrophic endings were ever my fault.

I blame the men involved. In every instance they cunningly disguised their true personalities from me.

How’s a girl supposed to figure out, during a standard week and a half’s courtship, that you haven’t finally ‘come home’ to your ‘soul-mate’ but are, in fact, dating a sleezy, alcoholic, cheating rat-shit who’ll be sticking his hand down your best mate’s pants the minute your back’s turned.

No, I’m tellin’ ya, it’s all going to be perfect this time.

What could possibly go wrong?