In the late afternoon we update Eva's profile on Guardian Soulmates where I try to make her sound less like a West London Party Animal on crack and tone down her love for Scandinavian jazz. As she lolls on the sofa with her laptop on her knee wearing fisherman's socks and her son's track suit bottoms, this is not a difficult task. While I am dictating her qualities, she asks what Worcester man looks like and, obligingly, I switch over to The Telegraph where he was looking for love before he settled for me, and call up his picture.
'Last logged on: Yesterday' it says in bold type above his lovely smiling face.
'Oh, he looks nice,' says Eva, as I desperately try to ignore the glaringly obvious truth that Mr Worcester is still pushing his trolley around the supermarket long after I thought he had stopped shopping.
'Erm, yes.' I say embarrassed.
'Where did you say he was this weekend?'
'Camping. With his family. In Dorset.'
'Oh well, don't worry. I'm sure he's just being curious.'
Curiosity is not a good sign, I think.
'I am cheerful, good-natured and...' I dictate and Eva continues tapping away like a little woolly woodpecker, but I'm not really concentrating, I'm looking for my mobile phone so I can text Worcester man.
'I can't get a signal,' I say waving my phone around the room.
'What are you?'
'O2.'
'No you won't. I'm on 02 too and it never works up here. Try out in the front garden.'
I walk out in the rain and stand by the front gate holding my phone up like Liberty waving the flag. Still no darn signal.
'You could call him,' says Eva and hands me the house phone.
'It's dead.'
'Oh yes, that's right. It isn't working. I forgot. I need to get new batteries.'
'This is how horror films start.' I say, and she laughs. Cheerfully and good-naturedly.
'So you mean to say we're in the middle of fricking nowhere and we don't have a working phone between us?'
'At least we've got broadband. Send him an email'
'He's camping.'
'Never mind, you should put your own profile up, see if he's a match for you.' She laughs again. 'What shall I say I'm looking for?' She's back peering at her profile on the screen.
'I don't know. It doesn't much matter, does it? You'll get what you get and it won't be what you asked for.' I've lost my enthusiasm for internet dating all of a sudden.
Just then the lights flicker ominously and there's a crack of thunder.
'Don't worry. We've got plenty of candles,' she says.
But I am worried. A bit wet and deflated and worried.
