Eva Bradley: Hot night in with a substitute

I've had some hot dates over the years. Some have involved overblown, dramatic gestures and others have been equally impressive without any of the fuss.
But few have been as memorable as the one that I had last Friday night ... with myself.
In a chaotic world where we have learned to function with multiple balls in the air at any given time, spending quality time alone doing nothing much at all has become one of life's lovely little luxuries.
When I found myself facing a Friday night in last week without company or plans of any sort, my first reaction was one of panic.
Was this the start of a gradual decline into some sort of anonymous middle-aged mediocrity?
Would I simply disappear into my house wearing daggy old ugg boots and a stretched velour dressing gown, never to be seen in polite company again?
Or would it be the start of a sweet and beautiful love affair with myself?
Life is what you make of it, so I decided it would be the latter.
Sneaking away from the CBD early, I resolved that if I was going to have a Friday night in, I would do it properly, with the sort of attention to detail normally reserved for dates with people I am really trying to impress.
To start my romancing of myself, I went to the supermarket to plan the menu. Most men have always assumed I would be most impressed with the sort of home cooking that puts Jamie Oliver in the corner.
But while fancy ingredients and unpronounceable names have their place in the art of seduction, in this instance I had insider knowledge and knew exactly what it would take to win this girl over.
As the world's largest bag of pik 'n mix was scanned through the checkout alongside two tins of Watties spaghetti and some wine, the teenage clerk looked at me with the sort of withering sympathy that only 16-year-olds can manage and asked if I was having a quiet night in.
Actually no, I informed him. I had a hot date. A really hot date. And tonight I was going to cook her favourite meal.
Given the fact that he was about 16, male and forever optimistic, he most likely instantly assumed that I had a lesbian lover and I didn't have the heart to dash his fantasy.
Arriving home with my spoils, I ran a bath with expensive aromatherapy oils normally reserved for special occasions or emotional disasters.
I then lit some candles, cued up the mood music and proceeded to indulge in the unparalleled bliss of having absolutely nothing at all to do and no one to do it with.
The phones were all off, as was the television.
Chocolate and sugar in every shape and colour I had been able to obtain were a short reach away.
To the sweet slow tunes of my youth (Sade, Sarah McLachlan and their velvety ilk) I lay in the bath and felt the stress of seven day working weeks as well as personal and professional dramas seep right out of me into the warm water of the bath.
By 6pm, I was in bed wearing my favourite flannelette pyjamas with the sort of poorly penned chick lit which on any other day I would feel immeasurably ashamed to be reading.
The best bit about this hot date with me was that I didn't have to worry about washing my hair, shaving my legs, putting on makeup or sounding witty and informed at every possible opportunity.
And because it was a special occasion, and because on the very best dates you should always end with a little bit of a snuggle, I made a special exception to the rules and let my dog under the covers with me.
She was hairy, snored loudly and farted like a trouper and so, in many ways, she was the perfect surrogate for a date night without an actual date.
As I turned out the light I thought that, given the success of date number one, I could definitely be interested in a second date.
But not too soon after the first one.
That would look far too keen.
Eva Bradley is an award-winning columnist.