Married to the city

Last night, I went on a date. On paper, it was pretty fantastic: he was handsome and funny, he asked lots of questions, laughed at my jokes, had booked a very romantic table in a really nice restaurant and insisted on picking up the tab. Also lovely is the fact that he really wants to meet up again. Not so good is the fact that I don't.

Despite being lots of totally ace things, he was... and I'm afraid there is no easy way of saying this... he just wasn't clever enough. Before you spit out your oatcake at my arrogance, read me out. I don't give a flying expletive where he went to university or even if he did or not, I don't care if he doesn't have two GCSEs to rub together. It's not about spelling or grammar or intellect. It doesn't matter if he spent his twenties living in a squat smoking pot and playing the bongos. What does matter is how he spends his time now. Is he reading and writing and thinking and growing? Or is he bumbling? Because if it's the latter, then I can try as hard as I like, but I guarantee I'll never fancy him.

The other day, someone asked what qualities my ideal man would have, and I repeated the line from my online profile about him being 'slightly taller, slightly cleverer and slightly quirkier than I am', and the guy I was talking to asked how I would know that he's cleverer than me. I said it comes down to whether he can beat me in an argument. If that's not possible, then the power balance is all wrong, and when the initial honeymoon period is over, I'll take him DOWN, motherfucker. Can't help it.

This guy was very kind and nice. But he doesn't read, he doesn't write, he doesn't vote and he couldn't agree that skiing is slightly elitist, justifying its prohibitive expense on the basis that it protects the environment and that it would be 'ruined' if everyone did it. This morning, he texted me saying he enjoyed the fact that I was so challenging, which, along with "I wish Sarah Palin had won" and "I prefer Strictly" is pretty much the quickest way to put me off you. Sure, it's OK for a girl to challenge a guy, but at least half of the challenging has to come from the guy. Them's the rules.

Saturday night got me worked up too. Kate and I went to the depths of Westbourne Park for Book Slam!, a monthly event that bills itself as London's first/best/only literary nightclub. I was hoping for a bit of original thought and we were both disappointed by the staggeringly conventional stand-up host, Robin Ince, and the performance poet whose name I've forgotten, neither of whom said a single thing that wasn't wholly derivative. Then there was music from a disappointing choir and a girl with a beautiful voice but sub-Alicia Keys songs who's never going to make it big. The evening's sole highlight was the fascinating Lionel Shriver, who read excerpts from two of her books and dealt with Kate's and my gushing praise with cold-faced disinterest. Normally I wouldn't dare approach someone like her at a public event, but she seemed to be hating the proceedings even more than I was, so I remain cockily hopeful that we were a welcome interruption. The evening was as suffocatingly prosaic as a BBC costume drama, and while I sat inwardly tutting throughout, I did at least feel vindicated that, while I will never feel like I truly belong among the hipsters of East London, I definitely feel more at home with a few weirdos than in the safe and sterile confines of the W postcodes.

I tell you where I was very happy indeed, however - at the Roundhouse on Friday night, watching this year's selection of cabaret by La Clique. Featuring nudity, juggling, comedy, acrobatics, crap magic, impressions and rollerskating, I laughed my tights off and would happily pay £22 to see the whole thing again tomorrow. It's on until 17 January so if anyone fancies a New Year pickmeup, give me a shout. Of course, it always helps if you're sitting there with someone fantastic, and Thom's cackles definitely kept me smiling. Throw in dinner afterwards at a delicious pub, and a couple of narrowly-avoided fights in a grotty Camden boozer, and it was pretty much my perfect night out. London: I love you.