So, tickets to the Tempest weren't exactly in hand, as I found out on Thursday afternoon when he tried to secure them to no avail. I honestly had very little interest in a night of Shakespeare so was happy to simply do dinner, if nothing else. But no, it was in his head: We were to sup, take in a show... and have cheese.

The cheese is important here, people. Remember the fromage!

Firstly, whilst I had expected to be late, which he would have been completely okay with, I arrived on time. Much to boy's chagrin as five fifteen would be closer to five thirty for him. I sipped on an aperitif until a quarter to six, when the hostess enquired as to the arrival of my partner, for the table was booked by others for half seven. Right, so he was late. No biggie. Well, it would have been less of a biggie had he left the cheese at home.

Here's the thing. Apparently Oxford houses a fabulous fromagerie, and he was hell-bent on bringing me back an assortment of stinky cheese. (Ah yes -regular, mildly-nosed cheese would never do.) Armed with Reblochon, Epoisses, and a fine brie, he arrived at the restaurant. (Cheese knife nestled in left jacket pocket.) Yes, stinky cheeses accompanied him throughout his afternoon in Oxford, whereupon he and the cheeses engaged in conversation with a Poet Laureate; they provided heady introspection on his train ride into London; and those stinky cheeses were allowed to enjoy the marvel that is the London transport system as well.

The boy went for the kiss. He was met with European cheeks. (Snootyless airkisses - Not my bare bottom.) The cheese sat to my right. Futzing through meal selection preceded a brilliantly fun dinner. We laughed, we chatted. We got on great... as friends. Upon realizing that we were already late for the theatre, and seeing that he was headed for a tube station, I suggested a cab. £9 later and we were at the Barbican ready to take on The Bull... which we were late for. I HAVE NEVER BEEN LATE TO THE THEATRE. I don't like it. I have little to say about the expletive-ridden play based on the mediaeval Irish Epic "The Cattle Raid of Cooley" except to note that the naked actor portraying the family dog is likely not what my date had in mind when there were warnings of nudity.

Let me preface this next bit by saying that the boy had me wedged under his arm the entire walk leading to the cab. I do not like this. If I wanted to be attached to someone's armpit, I would have negotiated a Siamese birth with God years ago. Those of you who love me know how very keen I am on this hand holding thing. You're even more aware of my sarcasm when it comes to such matters. There have been TWO men, in the last decade, who have managed to magically hold my hand as we walked, without my cringing. The first was simply a pretty, bouncy thing who succeeded in making me feel special, yet comfortable, with the affection. The second is something I still try hard not to make too much sense out of. So don't suffocate me as we walk down the street. When you reach for my hand and I pull away, take the hint. When I have to actually tell you "no", it makes everyone feel bad.

I say all this because it continued at the theatre. Ah yes, the attempts at back rubs, the massagings, the arms around the shoulder, the hands through the hair. I LOVE having a man play with my hair... but NOT when I'm in public, trying to enjoy a play. You've seen this hair... Playing with it is not silent business! I can't stand the sounds of hands rustling about my head when I'm trying to listen. And now you know.

Oh, and lest you fear a displaced cheese... it came with us to the theatre. Stinky cheese joined us for dinner. Stinky cheese joined us at the Barbican. I started wondering whether I was smelling cheese. Were others smelling our cheese? This was not good. His plan... moonlit cheese nibbling on the Southbank, which would be utterly romantic IN JUNE!!!! Alas, the cold winter months found the cheese was brought in hopes of perhaps, probably, hoping beyond hope, I brought him back to mine.

No, no, no, no, NO! You leave the cheese and crackers at home. If the lady, by twist of fate or dizzy squiffiness ends up back at yours, then VOILA! You are a star, and have presented a world of french nibbling options. You don't carry stinky cheeses with you throughout your date in hopes of snacking at hers. You just don't. Poor thing was simply trying to be romantic. But dinner, play, and CHEESE... slight overkill, when coupled with the touchy, squeezy, holdy nonsense and no desire on my part for a single kiss.

