Rule one: never, ever take a date to a gig

I've done some stupid things in my time. Forgetting to switch on the tape recorder during an hour-long interview with Blondie's Debbie Harry is way up there at the top of the list. Getting engaged in my first year at university to a girl from Clapham must merit contention, not because she was from Clapham - although the north-south divide did cause havoc with communication - but because it was, you know, my first year. At university. And I was about 10 (and therefore could barely afford a tube of Rolos, let alone a £20 ring from Zales). And going to meet my rabbi for counselling just after my divorce last year has got to be in the top five ("rabbi" in Hebrew means "teacher", not "expert on inter-personal relations with specific reference to psycho-sexual collapse").

But one of the dumbest decisions I've ever made was to invite a lady to join me at a performance by the comedian Sarah Silverman.

Now, I never take anyone, male or female, to gigs. There are good reasons for this. I dread running out of things to say in the car and even keep a list of conversation topics in the glove compartment just in case. During the concert you have to shout in your companion's ear because the music's so loud, and I hate shouting (and don't get me started on ears). Then there's the fear that you're going to bump into someone you've known for years but whose name you can't remember, and you've got the embarrassment of introducing them to each other so you have to turn it into a joke and make out you've forgotten both ("Hi, Thingie!" I usually say. "Meet Wotsit!").

Mainly, I go to concerts alone because of the one-in-a-million chance of meeting a girl. OK, one-in-a-billion. But it has happened. Once. Sure, it was a long time ago (clue: the Berlin Wall was still up), but it led to a long and glorious affair (translation: we met up twice for coffee before religious differences became an issue - I'm Reform and she was, well, a Gaian ecologist obsessed with biogeochemical conditions on Earth, so I had to pretend my Renault 5 Turbo belonged to my brother, and I don't have a brother).