The Dating Detox: A laugh out loud book for anyone who’s ever had a disastrous date!

Bloomie clears her throat. ‘And Sara moves out in three weeks…’ Kate nods and looks away. Bloomie changes the subject. ‘Well, I’m utterly shattered, darlings. I have to work for a few hours, then have a wee powernap before tonight. One of The Dork’s French cousins is having au revoir drinks in somewhere in Notting Hill. Want to join?’

‘I’m meeting Eddie and his sisters for dinner around there. I’ll text you afterwards…Katiepoo?’

‘I might drive up and see my parents, actually,’ says Kate. ‘I need to think. Come on, let’s get the tube.’

I decide to walk home. It’s one of those breezy strange March days in London, when the sun has decided to pretend it’s in the Côte d’Azur in mid-summer. I love unexpectedly sunshiney Saturdays in London. Everyone laughs more and talks louder and smiles at strangers more than usual.

Serene contentment, consumer’s euphoria and sunshine intoxication? Hot damn, this is the best I’ve felt in months.

In the past five days, I reflect, I’ve recovered from a break-up, had a great day at work, enjoyed a party where I didn’t pull (or find my boyfriend cheating on me, for that matter) and made some outstanding wardrobe additions. Jake floats into my head, and floats out again just as easily. He’s a bit handsome. But I’m not dating. So it just doesn’t matter.

And it’s all thanks to the Sabbatical.

Maybe my flatmate Anna really should do the Sabbatical. Maybe Kate should, after breaking up with Tray, obviously. In fact, maybe everyone should. Maybe I should launch it as a club. What would a strapline for the Dating Sabbatical be, I wonder happily to myself. Opting out is the new in? There’s no sex in this city?

I put on my iPod, start walking in time to the beat (Tom Petty, ‘American Girl’) and sing along out loud all the way down Sloane Street. (No one can hear me. People don’t walk down Sloane Street. They just jump in and out of blacked-out Rolls-Royces to Chanel and Louis Vuitton and Chloe.) I can’t wait to get to work on Monday and work on the German job, I think to myself. Then I start laughing at the idea that I am actually looking forward to work.

Still singing, I take a short cut through Belgravia (Carl Douglas,‘Kung Fu Fighting’), avoiding the Pantechnicon Rooms, a wonderful pub where I used to go with Smart Henry and can therefore no longer visit, cut over Eaton Place (Beach Boys, ‘Don’t Worry Baby’) and walk down Elizabeth Street just as my favourite song of the moment comes on: Jay-Z, ‘99 Problems’. No one’s near enough to hear me, so I start singing along and nodding my head and moving my arms like I imagine Jay-Z would. If you don’t know the song, please Google it. The first line says it all.

At the precise moment I’m singing this line rather loudly, a tall man walks out of one of the posh bakeries on Elizabeth Street.

It’s Jake.

I do a textbook double-take, stop and say ‘Oh—hi! Hey. Hi,’ take out my earphones and start to giggle nervously.