'I don't understand,' she said. 'Where's the problem?'

        I rubbed a hand over my forehead and let the phone slip until I held it by the earpiece. Thinking, thinking. My eyes followed Karla Marx as she circled her empty food bowl, whiskers dotted with milk drops. She flicked her head in a dainty cat sneeze and looked up at me, also awaiting a response. It was Sunday morning and I'd just finished my first cup of tea. I sank into a chair and propped my elbows on the kitchen table

        'Who did you say he was again?

        'Gavin.' Trish spoke with the air of someone explaining everything in a single word. 'Pleasant chap. Wearing a pink shirt. You must remember him.'

        I put the previous evening on mental rewind and came up blank. A blur of faces. Snippets of conversation. Daffodil bulbs should always be planted before Anzac Day, I'd instructed someone's teenage son, prompting an anxious smile and his hasty retreat to the far side of the room. I knew I'd talked a lot. I knew I'd enjoyed myself. That was about it. Now here was this Gavin fellow it seemed I should remember.

        'Hmm. I might be able to place him if I spoke to him again. I mean, I think I could. Possibly.'

        I looked into space, assessing the chances of remembering Gavin. Karla Marx looked at me, assessing the chances of more food. The outlook didn't seem positive for either of us.

        A moment longer, then I decided. 'Oh, go on, then. Give him my number. And thanks for last night. Great party. I'll let you know what happens with … uh, Gavin.' 
    I hung up and leant back in the chair. Sunshine crept over the kitchen floor and Karla Marx took up her morning position, asleep on the warming tiles. I glanced to the other end of the table. The last essay for the term, finished and ready to be handed in, sat under a pile of overdue books. Ahead lay an uninterrupted Sunday, with nothing planned until an evening walk through Kings Park. 
    'Aaah,' I said, in one long, contented sigh.
    The phone rang again. Karla Marx woke and slitted her eyes toward it with a look of distrust. It was Gavin. 
    'Hello? Margaret?'  
    Nice voice, I thought; deep, finely grained. Encouraging. Off to a good start, at least. We worked our way through greetings and morning-after-the-party reflections. It had been fun, we agreed. How long had I know Trish, Gavin then wanted to know, and where did we meet? One thing led to another and before long we were chatting away like old mates. I poured a second cup of tea and spread Vegemite on a slice of toast. This Gavin was OK.
    'I liked your joke about the nine-legged spider,' he chuckled.
     I told that joke? I thought it was someone else. I took a bite of toast; surprised, but not to the point where alarm bells were called into pealing service. It wouldn't be the first time I'd said something then forgotten it in a storm of chatter. And the conversation was going so well, it seemed a shame to derail it with a small detail. Gavin's voice sounded better the longer I listened. I munched on as he continued.
    'So. I've got tickets for a performance at the Subiaco Theatre Centre next Saturday. Would you care to join me?'     
    I liked his choice of venue for a first date. Much better than somewhere involving food and wine and good behaviour. Far preferable to an evening spent looking at someone across a narrow table, thinking up something witty or profound to say. And all the time wondering if my lipstick had been reduced to a tired, jagged outline. In unflattering light. Oh yes, I was beginning to have very positive vibes about forgotten Gavin.
    'That's close to my home,' I said, after what I hoped was a gracious acceptance. 'We could even walk there if the weather's good. Parking can be tricky on weekends.'
    'But I thought you lived in Nedlands.'
    Still the alarm bells remained silent. I'd lived in Nedlands before moving to Subiaco, so perhaps I'd mentioned it in this conversation I didn't remember. Nine-legged spiders and suburban addresses were not my strong point on a Sunday morning. A return to sleep beckoned, right after this cup of tea.
    'No. In Subiaco. Heytesbury Road.' I spelt it out, enunciating each letter, and then gave the street number. Twice. Not for want of a clear address would I miss my date with Gavin-in-the-pink-shirt. 
    'See you around seven, then.' I hung up and smiled into the sunshine. Karla Marx yawned.
    Gavin presented himself next Saturday evening. With an intake of breath I answered the doorbell and opened the front door. There stood a man of about my age, with reddish hair cut close to his head. Wire-framed glasses gave him a professorial look, as though he spent a lot of time in the company of books. He probably had more degrees than a thermometer. A trimmed beard surrounded a mouthful of teeth that had not fared well. I'd never seen him before in my life.
    'Margaret?' he said, with barely disguised bafflement.
    'Gavin?' I said, with barely disguised disappointment.
    We made the best of things and went on our theatre date. And as I sat next to the man in the pink shirt - he'd worn it again that evening, or perhaps he had a whole wardrobe of them - I pieced together the scenes of our own drama. 
    I blamed my parents. Coming from a generation which revered the British monarchy, they had, like so many others, named their daughters Margaret or Anne or Elizabeth. I'd won the Quinella - Margaret for my first name, Anne as my second. The names emulated the beloved royals, if only in a small way. But years later, calling out the name Margaret at any gathering where there were women of my age present guaranteed several heads would swing in your direction. 
    So the confusion had a simple explanation. I was not the required Margaret. I had not caused the twinkle in Gavin's eye. He was after another named-for-a-princess party goer. I sat through the performance, applauding in the right places and making polite remarks until the dreary evening drew to a close. But a thought stayed with me as Gavin and I walked home along H-e-y-t-e-s-b-u-r-y Road. My parents and Princess Margaret had a lot to answer for.
    Setting Gavin to one side, the dating landscape of my single years had been an unremarkable plateau, tame and predictable. I remembered the high season of my amorous life with a certain fondness, to tell the truth. But one thing had always puzzled me and it still did, all these years on. Mention a new male acquaintance and the response was always the same. Where did you meet him? No other information carried the same weight. Even enquiries regarding the new suitor's name came as an afterthought. The mechanics of meeting remained the question uppermost in the minds of inquisitive friends.
    Why this preoccupation with first meetings? I had no idea. Over the years I devised answers to cut short tiresome explanations. I met him at my Tuesday night tap dancing class had served me well. But after some reflection, I believe I'm correct in saying it was Mum who responded to my dilemma by advising thus: Just say you met him at the bus stop.
    I don't catch enough buses to estimate the likelihood of such a meeting, but I'm sure I'd get good odds on the fact it doesn't happen often. So I've had to wait until well into my middle years and make three trips to Venice to be able to say with hand on heart honesty that I met him at the bus stop.