It’s a bad date when he turns up hungover and dressed like an English soccer hooligan. It’s a bad date when you pay for dinner and he doesn’t even pretend to reach for his wallet. It’s a bad date when you walk him to the ferry and you’re relieved when he only kisses your cheek.

On the taxi ride home, Sally was talking her brain down from a window ledge. ‘Bad dates happen to good people,’ she told herself, but her brain was in panic mode. ‘I’m gonna end up old and withered and ALONE ’ it was shrieking at the top of its lungs. If brains have lungs?

She gave the driver a $20 note (the ride was only $14.50) and stumbled up the front steps like a drunk. She’d only had one beer.

Madison opened the front door before Sally could wrestle with her keys and the lock. She was wearing stripy pajamas. And a huge expectant grin. ‘Well?’
‘Woeful.’ Sally pushed past her.

In her bedroom she kicked off her kitten heels and sunk, face-first, onto the bed. ‘This is it, Brain,’ she thought to herself. ‘Last date ever!’