Yesterday I was invited to lunch at The Hilton. On a blind date. The banker I was meeting turned out to be a bovver boy. He had a number two haircut and was wearing a white shirt and black trousers. Banker? I'm guessing the rest of his uniform was in the cloakroom. We got the lift to the 28th floor. Food will help, I thought. On arrival, he guided me away from the restaurant and into the bar. Not a word was said. I ordered a sherry. And sat on my seat edge, ready to do a FloJo. I explained away my obvious discomfiture, saying the hotel's outrageous car park charges had given me palpitations. We made small talk. Suddenly, apropos nothing, he said loudly: "You're every man's nightmare. You're obsessive and demanding. In a relationship, I can see you'd be the taker." Nonplussed, I sought diversion. I told him humorously about the mum who'd joined Sugardaddie.com. "Why don't you do that?" he said. "You're obviously high maintenance." And there's the proof that everything is relative:-o When I ventured that I was a tad mature and heavy for the average zillionaire, he looked me up and down. "You could do it." I felt a lot lighter when I left him, that's for sure. Bizarrely, he disappeared down Park Lane, promising to give me some contacts at Merrill Lynch. "You know your stuff and they need the help," he said. I still don't know what to make of it:-o