Who doesn't love Chelsea? Well, a lot of people. However, for hot dates there are a few things working in its favour. Namely, very good looking surrou...

I thrive on flirtation on dates; it's the plutonium I need to get me to the end of the night. From him, however, there is none. Usually I'd put this down to nervousness or shyness, but that's not the case here. He exudes a kind of bland confidence; he's not brash or assertive, just, well, a bit boring.

Punctuality is the politeness of kings, my grandmother always used to say, and while I'm not particularly regal, I do believe the least you can do on a date is get there on time. 'Fashionably late' is a flawed, dangerous concept. One man's height of style is another's fashion faux-pas. You mustn't leave anything to chance.

It's 7.30pm, it's a Thursday evening and I am sitting scratching my name into a wooden table outside the Queen Elizabeth Hall while my date enters his twentieth minute talking about his job. Oh, this happens. The problem with asking people what they do for a living is that they tell you.

It becomes clear why I don't fancy him at all, why the fireworks failed to materialise - he looks like me. Like, spookily. His hair, the same kind of dishwater brown and even greying in similar spots as mine, is styled as if he used me for a mirror. I'm on a date with myself.

The desire to hibernate is overpowering at the moment. It's becoming much harder to cross the threshold of your doorway, let alone play the part of alluring sex symbol on yet another drinks date.

"Put on some high heels and a short skirt and come and meet me. The party needs livening up" he texted back, seemingly oblivious to the concept of feminism. And so I did. (I don't actually own a 'short skirt' but figured a nice pair of tailored shorts wouldn't disappoint.)

A quick social media scan tells me that the Beau is on holiday with the 'beautiful family' from whom he continues to pretend he is estranged. He'd got quite courageous in the weeks leading up to it, calling me on weekend lunchtimes to say he "happened to be in the area".

A confession: The Beau is back on my radar if not yet in my bed. My head is ruling that I shouldn't go anywhere near the lying, married, double-exclamation mark-loving ratbag but my ego is shamelessly loving that he still cares enough to pursue me after several weeks of me blanking him at every turn.

I lay back, hungover and in faint despair. When did dating get so ridiculously complicated? And do I really care enough about either of them? There's playing hard to get and just plain unavailable. Maybe it's time to step back and just take a little time out for myself.

Awful First Dates is not a treatise on why all the single ladies should just throw in the towel, and it manages to strike a surprisingly hopeful note in the end. Because even in the face of such eye-watering miseries, there's always a chance that the next date will be better.