Eva Bradley: Start of perfect affair

I've had some hot dates over the years. Some have involved overblown dramatic gestures and others have been equally impressive without any of the fuss.
But few have been as memorable as the one I had last Friday night ... with myself.
In a chaotic world where we have learned to function with multiple balls in the air at any given time, spending quality time alone doing nothing much at all has become one of life's lovely little luxuries.
When I found myself facing a Friday night in last week without company or plans of any sort, my first reaction was panic.
Was this the start of a gradual decline into anonymous middle-aged mediocrity? Would I disappear into my house wearing daggy old Ugg boots and a stretched velour dressing gown, never to be seen in polite company again? Or would it be the start of a sweet and beautiful love affair with myself?
Life is what you make of it and I instantly decided it would be the latter. Sneaking away from the CBD early, I resolved that if I was going to have a Friday night in, I would do it properly, with the sort of attention to detail normally reserved for dates with people I am really trying to impress.
To start my romancing of self, I went to the supermarket to plan the menu.
Most men have always assumed I would be most impressed with the sort of home cooking that puts Jamie in the corner.
But while fancy ingredients and unpronounceable names have their place in the art of seduction, in this instance I had insider knowledge and knew exactly what it would take to win this girl over.
As the world's largest bag of pick'n'mix was scanned through the checkout along with two tins of Watties spaghetti and wine, the teenaged clerk looked at me with the sort of withering sympathy that only 16-year-olds can manage and asked if I was having a quiet night in.
Actually no, I informed him, I had a hot date. A really hot date. And I tonight I was cooking her favourite meal.
Given the fact he was 16, male and forever optimistic, he instantly assumed I had a lesbian lover and I didn't have the heart to dash his fantasy.
Arriving home with my spoils, I ran a bath with expensive aromatherapy oils normally reserved for special occasions or emotional disasters, lit candles, cued up the mood music and proceeded to indulge in the unparalleled bliss of having absolutely nothing to do and no one to do it with.
The phones were all off along with the TV and chocolate and sugar in every shape and colour was a short reach away.
To the sweet slow tunes of my youth (Sade, Sarah McLachlan and their velvety ilk) I lay in the bath and felt the stress of seven-day working weeks and personal and professional dramas seep out of me into the warm water.
By 6pm, I was in bed wearing my favourite flannelette pyjamas with the sort of poorly-penned chick lit which on any other day I would feel immeasurably ashamed to be reading.
The best bit about this hot date with me was that I didn't have to worry about washing my hair, shaving my legs, putting on makeup or sounding witty and informed at every possible opportunity.
And because it was a special occasion, and because on the very best dates you should always end with a little bit of a snuggle, I made a special exception to the rules and let my dog under the covers with me.
She was hairy, snored loudly and farted like a trouper and so in many ways was the perfect surrogate for a date night without an actual date.
As I turned out the light I thought that given the success of date number one, I could definitely be interested in a second.
But not too soon after the first, that would be acting way too keen.