IT is often said the waiting game is the hardest to play.

This is an old adage I fully support.

Few things are as stressful for me as queuing up or killing time – I think it’s because I don’t idle well.

However, the worst kind of waiting is hanging around for a first date.

I don’t mean the pangs of anxiety when you are getting ready, but rather the 15 minutes before your date is due to arrive when you are trying to remember what she looks like.

This is not as odd as it sounds.

Often, the only previous contact with these dates is a quarter of an hour of alcohol-blurred conversation, in a low-lit bar.

I always make a point of being the first to arrive as I feel it must be more awkward for a girl to wait around on her own with strange men looking at her – and licking their lips, probably.

As time wears on, you start looking at people in the distance who are completely different and squinting at them, wondering “did she really look like that?”.

Thankfully, they have always been even more attractive than I initially thought – although their retelling of the story may be very different.

This issue may have changed slightly as social networking sites have become more commonplace, although I have always felt inviting people to “be friends” after a quick chat is classic oddball behaviour.

There is also a risk that if things don’t work out you will have to make the awkward choice between deleting them – which looks petty and bitter – or getting regular unsolicited updates on their future relationships and potentially insipid observations on life.

In his single days, my younger brother worked out an inovative solution, suggesting they take a playful photo of them both on his phone for a full examination later.

An old friend, who had a bit of a stalker problem at one point, used to minimise the risk by lying to girls he had just met about where he lived. This plan fell apart when he met a girl he liked and she knew the obscure address he had given her and turned up to meet a complete stranger.

I remember being in a pub with him when he was angrily confronted over this point.

Even I was appalled when, in an unconvincing voice, he told her his mum had witnessed a crime and he couldn’t tell anyone where he lived.