She’d accepted and now I was utterly terrified! 

There are times when my profession seems entirely unsuitable – like I’d be the last person to catch criminals for a living; but I swear that it’s only women who make me wobble like Mr Stay Puft! Why is it that I can run head-first into a crack den with little more than a vest for safety, yet the idea of a date with a stranger fills me with enough dread to cause a serious Tena Lady incident? In the case of Cat, though, it’s more like creaming my pants, than wetting them!

Of course she could turn out to be a moose of the first degree – happens all the time. I’ve had my fair share of psychos that turn out to be nothing like their profiles. Once I even had to crawl through a pub’s toilet window whilst my ‘stunning’ date hammered on the door for my phone number – think Olive from On the Buses, and you’ll understand my panic!

Cat, though… my God! Her profile had me praying that her profile was sincere. If she was even a tenth like her photo, I’d better take a spare pair of pants with me!

I’m not normally the type to make the first move – no… seriously! I’d been browsing late one dateless Saturday night and, after two bottles of Rioja, it seemed like a good idea. Maybe it was the romantic, flickering candles, but I just had this feeling… There were more women online than I’d expected (Sally Nodates, like me) but, after half an hour of viewing profile after profile of fashionista, stone butch and moose; I was ready to call it a day and head to bed with my goblet of vino and an extra pack of Duracell. About to log off, I spied a light flickering at the top of the screen, and her username appeared in the online list:

<kittycat78:  Catflaps – open 24 hours.>  

Spluttering drops of red wine all over my freshly-laundered, pristine white bathrobe [bugger!], my laughter increased in volume until my sides hurt. As I clicked on her name, I smiled for the first time that evening. She later told me that her flatmate, Tess, had created the profile for her and – whether it was from being completely useless with technology or, because she, too, was a bit the worse for wear after a night at Rubies – she couldn’t work out how to change it. Thank God she didn’t! Eyes filled with tears, I fought to control my bellowing guffaws unsuccessfully; that is, until I clocked her photo: small, subtle and smouldering.

Scrolling down her profile there wasn’t a great deal of written info, but we seemed to like similar music and films so… what the hell! I’m not going to bullshit about messaging her because we were destined to be kindred spirits, or some bollocks like that; the wine was speaking volumes – I was pissed, horny, and she was f-ing gorgeous! One look at those exquisitely moist made-up lips, and I neeeded more than just a cold shower!

Summoning up my best attempt at butch bravado, I opened the message dialogue box and… Oh fuck! I was terrible at this!!! Always had been, which might explain why I was sat alone at home, on a Saturday night after a (relatively quiet) shift, and not out a hot date with Angelina – I wish!!!

Glancing around the room, vainly in search for some inspiration, nothing was coming to mind and I began to fear that she might log off before…

“Come on Sam!” I shouted at myself.

The flame flickered wildly on one of the mantlepiece candles, as it gave one last burst of energy before submitting to the darkness. Hearing the clock strike twelve and, as if my pumpkin and mice were awating me outside the palace door, I bit the proverbial bullet and typed the worst line in Romantic history:

<<<So, is the catflap still open, or has Kitty gone out for the night?> >>