Your correspondent went on a date a couple of weeks ago. (No, not this one. Although that particular date went down like a lead balloon, at least I made a friend out of it!) It went pretty well; we seemed to get on reasonably well. Not like a house on fire, but well enough.

Anyway, I said I’d call her sometime. Which I did at the beginning of the next week; the problem was that she was busy all that week and then I had the Amsterdam trip at the weekend, so I said I’d call back sometime later.

I didn’t.

I spent Monday to Wednesday procrastinating, trying to decide whether I actually wanted to go on another date with her. By Thursday I had decided not, but I ended up watching a film and by the time it had finished it was too late to call. On Friday I then found myself beyond any reasonable calling-back window. I’m aware that this isn’t earth-shatteringly evil, but I feel bad not having had the common decency to at least phone to explain what was going on.

Summary: poo.