<p>The Janny asked to meet me for brunch in the Go-Slow Café on Victoria Road. Not a great location. So, my first internet date was to be in an area known for its stabbings, its pound shops and its pit bulls – with a janny.</p>
<p>It was hard to know what to wear. It’s a date, yes, but it’s also the morning, in a place resembling Hiroshima on one fateful 1945 day, and it’s with a janny.</p><p> I wonder what a janny looks for in a woman? Well, what does a woman look for in a man? Certainly not a janny, that’s for sure.</p>
<p>We were meeting outside Queens Park station. He was there first, so I had a clear view as I walked down Victoria Road. I was horrified when I caught sight of him. He had a hump-back. Oh God, now I’ll always be known as Hump-Backed Janny Lover. As I got closer, I realised he was not deformed; he was just wearing a bomber jacket, and was all hunched up against the cold.
We introduced ourselves and shook hands. I wasn’t sure about the etiquette here, but is it normal to shake hands on a date? I thought not, but neither would it have felt normal to clasp the bomber-jacketed Janny in an affectionate hug or give him a peck on the cheek.</p> 
He seemed very nervous, which was good for me as it meant I could act all calm and superior. After all, I’m not the awkward Janny in the bomber jacket. 
He clapped his hands together and stamped his feet and we talked about the cold. Then it dawned on him we were supposed to be on a date, so he said ‘Well, shall we?’ and we started off down Victoria Road to the café.
 This was only my first internet date but I knew that the Janny and I weren’t going to hit it off. People say you must be patient, get to know someone bla bla bla, but I say ‘go with your instinct’, and that you can usually tell within the first few minutes. After all, first impressions count and my  first impression of this guy was ‘deformed janny’. It’ll take a lot for him to come back from that.
<p>As we struggled down an icy Victoria Road he made painful attempts to start a conversation. It was a Saturday morning and the road was packed with shoppers and known-criminals. Everyone was jostling one another, trying to avoid the slush and the Big Issue sellers, so it was hard to get a conversation started. We both tried and were shouting ‘what?’, ‘I didn’t catch that…’ when I suddenly stopped. He looked at me, nervous.</p>
      ‘I think we’ve walked past the café,’ I said.</p>
 He looked agonised, so I took over and headed us back down the road.
We finally sat down in the Go Slow, and ordered a latte each. (As he took his bomber jacket off, I gave him a cheeky glance to make sure he was definitely not a hump-back.) He also ordered a bacon roll with tomato sauce. I’d have loved the same, but it was unthinkable to eat a roll on a first date. Grease. Crumbs. Neon smears of sauce. Too risky. 
<p>The painful start-stop of conversation resumed. He asked me questions and it began to feel like an interview, but he was no Jeremy Paxman. So, we had strayed into something like ‘What are your hobbies and interests? List them for me, and show your workings.’ I would answer, and just as I tried to ask him the same, ie. draw him into a conversation, he would launch into Question No. 2, something like ‘How long have you been on the dating site, and what do you hope to achieve by this? Answer with reference to three novels you have studied this term.’</p>
 My spirits were low, and sank even further when his bacon roll appeared and I was deliciously assaulted by the smell of crackly bacon. I think it was at this point that I gave up and resigned myself to being interviewed and making a decent exit. I stirred my coffee and wondered how soon I could leave.
<p>He asked me what bands I like. Not being 12, I thought this was just a silly question, so I turned it back on him.</p>
  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s hard to say, but the best gig I’ve been to. I mean – like – the best. Do you know who it was?’
 <p>I admitted I hadn’t the faintest idea and stirred my coffee harder.</p>
    ‘The best gig has to be Rolf Harris.’
<p>For the first time, he had actually caught my attention. I looked at him. The phone vibrated in my bag. I knew it’d be rude to check it, but I needed a distraction. ‘Eh, tell me about Rolf Harris,’ I said and dipped into my bag. It was a funny text from my sister, asking me if I was still out with the weird janitor guy. I shoved my phone away and looked across at him. I was smiling, and he smiled too, no doubt thinking I was impressed with his talk of didgeridoos.</p>
 Suddenly, the café door opened and a blast of cold air came in. I put my coat on for warmth.
<p>The Janny eventually stopped talking and scratched his ear. I mean really scratched it. He actually put his coffee cup down so he could devote his full strength and attention to it. His pinky was right in there, working away.</p> 
   ‘Funny to think it’s still morning,’ I said.
    <p>‘No, no,’ he said. ‘It’ll be afternoon now.’</p>
 As we clearly had nothing else to talk about, I picked up the ball and ran with it. ‘No, I bet it’s still morning. Here, I’ll check.’ I lifted my bag back onto my knee and dug my phone out. I checked the time. ‘See? 11.58. Still morning.’
  <p>He shrugged. ‘So it is.’</p>
 Then I had a stroke of genius. I’ve got my coat on. Now I’ve lifted my bag onto my knee. I’ve remarked on the time. It can’t possibly be clearer that the date is over, can it? Is there anything else I can do to nudge us out the door? Then I remembered…his love of ‘equality’.
  <p>‘You must let me pay my share,’ I announced and put some coins on the table.</p>
<p></p>
 
There can be no clearer sign: the date is over. He took the hint – and my money – and pulled his bomber jacket on. We parted at Queens Park station with not even a handshake. I gave him a nod and flounced off home.
