As I walk up Hope Street that night to meet The Clown, I nearly fall. I put my hand out to steady myself and realise I’m drunk. Really though, how could it be any other way? He gives me a few hours’ notice, and I was so nervously anticipating his text all day that I couldn’t eat lunch. Then I have to rush home to get ready, so there’s no time for dinner. And I’m in such a trembling state at the thought of seeing him that I throw back a glass of Rioja. Then another as I’m putting my make-up on. Then a third glass vanishes too. Bah, I don’t have time to stop and carefully measure out the drinks. I’m shaking here! </p>
It’s 7.40. Twenty minutes till I meet him. I take my phone out and ring Jenben, my sister. I need to speak to someone not involved in this circus panic. She’s wise. She’ll talk me down from my state of free-wheeling madness. When she answers, I launch straight into clown-ramblings. I’m not sure how much of it translates across to Jenben, as she just keeps saying ‘are you all right?’ I want to say ‘of course, I’m all right, just tell me how to defeat The Clown’, but, through the red haze of the wine, I know no-one can pull me out of this except me. And I don’t want out of it. My watch says 7.50. I need to go. Get up the hill to Rose St where the ginger ogre lies in wait for me. She makes me promise to text her when I get home, but I’ve forgotten the promise as soon as I give it.</p>
I’m feeling woozy as I cross Sauchiehall St and I wonder – horribly – if I’m going to vomit. To do that on a date? Oh god, no. But as I enter Rose St, and see the Art  Deco entrance to the theatre – where he is quietly waiting – the nausea vanishes to be replaced with a sharp dread. Any second now, I’ll be face to face with him. My cruel ginger tormentor. I approach the glass doors, and see the foyer is jammed with people. I can’t go in. How can I just walk up to him, like a normal person? So, I pull out my phone, and pretend to be on a call, and patter about in the street for a few minutes to buy some time. I can’t go in. Eventually, I come to realise how absurd I look. I slip the phone into my bag and, step into the dazzling foyer. There is a crowd, but I spot him right away. There he is. I’d see him immediately, anywhere. </p>
We go into the bar for a drink, and you have to walk down a few stairs to get there. He seems to struggle with the steps, and I notice he is limping furiously. Of course, he said he’d twisted his ankle and that was why he couldn’t see me.</p>
He hands me the house red in a plastic cup, saying he's says he’s not drinking as he’s on medication for his ankle (which was the excuse he'd given for cancelling our last date.) He seems very curt with me, tonight. Is it because I’ve turned up drunk? I sneak a glance at him. He’s frowning down at a leaflet of the ‘coming attractions’. Neither of us is speaking. I sip my wine. Oh God, this is bad. Maybe he’s just in pain with his ankle? Or maybe he’s just embarrassed about being seen with a drunken woman. I drain my wine and then start crumpling the rim of the plastic cup.</p>
He finishes reading the leaflet and looks down at the mangled plastic in my hand. Sighing, he removes it from me and says we should get upstairs to the auditorium. He turns and hobbles up the steps to the foyer, and I follow him.. My face is so hot I’m surprised the fire alarm isn’t going off.</p>
As he walks ahead of me down the hallway I start to feel defiant. What’s he being weird for? It’s his fault I’m such a nervous wreck, and it’s his fault I couldn’t eat today, and it’s his fault I had no time for dinner, and it’s his hot and cold attitude that has made me so nervous about seeing him that I had to resort to Dutch courage! Then he looks down his snooty ginger nose at me, and acts all superior! My mind is galloping away with this when he turns at the foot of the staircase and takes my arm. I immediately soften. The poor lamb needs my help to climb the stairs. Oh Clown, how I adore you! I relax and all my unease falls away and, as it does, my giddiness surges back. Oh yeah, I’m drunk.  And here was me forgetting! I laugh as we go up, and I suddenly trip over my shoes, and manage to fall upstairs. Think what falling upstairs actually means. And now think what it means when you’re on the all-important third date with a man you are crazy for. He jerks me to my feet. I just laugh, ‘these aren’t even my shoes!’</p>
He’s not amused. ‘Well, whose shoes <i>are</i> they?’</p>
I snort, ‘Fiona’s!’, as though it’s the most obvious thing  in the world.</p>
He manages to manoeuvre me into a seat and we wait for the film to start. I don’t want a repeat of the silence between us downstairs so I start up a conversation, but all I remember is that I kept talking  about Ketamine. </p>
Mercifully, the lights dim and the film starts. I sink low into my seat and want to die. I’ve turned up drunk and I’ve annoyed him. I really have. He’s being very short with me. Maybe it’s not so bad though. But he’s definitely annoyed. I know that for certain as he  starts poking me on the arm. Oh, what have I done now? I sit up and the lights are on. Everyone’s leaving. Slowly – oh so slowly – I realise what has happened. The show’s over. I have slept through the whole film.</p>
He insists on walking me to Central Station to wait till my train arrives. Very gentlemanly, especially as his limp is getting worse and he really seems to be struggling. Sounds ungrateful, but I’d rather he just left me. I want nothing but to crawl under my bed and die of shame. We wait at Platform 7 and I am able to look at him, talk to him, see him as an actual man and not my evil, ginger marauder. All the silliness and nerves have been seared away by my embarrassment. All that’s left now is an urgent wish that he’d leave me so I could rethink what I’d done and see whether there was any way to salvage it. When he tries to kiss me I cringe as I know I must taste of cheap wine and have that delightful just-woken-up-from-drunken-sleep look. But if he’s kissing me, maybe all’s not lost? Or maybe he’s just too gallant to deposit me at  the station and leave? There are eight minutes till my train is due. I’m able to look at him and talk and am beginning to enjoy my lack of fear when he places his hands on either side of my waist, under my coat, and I’m reminded in a flash of how big and awe-inspiring he is. That one simple gesture reduces me again to the simpering nervous girl. Ahhh, back to square one! I can’t meet his eye and I fumble for something to say. I go back to repeating how sorry I am for falling asleep, and stress that I hadn’t had time for much to eat today so the wine went straight to my head bla  bla bla.</p>
He interrupts me, turning sarcastic. ‘Well, next time we go out, maybe it should be for dinner.’</p>
Oh, that was a cheap shot, I think. But I deserve it. I’ve ruined this.</p>
My train pulls in and, as I walk down the platform, I hear him laugh and say ‘remember to get off at your stop.’</p> I turn round to see if he’s joking but he’s already walking away. My mind clears as I notice he isn’t limping.
 

