I vant to be alooooooone....

Being a single woman, it's a tad odd going places alone, but I'm getting used to it. Why should I miss out on the simple pleasures of life merely because I'm a Singleton, as my heroine Bridget Jones would say? This is the first time I've been to the cinema by myself, and as it's such an auspicious occasion, I decide to treat myself to dinner too, and it's with some trepidation that I enter Frankie & Benny's emporium near the movie complex.

"Table for how many...?" enquires the punky-looking waitress, grabbing a handful of enormous menus despite the fact that I am plainly on my tod. She sulkily replaces all but one of the football-pitch sized menus and seats me slap bang in the middle of the diner. I feel on display, but am determined to brazen it out. There may as well be a neon arrow above my head announcing "LONER!" as every time I look up, there's someone staring at me.... Of course, it could be something to do with the fact that I'm sitting in the middle of a busy restaurant on a Friday night, scribbling in my Moleskine.... The staff regard me with suspicion, and I wonder if they think I'm a food critic, as I get served faster than I took to read the menu - or is it just that solo diners aren't good for business?

My server is a young guy with enough facial ironmongery to rival Xerxes, the baddie in '300', the film I've just seen (yes, for the fourth time...) but he's as camp as a row of pink tents, which is at odds with the face furniture. I suspect his lithp is to do with his pierthed tongue, and I don't even want to know what else has been adorned with metalwork... I attack my meal with gusto but realise too late that the red wine is a mistake as I feel my face aglow. When will I remember that alcohol makes me flush these days? It's an effort not to shovel my food down as fast as I can, as I'm aware - paranoia perhaps? - that I'm not their ideal diner. I'm occupying a table for 4, but I'm determined not to be rushed. Out of spite, when my plate is whisked from under my nose the moment I lay down my cutlery, I order dessert - unheard of for me - and I can see the smile stiffen on the waitress's face... (Shift change means Xerxes has signed off...) She plonks in front of me a piece of cheesecake the depth of a divan mattress, and I'm surprised by how light and delicious it is. I plough doggedly through it, then just to be extra awkward, order a cappuchino which appears almost as soon as I've said the final syllable.

It dawns on me that I've perhaps outstayed my welcome when the 50's background music rolls around to the same Frank Sinatra track that marked my entrance, and I look up expectantly for the waitress to bring the bill.... The staff have decided to have the last laugh however and are nowhere in sight. I am more than ready to go home after my somewhat arduous dining experiment, although I'm glad that I've done it. Maybe next time won't be so daunting?