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.
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.