I've never been on a blind date, but could there ever be anything as scary?

Well, unless you know the rules.

I spat the toothpaste out into the basin, rinsed and dried my mouth with a tissue. I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. Hair OK. Clothes hanging right, smart casual, flies done up. Shoes clean. Yep. I’d do. No need to fuss and preen while I was waiting.

‘Because I will have to wait’, I thought as I sprung up the superloo steps and out onto the Victoria Station concourse. It was one of the rules. The man arrived early, the woman late.

I looked at the big clock suspended from the roof. Sixteen minutes to go. Fifteen by the time I stop under the clock. I wondered if she was already here. Probably. It was the way the game was played. She’d turn up early, and sit in the café, or browse the magazines in Smith’s, or hide behind a hoarding.

And then she’d identify me under the clock, and see if I looked OK. See if I fidgeted or picked my nose or looked like a serial rapist. Sometimes she’d bring a friend. You couldn’t possibly go out with a guy your friend didn’t approve of. And she’d ask herself over and over again whether a blind date didn’t seem desperate, or what was wrong with him if he was going on a blind date, or whether this was really safe. And maybe she’d text him with some lie about Gran dying, or arrange for her friend to text her thirty minutes into the date if she needed an emergency escape from the most boring man in the world.

And then she’d walk up to him ten minutes after the agreed time as though she had just arrived. It was the rule.

I stopped under the clock and slowly turned full circle. Not that I’d recognise her hiding behind her latté or Hello magazine. That wasn’t the point. A slow 360 degree circle would let her see the red rose in my buttonhole, so that she could identify the target. Then I stood relaxed, confident, and as I waited, I people-watched.

They were mainly office workers still, off on their suburban train after working late, or having had a drink or two with the lads. Off to their suburban houses with their suburban wives and husbands to watch suburban TV shows. Thank God I had never married.

There were the few knots of tourists, coming in to the Smoke for a show or laden down with cases leaving on the Gatwick Express. The odd individual that I couldn’t quite pidgeonhole.

And the other Blind Dater. It was obvious that he was on a blind date, and just as obvious that this was his first blind date. Possibly his first date ever. Quite likely, I decided, his last one too.

He was barely twenty, with whispy sideburns to prove that, yes, he had started shaving, actually. Some of puberty’s acne had stayed around. His hair was bushy and unkempt. He wore an army greatcoat with CND patches sewn on. I guessed that that was meant to be an ironic statement about something or other. Hanging from his hand was a bunch of pink roses in their Marks and Sparks cellophane, price sticker still visible.

He came walking towards me, nervously looking around, terror etched on his face.

Oh God, I thought. He’s arranged to meet her under the clock. He’s going to stand next to me for the next twenty-five minutes.

He stopped a couple of feet to my side. He gave me a nervous smile and nodded. I ignored him.

And then, to my horror, he removed a clown’s hat from inside his coat. Not one of those bowlers four times too big with a little hole for the shaving cream to shoot out of. Not one of those sparkly cones that the posh clown wears. This was one of those cheap, plastic hats for kids to wear at birthday parties. He placed the tiny hat atop his mane, stretched the elastic to its full capacity and slid it nervously under his chin, wincing as it caught on his glasses.

He caught me looking aghast at him.

"I’m on a blind date", he said.

He pointed to his hat. "We thought that there might be other people meeting here, and we wanted a sign so she’d recognise me. We thought a rose was a bit clichéd." And then he caught sight of the rose in my buttonhole.

He tried to dig himself out of the gaffe he had made. "Only my avatar is Coco the clown, you see, and we thought it would be sort of appropriate."

"OK" I said. Silence hadn’t worked, so maybe a curt OK would shut him up.

But it didn’t.

"An avatar is a pictorial representation of your character in a chatroom, on the Internet."

"That’s where we met, you know." he continued, in the face of my complete indifference. "On the Internet, in a chatroom. I’m Coco and she’s Kitty."

"We’ve never met in real life, but we’ve been chatting so long, and so we decided we’d meet up. I have no idea what she looks like. To tell the truth, I’m a bit scared."

"I thought there’d be more people, you know, meeting here."

He checked his watch. "I’m a bit early. I thought maybe she might be too. We said sevenish, so I thought she might get here about quarter to. I guess I’m a bit keen."

And then he fidgeted, adjusting his coat, straightening his collar, shining his shoes on the back of his legs.

And then he checked his watch again, barely 20 seconds after he had last checked it. And out of reflex, just because I saw him do it, I checked mine

And then he started to adjust his coat again. Now he was making me edgy, nervous.

"You look fine." I told him.

"Really?" he asked earnestly. "Only I didn’t know what to wear, whether to wear a suit or what."

