Catherine Townsend: Sleeping Around

First dates and final straws

"Um, I don't think we're allowed to use those in here," I whispered, before he put his palm up in a "talk to the hand" gesture, inserted his earpiece and made a shushing sound. Screw this, I thought as I folded my napkin, grabbed my bag and hotfooted it outside. He caught up with me, the apparatus now dangling from both sides of his head like antennae. "Hang on a minute, Steve," I heard him say, then, "Cat, why did you walk out? I was in the middle of a big deal there!"

"Sorry," I told him, holding my arm out for a cab. "I'm sure that you're a great guy. But the mobile phone thing - it's a deal-breaker."

Ah, the deal-breaker: the pettiest, ugliest and quickest way of weeding out potential paramours. Most of my friends have used it at some point to determine what constitutes unacceptable behaviour. Whether it's a serious secret (a girl announcing that she's pregnant, after several tequilas) or a fashion faux pas (men wearing socks with sandals).

A straw poll of my close pals revealed that they have decided to ditch a date for offences ranging from a bathroom that would make a Cambodian prison look inviting, an obsession with Japanese porn, and excessive toothpicking. The one thing they have in common? Dealbreakers are subjective, and usually emerge during those fragile first few dates, when disgust isn't yet outweighed by affection.

My ex-boyfriend David claimed that he didn't believe that a split-second judgement could sink the deal until his first date with a girl with a feline fetish. "She asked if I wanted to see a picture of her baby. Then pulled out an accordion wallet with about 30 photos of her cat in different outfits with matching shoes." By the time he got to the sailor-hat-and-eyepatch shot, David was begging for the bill. "Nothing has ever killed my sex drive that quickly," he said, shuddering at the memory.

I have also been a victim of the too-much-information-too-soon syndrome. One seemingly nice and normal architect started discussing his messy divorce halfway through our first drink, and kept asking me, "because you're a woman", why I thought his wife had left him. By the time he started blubbering, I had a few theories about that, but I just kept smiling and patting him on the shoulder. "So, she was always saying that she may have a sex addiction," he continued. "I mean, how often do you masturbate?" It was at this stage that I seriously considered escaping through the lavatory window. In the end, I mumbled something and got the hell out of there.

Of course, sometimes the crazy person turns out to be me. On one first date, I was so nervous - and drunk - that I burned a hole in the guy's leather jacket with a candle, tried to do a handstand on his car, and threw up in the car park. The next morning, I called to apologise. He came round with an ice pack, and we dated for six months. I guess if someone is really into you, even the deal-breaker can become a harmless eccentricity.

c.townsend@independent.co.uk