Single-again Samantha: Mrs Doubtfire

Dating as a single parent presents a minefield of obstacles – and I’m not talking about the Fisher Price obstacle course that a date has to negotiate in order to make it to my front door. For one thing, there’s the ubiquitous babysitter – she of little faith of who will arrive on the hour tonight, casting a critical eye over the chaos of my kitchen as she sets her watch.

Why is it that we capable women of the modern world cower like chastised dogs beneath the watchful gaze of the sitter? Obviously I’m beholden to her for safeguarding the precious fruit of my loins with her life. But, really, I think it has more to do with the fact that she peeks from behind closed drapes as I lurch across the lawn at some ungodly (and expensive) hour or, worse still, when I enjoy an opportunistic snog on the doorstep.

The thing is that this woman is privy to a lot of my dirty laundry… and I’m not talking soiled diapers here. She’s bemusedly witnessed me scramble about in a state of half undress as an eager beau arrives early, giving her ample time to size him up before I’m able to make my rather dishevelled entrance. During this time she’s also witnessed the interplay between date and daughter as mommy, hastily applying lipstick, prays no real damage is being done.

I guess it’s not dissimilar to the days of adolescence, when my father was at hand to totally unnerve a potential suitor. My sisters and I would call it the Spanish Inquisition – appropriate, we thought, given my father’s Spanish roots. And here I am having come full circle, promising the sitter I’ll be home no later than 12 and trying to gather as much composure as one-too-many Cosmopolitans will allow when the pumpkin hour arrives.

When it comes to dating, some things, it seems, never change.

- Single-again Samantha