Jump out the shower. Pubes are looking a bit bushy. Attack them with some kitchen scissors.
No time to vacuum up the mess afterwards - need to get going.
Pay my train fare with a crisp £20 note. Ticket man asks if I've got anything smaller. I have, but I don't like his tone, so I grunt in the negative.
Natasha texts - she's arrived early. Bit keen. Don't bother replying. She can sweat for a little while.
Spot her leaning against the wall as I amble off the train. She looks just like her photos. A little tubbier around the thighs, perhaps. Nothing a few circuit classes wouldn't fix.
Notice thick blobs of mascara on her eyelashes as we kiss cheeks.
"What kind of bars do you normally go to?" I quiz.
"Anywhere really - I'm easy."
The Jacaranda it is, then. Bottles of lager are only £1 on weeknights.
Except Natasha wants Bacardi and Coke, so the round comes to more than £3.
We take our seats in the dank basement, where psychedelic paintings of John Lennon decorate each wall.
"The Beatles used to practice down here," I explain. "Though they were known as The Quarrymen back then."
Natasha looks on in awe as I continue my lecture with more Fab facts.
She eventually changes the subject by probing me on my worst habits. Can't say sniffing the toilet paper after each wipe.
In the end I go with ringing friends while on the bog. My date says she does that too. Suddenly the fat thighs don't matter so much.
My crotch starts itching. Happens every time I trim. Manage to have a good scratch while Natasha checks her phone.
She peels the label off my bottle as we resume our chat.
"That's a sign of sexual frustration," I point out.
"Why do you think I signed up for Plenty of Fish?" she quips. This girl's gagging for it.
With each Bacardi and Coke she becomes chattier, with each £1 bottle of Stella a little prettier.
We share stories of all the weirdos we've met online. Tell her about The Pasty Kiss and The Date with Depression.
"How about you?" I query. "Met any freaks?"
"For some reason I seem to attract a lot of..."
Natasha looks round before silently mouthing her next word.
Can't work out if she's being serious, so I nod politely.
"Every week another one messages me. I never reply. You'd think they'd take the hint, but no."
Not sure what to say. The silence is getting a bit awkward.
I pretend to need a wee, darting upstairs to the bog to assess my options while staring into a ceramic urinal.
Maybe I should confront her - that'd probably be the right thing to do. Or I could forget she's a racist in the hope of getting a shag.
End up doing neither. Instead I creep out of the toilets, smiling gingerly at the barmaid while scurrying to the exit.
The air's mild outside even though it's well past 9pm. A slate grey sky has replaced the earlier sunshine. Don't have to wait long for a train.
Five minutes after taking a seat my phone beeps.
"Where are you?" she's written.
I consider my reponse for a few seconds, then start typing.
"I'm on the train. You're fit and that but the coloureds comment put me off. And the mascara too - sorry."
Don't get a reply. End up having an early night. Except I can't fall asleep because of my itchy pubes.