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My next date was with The Accountant who wore the eyepatch. It wasn't a fashion statement-eye patch (if such a thing exists) and he wasn't trying to dress like a swashbuckling Johnny Depp. Rather, he looked as though he'd just spent a Saturday night in A+E and had been sent home, concussed and bandaged up.<p> We were meeting in Beanscene on Saturday afternoon. He seems to have a very bossy streak, having intructed me to sit in the window. This riles me as it means I need to perch awkwardly on the spindly bar stools. I had intended to get there first and be found lazing seductively on the brown leather sofa. But no – The Accountant has ordered me to sit there 'so he can find me’. Suddenly I realise he might still be stumbling around with that eyepatch on and will genuinely need help in ‘finding me’. This softens me a bit, though I’m still not happy with the window and the harsh daylight on my face. I can feel the sunlight showing up every blemish and pore on my face. All the fine make-up skills don’t matter a jot if you’re not ‘well-lit’. Don’t accountants know this?</p> So, I stir my coffee and try to twist around on the stool to get away from the glare. Feeling very exposed. My stupid feet don’t even come close to touching the floor on this chair. How am I supposed to get down without looking like a heaving hippo? As I’m pondering these difficulties a man appears, wearing my clothes. It’s him.</p>
 
‘Check this out,’ he says and gestures to his red cowboy shirt.  ‘This is practically the same shirt you’re wearing in one of your photos. I thought it’d be a laugh to wear it.’</p> 
Imitation is the highest form of flattery – yes – but not when it’s middle-aged accountants who’re copying you. Nonetheless, I admit it is indeed ‘a laugh’. ( I also secretly admit to being glad he’s not wearing the eyepatch and crashing into things. These dates are stressful enough without shattered crockery.) </p>
He sits down and we start the nicey-nice first date chat. It’s hard to work him out. He’s a middle-aged accountant and seems very tidy, prim and serious, yet he has turned up dressed as me. I’m intrigued. 
‘So I’m doing my third degree just now,’ he says. ‘A Masters in Statistical Modelling.’</p>
 I’m baffled by anything involving numbers. I still use my fingers to count. I ask him what Statistical Modelling is, exactly.</p> 
He puts his coffee cup down and scoots his chair closer. ‘Well, it’s quite difficult to grasp. It’s basically maths with fashion design.’ </p> This knock-out punchline is delivered in such a serious manner that I miss it completely. </p>
 He helps me out. ‘Joke,’ he says.</p> ‘Oh,’ I say. Then I laugh, but the moment has passed.</p> I look at him. Not fair to crack jokes with that grim accountant face. How do I know when the gags are coming? Statistical models, indeed! Well, here’s a statistic for him: 99% of women don’t like their dates to dress up as them.</p> He whistles and stirs his coffee. Silence descends. </p> He shakes the foam off his spoon and places it on the counter next to mine. ‘Hey, is it OK if our spoons touch?’ he asks.</p>
 Eager to make up for missing his last attempt at humour, I giggle heartily at this one. But I’ve come too soon, because he then says, ‘Oooh look, we’re spooning on a first date,’ but I’ve used up my big laugh, so can only smile.</p>Argh…it’s not going well. Our humour is out of sync, and I can’t relax with a man who’s wearing my togs.
 I try to start a new topic by telling him how much he looks like Woody Allen, but I quickly realise this is a bare-faced insult. We grind to a halt. More silence.</p>
 He goes off to order himself another coffee, and I take this valuable time to discreetly peep into my hand mirror to see if my skin still looks like the surface of the moon, or is the afternoon sun becoming kinder? </p> It’s always a risk to take your mirror out on a date because it seems if you’re desperately wanting to look good for him. I don’t – I just need assurance that I’m not the Elephant Man in a purple shift dress. The Accountant is in the queue with his back to me, so it’s safe. I’m checking my face when he appears at my side, suddenly, and catches me, mirror-handed.</p>‘Listen, I’m short of five pence. Can you…?’</p>I give him the money and watch him re-join the queue. That’s five pence I won’t be seeing again. And that’s a man I won’t be seeing again either.

