I was home one Sunday chatting to Bachelor Number Eight and a couple of other boys. I was psyched, as it was the Melbourne Formula One. I had placed myself under house-arrest with a beer and a packet of corn chips.

Online chatting was the perfect way to fill the gaps between support races and Bachelor Number Eight was also watching the telecast so we were discussing the horrors of seeing eight cars worth a sum total of over $2 million being crumpled on the start line of one of the races.

HIM: We should watch this together in person, not just online

ME: I could be up for that.

HIM: Meet me at the pub in an hour?

ME: Sure thing. Here’s my number… etc etc

And off I went for an impromptu date with Bachelor Number Eight. It was at the local pub, it was safe, and Magic was away interstate with her sport of choice. So I didn’t tell her of course.

I met him outside the pub, and he was one of those guys who fall into the “much hotter than their photo” category. I was a little breathless on first sight. He was taller than me by quite a bit, had a very fit body, and actually managed to make boardies and a polo look decent enough for a first date (well, at the poor calibre of pub where we were meeting it was decent enough).