Experiment Two is (definitely) go

Posted by Lucy Robinson at 21:15 on 25 Feb 2010

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Right, I told you I'd have an Experiment update soon and - finally - I do.

It's Experiment Two. The one where I try to find out if my spectacular dating failures are in fact my fault.

I decided to carry this ridiculous experiment out because I thought that it was a bit rum of me to continue to slag my dates off without bothering to find out whether or not it's me that's the problem. Do I turn nice men into despicable knobbers? Do I turn potentially beautiful evenings of romance and passion into nights of gothic horror which torment the men's dreams for months to come?

Am I, in short, a mentalist?

Step forward Stephen. Stephen is a man that I have never met. He is thirty one, he is a journalist and he lives in some place called South London. Stephen and I have exchanged emails, texts and a phonecall in preparation for this date. He seems like a good sort but that is completely irrelevant because, of course, I won't be writing about him. You've heard about plenty of dates from my point of view so instead Stephen is going to write about me. He's going to send his report direct to Marieclaire.co.uk and they will publish it on my behalf so I can't take out any bad bits. He will describe as best he can the experience of sitting across the table from Lucy Robinson. Is she a great date or a stinking rotter? Is she pleasant/entertaining/normal or is she rude/dull/minging?

Sh*tting hell! What am I doing?

I told a colleague about this the other day. She blanched and said "this sounds like a bad idea." Today, the first thing she said as she sat down next to me was "I've been thinking about your experiment. You really are VERY brave. Are you absolutely sure about this? I'm not sure I'd go ahead with it if I were you."

This alarms me. I think she is saying this because I am mad, and although I can't see this, she can. I think she's imagining the write-up already:

"When I arrived at the pub, I found Lucy in a maroon-coloured catsuit and steel toe-capped boots. She was performing Russian dance on top of the table but when she saw me she flew through the air in my direction, landing on my head and flattening me. When I regained consciousness she was standing over me, screaming "Stephen! I am desperate and lonely! You'll give me one, won't you Stephen? Won't you? And then you'll call me the next day? Won't you? F*CKING WON'T YOU????????" Then she kissed me (I noticed that she had a slight beard), punched me in the testicles and ran off into the night chattering like a monkey. The next I saw of her she was swimming the Thames in the Waterloo area, singing It's a Long Long Way to Tipperary in Portuguese.

In the absence of a formal date it has been impossible for me to reach a well-researched conclusion regarding her attractions but early indications suggest that there are better women available on the internet."

Pray for me, friends.

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