The Proclaimer hates to be told he's normal but, in my experience of men, he is. He is polite and kind and decent and isn't stricken with weird perversions or harrowing mental disorders as the others have been.

When I laugh and say how nice and normal he is, he gets fidgety and stressed and asks, in his comedy West Country accent, how I can say that? He's a geek! He plays role playing games where he pretends to be a sorcerer armed with bees! He studied zoology and wanted to specialise in those crazy ants who keep slaves! He drives a yellow Skoda! He wears a watch made of tiny Lego bricks!

But I just pat his rosy Somerset cheek and think how nice it is to be with a normal man.

Our next date was at The Finnieston where we would feast on scallops and absinthe and curly fries. I got there first and played with the crusty bread they'd placed before me which was studded with pats of smoky garlic. (So glad to be at the easy dating stage with him where I don't need to fret over things like who should get there first or whether it's OK to eat garlic.)

Eventually, the Proclaimer arrived and stood by the leather booth, huddled in his coat, looking down at me.

'It's really warm in here,' he said.

'Take your coat off then,' I said, not looking up because I was too busy reading the cocktail menu.

'Yeah, I'll take my coat off, shall I?'

'Yes.'  A Scarlett O'Hara? That sounds nice.

He sighed. 'OK, taking my coat off,' he said, 'but it hurts. I've been scratched.'

I finally looked up and laughed. 'What, did a badger attack you?'

This was a running joke we had. One night, being tipsy and silly, we'd tried to think up the most outlandish excuse to get out of a social engagement and had settled upon being assaulted by a badger on Maryhill Road. Ever since, 'badger got me' was our standard joke excuse for anything, from ducking a dental appointment to forgetting to get Lurpak at the shops.

He delicately peeled off his coat and I was quite shocked to see the blood and the badger clinging to his back.

I put my bread down. 'Badger,' I said.

He frowned at me. 'What? Oh this. Yeah, he's been on my back all day.'

He was wearing a white tshirt which had been slashed and ripped and spattered with fake blood. A belt had been strapped round his chest underneath it, and the badger's paws had been stapled to the belt, giving the impression, as he stood in this posh seafood restaurant, that a badger was clinging to his back and mauling him.

I sent him off to the toilets to unstrap the badger and change into a clean tshirt. When he came back, he silently placed the badger on the table between us. I had to admit his point had been made.

'OK', I sighed and shook my head. 'You're not normal.'

He slid out of the booth and pulled me out beside him and twirled me round. Victory for the geek!

A waiter appeared with menus. He took in the badger, the belt, the blood, and just nodded at me and said 'love your dress.'

Over dinner, The Proclaimer described how he'd ordered a badger on Amazon but it was hard to judge what size he'd need so millions of badgers of varying sizes were delivered, trialled and discarded. Tiny ones, awkward ones and massive ones.  Oversized badgers of every description.

'Em. Where are they all now?' I asked. 'All these badgers?'

'Oh, they're in the spare room,' he replied.

(I made a mental note never to go to his flat.)

It hadn't been an easy trick to stage. The hardest part had been strapping the thing onto his back. The badger would be dangling precariously from the belt round his chest and then he'd have  to gently ease his coat on to conceal the bloodied monstrosity. He'd do that, grab his car keys and head for the door only to feel the damn badger come loose and slither down his back for the fourteenth time. 

Driving down to meet me had also been fraught with musteline complications, he explained, with a fat badger strapped to his back. He'd been forced to sit bolt upright, pressed to the steering wheel.

 'If a policeman had stopped me…' he shook his head.

Visions of him appearing in the papers as a thwarted suicide bomber with badgers strapped to him sprang into my head.

'Because I've only been stopped by the police once before,' he told me. 'It was Boxing Day and I had to go out late at night. The police were maybe stopping everyone on to check for drinkers. They asked me where I was going. I said I was just popping out to buy some Febreeze.'

He stirred his drink and said sadly, 'but I don't think they believed me.'

I believe you,' I assured him. Yes, I can believe that whilst the rest of Britain is partying or sleeping off a riotous hangover, The Proclaimer would be popping out for some Febreeze.

What a normal, and yet utterly strange man he is. I leaned over to pat the badger. I could really get to like my Somerset Proclaimer.