It was half nine and I had no desire to head to the Covent Garden Hotel for cocktails. I wanted to go home. Nine thirty on a Thursday night, and I wanted to go home? It was clear that honesty was the only way out of this. And so I told him, reiterating once again that I'm afraid there was no romance in our future. I won't go into the "What did I do wrong?" portion of the evening.

Suffice it to say, he walked me to the station, excused himself with a saddened face, and I watched as a broken boy disappeared into the night... with a bag of stinky cheese.

If you smell something funny driving under that underpass in the next few days, I'm taking bets on how far he flung the cheese.

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Ed. Note: I did actually feel the tiniest bit bad for having written about this particular date for this did prove to be the beginnings of an interesting friendship. Romantic foibles aside, we had a fabulous time chatting and laughing, and his is not a brain to be taken lightly. Alas, zero chemistry. The smart ones always have issues.

I’ve made a lot of choices in my life. I’ve chosen to change careers. I’ve chosen to travel to distant continents. I’ve even chosen to pick up, pack up, and move my life clear across the Atlantic Ocean. But this is by far the most challenging choice of my short yet significant life.

It seems every day, for three days now I escape the brisk air of London’s streets by finding refuge in a 40 degree room. This sounds lovely at first. After all, golden tans can be acquired in the hot summer sun. Super slushies can’t cause brain freeze when the mind is nearing its melting point. Bodies glisten in a permanent after sex glow when the sun chooses to slip a little tongue into that notorious kiss. All in all, 40 degrees Celsius sounds scintillatingly hot. And in London, hot is good.

Okay, so maybe the hot summer sun burns pale English skin, slushies have enough sugar in them to induce a diabetic coma, and there’s a fine line between glistening and sweating like a paedophile in a playground. But it still seemed like a good idea… three days ago. You see, that’s when I decided to take up Bikram Yoga. Balham houses a brand, spanking new yoga studio and with a 30 days for £30 introductory offer, I figured I could bend my body into shape for a pound a day. I’ve always been unusually bendy. How hard could it be?

Cue the heat. Upon entering the studio, we are invited to remove our shoes, change in the far too tiny for twenty curvaceous women dressing room, and enter the studio which shall heretofore be known as the Devil’s Armpit. The room welcomes us with a gentle persuasion and the feeling of loving hands seduces us with warm caresses. Soon its strongly scented arms lift us up to the initial warm up poses. Our minds reel with dizziness as there are very strong physiological messages shooting through our synapses that we are, in fact, plenty warm. The fiery pit of perdition invites us all to have a sip of water now and again, but not a gulp, because THAT would make us ill. I barely made it through half the poses without sitting through the first set for fear of passing out. The room, now ripe with the stench of forty eight armpits, almost pacifies with fleeting blasts of air. Oxygen. Sweet, stinky oxygen.

No sooner am I praising the heavens for that bittersweet air then the room heats up again. For ninety minutes we are lead through twenty six poses, from forward stretches to backward bends, all in an intense heat meant to relax our muscles and oxygenate every cell in our bodies. Those bodies drip with enough sweat to put out the fires of a hell I now feel I know intimately.

Gorgeous positions are held amidst a backdrop of crumpled pools of sudoriferous flesh. Throughout the class we exercise the concept of Savasana, a quieting of the entire body achieved by lying flat on one’s back, heels touching, palms facing outward. After some of the more gruelling postures it’s only too fitting that the easiest position for me translates as “the corpse pose”.

It’s been three days now. I felt a lot less dizzy at this afternoon’s class, and the room no longer overwhelms me with its warmed fetor. I can actually hold more of the positions now and my entire body seems to be enveloped by a feeling of heightened relaxation. That said, whilst I am happy that I’ve made the choice to stick to Bikram, I know that tomorrow I’ll once again stride headlong into the Devil’s Armpit.

Hot, sweaty yoga. I may end up liking it... just not yet.