'You've gone too far this time, Kate.' That's what my friend Julie told me last week when she read 'Flake'. But I don't think I revealed anything too shocking about myself - after all, it was only a small pipe, and nobody except Mike was witness to me losing my cherry tobacco in a pungent, purple haze. There is something wonderfully liberating about giving up a secret that's been hidden for years. I wish I had some more dark revelations to liberate, but I'm afraid all I've got this morning is an essay on names.

I was bit perturbed last week when I was referred to by the name Joan. I know I don't look like a Joan, and I certainly don't feel like one, especially when I'm kickboxing, but the old lady in wellies clearly thought it was my given name. My girls now call me Joan when they want to wind me up, and it got me thinking how strange it is that some names are perfectly acceptable to certain generations, and yet seem bizarre and laughable to others.

I know a woman who has three old school friends; there is nothing individually remarkable about these women, or their names, but taken as a group, the three women make a pretty arresting trio. Pussy, Fanny and Muff, can go about their business with impunity, and have done for the last sixty-odd years. They met at school, and when they grew up, Muff became Mrs. Revel and Pussy married Mr. Clapp. The three women stayed friends and will probably remain so for the rest of their lives. I think I would find it hard to introduce them to the vicar without having to stifle a giggle, but then I'm sure Pussy, Fanny and Muff, the eternal triangle of modest respectability, would probably find some of today's names equally laughable.

When I was in hospitable giving birth to Rosie, news reached our ward that one of the mothers on the unit had named her son after her favourite gladiator. Young Saracen is probably striding around the house as I write this, wearing spandex tights and poking his younger brother with a tiny, but deadly, cotton bud; and only last week my friend Jemma came back from filming a story, with news of a chavtastic new name that she'd heard on a local housing estate,

The words, 'Burberry! Burberry! Ged' over 'ere, Burberry!' came floating on the wind like a faintly chequered siren song. The little girl in question bears the name of the most sought-after make of clothing for football fans and their delightful progeny. Burberry is the new Chanelle. Tiffany has lost its sparkle, and the football fans' favourite now holds sway. I presume that one day Burberry might be joined by a brother called Dannymac, or possibly a goldfish called Aquascootum. Who knows? The possibilities are endless.

And now, to change the subject entirely, I'd like to talk about dating. I have occasionally considered enrolling with a dating agency, but there has always been something holding me back. I think it's a combination of the expensive joining fee, and the possibility that I'd have to endure an evening with a man whom I could just as easily have met at a local day-care centre or vintage steam rally. There's no guarantee of suitability, no matter how rigorous the selection process; what it all seems to boil down to is luck. I have a friend at work who has a good deal more faith in dating agencies than I do. Dan (not his real name, but I'm calling him that because he's a bit desperate) paid his £500 joining fee, underwent an introductory interview by a couple of women who had clearly been trained by the Stasi, and then waited expectantly for his first match. The girl he met seemed perfectly nice, but when she took off her coat, Dan's eyes were immediately drawn to what was hanging from her neck. He managed to spend the entire meal avoiding the obvious question, but couldn't take his eyes off the girl's cleavage. As the plates were cleared away in preparation for the pudding course, his curiosity finally got the better of him:

Dan: 'Why do you have 10 crucifixes on that chain?'.

Girl: 'Well. The ten crucifixes represent each of our Lord's disciples, with the exception, of course, of Our Lord Jesus Christ, who gave his life for us, and the traitorous disciple, Judas.

Dan paused for a moment, wished he'd kept his mouth shut, smiled weakly and decided that his next line, 'Mmmm, this tiramisu tastes nice, doesn't it?' seemed entirely redundant under the circumstances. Needless to say they didn't keep in touch.

Even when you've seen the person you are going to meet on a date, the results can still be disappointing. Another of my colleagues was recently set up on a blind date. She showed me a picture of the guy she had been set up with, and he was gorgeous. I was very jealous, and thought that she was a lucky girl indeed to be going on a date with such an attractive guy; but if I had looked a little closer at the picture, I might have noticed a few warning signs. He was holding a shot glass in the photograph, but in his hand it looked like a half pint mug. It turned out that he was a tiny guy; a small, but perfectly formed Adonis, perched on a barstool, with little legs that dangled in space. My friend tried to find some common ground, but could only see eye to eye with him when they were both sitting down. As soon as they stood up to go, the ruse was blown. When they stepped outside, my friend felt a chill wind whipping around her collar and reached for her date's hand as they waited to cross the road. As he placed his tiny hand in hers, she said she didn't feel the slightest bit romantic or safe; instead, she likened the experience to being a school lollipop lady at a zebra crossing. But what her date lacked in inches he made up for in kissing technique, so the evening wasn't a complete disaster after all. And at least she can say that she's been out on a date in the last six years, which is more than I can.

I'm going out on Tuesday, but don't get excited, because it's only a trip to the cinema. The last time I went out with a group of women was memorable only for the annoyance it caused me. I'm not very good at standing at a bar with a gaggle of women who are all busily rummaging in their handbags for the money to pay for a single drink. I'd much rather pay for everybody, which is what I did when we arrived, but then we had to sit down and order a meal, and that's where the fun began. We all looked at the menu, but where some people see a choice of dishes, others see an excuse for excessive dithering. It was excruciating; the air was filled with tiny twittering voices saying things like, 'Oh, well, I'm not really that hungry. I had a bit of the kids' tea earlier on.' and, 'What are you having? Well, I'll share a starter with you.' and, 'But I don't want avocado in my salad. Can we take out the avocado and have a low-fat dressing? And, 'Are you having a pudding? I'll share a chocolate mousse with you.'

The waiter got so tired of waiting for the order that he eventually pulled up a chair and sat down. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, we finished our meal, and then we went next door to a club which was hosting an 'Over 30's Nite'. The carpet was sticky, the music was awful and the whole place was filled with ghoulish women and staggering drunks. I ended up standing by a pillar, feeling a bit like Harrison Ford at the climax of 'Raiders of the Lost Ark'. I stood motionless, gripping onto the pillar, as a succession of ghastly visages emerged out of the gloom and peered at me through dilated, bloodshot eyes. All I could think was, if I catch anybody's eye, I'm either going to get glassed or groped, or groped and then glassed. What a horrible prospect. It was the last chance saloon, the end of the line, the final destination for Plymothians who were too old or too drunk to pull anywhere else. There's not enough rohipnol in the world to make you forget a night like that, and sometimes, when I'm feeling desperate and lonely, I think that I'll end up in such a place, endlessly circling inebriated misfits, waiting for my chance, watching for a moment of weakness.

But I'm not feeling like that now. I'm feeling cheerful and full of hope. I'm off to paint the town red on Saturday night with my friend Jemma, and I'll tell you all about it next week.



© Kate Boydell 2004. All rights reserved. e-mail: [email protected]. Close window.