Page 18 of In the Same Boat

He laughs.

‘Is that just a fancy way of saying you’re a plumber? Well, hats off to you, I’ve never met a lady plumber.’

A lady plumber. Wow. I mean, I’m pretty sure a plumber is just a plumber.

‘I’m a civil engineer,’ I correct him.

‘Yes, well, it’s important to be polite…’

I’m not getting into it with him.

‘May I have your attention please…’

There’s a man with a sparkly blazer and a microphone who keeps shouting encouraging things at us all.

‘Boys and girls, it’s time to shake things up,’ he tells us. ‘Women, I want you to stand in a circle. Men, I want you to get in their circle – not like that, you dirty mare.’

He singles out one person who I’m pretty sure didn’t say anything. He must always make that joke.

‘So one big circle around the outside, and then another circle inside that circle,’ he sort of clarifies. I think we all get it. ‘Now, I want you to talk to the person in front of you, and when you hear the bell, move on to the next. You don’t know if you’re going to get five seconds or five minutes, so use your time wisely,’ he explains.

Ugh, is this just speed dating by a different name? I suppose it’s better, when you think about it, a more efficient way to process everyone, and more chance of Mum meeting someone without me having to get any more involved.

We begin the process, going through the motions, and while Mum seems to be in her element, happily making small talk with whoever is in front of her, I can’t help but feel personally offended by any man who doesn’t question why I – someone who is clearly under fifty – am here. And, not to sound big-headed, because Lord knows I know I’m not a catch, but I suppose I thought my age might work in my favour, give me an ego boost, propel me to Hollywood-actress levels of hotness by default. Honestly? No one seems bothered. Humbling, really, to know there is in fact not any type of singles night I could clean up at.

I turn to my mum ‘between men’.

‘You know we can leave, right?’ I say.

I know, I went to all this trouble to get her here, but I’m looking for an excuse to ditch now.

She looks at me, then at the room, then back at me.

‘No, no,’ she says. ‘That’s okay. We’re here now, aren’t we?’

Ugh. We are. I’ll just have to stick it out a little longer.

‘This feels like musical chairs.’ I kick off my conversation with the next man.

‘Steady on, girl, I don’t think you have to sit on anyone, but I can’t say I’m not game,’ the man who is old enough to be my dad replies.

He’s got to be at least sixty. He’s wearing tweed, giving country manor vibes – I suppose I should be flattered, that he spoke to me like I was a horse. He probably loves them.

I’m so, so relieved when the bell to move on sounds almost right away.

There’s another man. Then another. We do the same dance each time – name, job, sometimes age, general pleasantries. It feels easier, once we get into a rhythm, like work. When tasks are predictable I find them more manageable. Yes, I love the problem-solving side of my job, getting creative, putting out fires, but there’s a lot to be said for comfortable, predictable, easy-to-knock-off-the-list jobs. This will be over before I know it.

The bell sounds again and another man turns up.

‘You’re not over fifty.’

He doesn’t say it in an accusatory way. He doesn’t sound particularly surprised either. He’s simply stating a fact.

I look at him.

‘Neither are you,’ I reply.

He looks about my age. Early thirties – mid-thirties tops. Dark hair, smouldering eyes peering out from under the heaviness of his brows. There’s something about the way he looks at me, I don’t know, like he’s weighing me up, assessing the situation, trying to work out what I’m doing here.