"No." I said, despite myself. "You never wear a suit on the first date, unless you’ve arranged to go to a posh restaurant. Smart but casual is the rule. You look fine."

And I looked at him, and he didn’t look fine. She has probably already seen you and done a runner.

"Come here." I told him, and held my hands out towards his hat. He leant back nervously.

I beckoned him closer with my hands. "Relax, trust me."

I took the ridiculous hat off his head, careful not to blind him with a broken elastic. I placed the hat forward on his head, and pulled the elastic behind, anchoring it under the bush of hair at the nape of his neck.

"The elastic was cutting into your neck. You’d have spent the evening looking like you had tried to cut your throat recently. Girls really don’t go for the failed suicide, trust me on that."

He smiled gratefully. "Thanks."

"And stop fidgeting. If she can see you fidgeting it’ll make her nervous and she won’t come over."

"You mean she’s here already?" he asked, terror-struck. He looked around.

"What does she look like?" I asked.

"I don’t know."

"Then what are you looking for? Just relax, stand still. It’ll be ages yet. Pace yourself."

"Ages?"

"They always arrive late. It’s the rules."

"OK"

I took the pack of mints from my pocket and popped one in my mouth. I offered one to him, but he shook his head.

"No, thanks"

"What did you eat for lunch?" I asked him.

He looked confused. "Burger."

"And if she comes in close, do you think she’ll prefer the smell of six-hour old burger or freshmint?"

"Good point." And he took a mint.

After a few moments he asked, "Do you think she’ll, you know, come in close?"

I shrugged. How the hell do I know? You might get lucky. Even Frankenstein’s monster had a bride.

"Some girls like to meet and greet á la continente." He looked at me blankly. "They say hello by giving a hug and kissing you on the cheek. But don’t you initiate that. If that’s what she wants, then she’ll offer up her cheek to you. But if you try it, you’ll just come across as a creep. It’s not fair, but it’s the rules.

"And for God’s sake, hold those roses properly." I took them out of his hand and repositioned them the right way up, the heads resting in the crook of his arm. "If you hold them upside-down like that you’ll break the stems, the heads fall off and you’ll end up giving her a bunch of stalks." I tore the price label off.

"And as a future tip, buy her a single rose. Red, not pink. That way she can wear it in her coat or hair or just carry it. But now she’s going to have to carry a bunch of roses around all night." He looked like a puppy that had just been kicked. "No, it’s a good thing, a bunch of flowers. Just next time, a single one is better."

"Damn, I’m so nervous now. I don’t think this is a good idea. I’m going to mess it all up. I mean, what do I say to her?" He looked at me desperately.

I sighed. What have I done to deserve this? I’m not a bad person. I’ve not killed anyone. Why am I being punished like this?

Once again I resolved to buy an MP3 player. Everyone in the city had one now. Not just the kids, but even older city types. It was a defence against the world. Don't talk to me. I can't hear you. I thought about getting just the earphones, slipping the jack into a pocket or something.

"OK, the first thing you say has to be a compliment about the way she looks. Even if it’s just, ‘you look nice’. But it’s better if you can be more specific. ‘That’s a great coat.’ ‘I love your hair.’ That sort of thing."

He was looking at me as though he was about to take notes. He was a drowning man and I was his straw.

"Then if you get stuck later, ask open questions." He looked at me blankly. "Don’t say, ‘Have you seen a good movie lately?’, because she’ll say either ‘Yes’ or ‘No’, and that ends the conversation. Ask her what the last film she saw was. Or the worst one, or who her favourite actor is. Something that she’ll take a while to answer. And while she’s answering you can think of the next question."

He nodded.

I half turned around and tried to people-watch again, but my heart wasn’t in it anymore. He had broken my routine and now I wouldn’t get it back. I felt tonight was not going to be my best.

"Well, the best of luck." I said out of the corner of my mouth.

He looked at me, and I nodded towards the platform gates.

There was a young woman striding towards us. She was wearing an incredulous grin. I was wrong. She wasn’t a docker, nor in her forties. In fact, she looked OK. Who’d have thought it?

"What makes you think that’s her?" he asked.

"Coco!" she shouted, and broke into a trot.

"Kitty?" he asked. He held her in her arms and gave her a hug.

"You wore the hat! Oh my God, I never thought you’d be brave enough." she laughed. "It suits you. Very dashing."

He took the hat off, embarrassed. He thrust the flowers at her, as though they were a bomb he had to be rid of.

"Pink roses! My favourite! You angel!"

And she took the roses and dangled them upside down by her side.

As they moved off I heard him say, "Did you watch that programme about Google last night?"

"Wasn’t that fantastic?" she replied, and their chatter faded into the echoing station.

Amateurs! How can they play if they don’t know the rules? Subtly I caught the time on the departure board. Two minutes to the hour. Twelve minutes before contact. Playtime.