Plane flights always bring about a level of anticipation. Some more so than others.

A trip with the kids or the girls always involves lots of arranging, co-ordination and an understanding that one must be a "sensible packer" A top that could be worn with a variety of bottoms and cater for cool and warm days and nights. Yes, being a sensible packer is a skill that many women take pride in.

So it is an odd feeling sitting in the airport lounge, clutching a ticket to Adelaide, all by myself. It's only a weekend away so I dont have to line up a host of outfits and that has made this packing job a little easier but, at the same time, twice as stressful.

My reputation as a sensible packer is in tatters as I ponder what is in my only bag. Inside my carry on luggage, one of those cute little wheelie numbers that has been with me all around the world, is well...........very little indeed. And of that very little, each item of clothing is well...very little. But is it sensible? I simply do not know but I suspect it's anything but.

Is a g-string teddy sensible? Well' better than a bra and panties on a cold night, I think. Is a couple of miniscule Wicked Weasel g's sensible? Well, if its hot by the river they might prove to be. What river? I dont even know where I am going. But I have been told and I have created a picture in my mind. Will it be like I imagine? And I laugh at the irony of my thoughts when I ask myself "Can anything really be "no strings" when everyting in my bag is a heap of strings held together by string"."A bad start by me" I laugh.

And I'm sitting, waiting and thinking. Perhaps thinking too much. If being on a dating site as part of a couple seeking other couples and women is at all sensible in the first place? If chatting to a couple and then discovering that couple is really a man and then still chatting is sensible? If laying eyes on his pics whilst ignoring hers is sensible? If not telling my partner about this particular ...ahem..couple was sensible?

I am standing with my bag in Rundle Street having seen on descent to the airport the Adelaide Hills grace the horizon in beautiful sunset tones. But it's serenity has not fully captured me as I wait nervously for a man I simply don't really know. And I'm here with a wardrobe that allows for a restaurant, maybe a coffee at a cafe-but otherwise nothing else that is generally worn in public. I'm here, the plane has gone, the taxi has emptied me out and I'm in Adelaide. "Not really anywhere to turn , is there?" I think to myself.

Every car coming towards me is scrutinised. "God I hate tinted windows." A 4WD ute proceeds ominously through the intersection where most other cars seem to be turning. Thats it. As it slows I know that it is indeed him. I am eye level with a brick cutting machine and my knees go weak with fear.

Out steps a dark, very fit tradesman whom I recognise as the man I have come to see. His flashing smile is unmistakeable except this time its animated rather than the frozen smiles you see in still photos. Like most men, he looks me up and down in the way that women are used to. Some hate it. I love it. It makes me feel special to get a look and even if its not kosher to some, you won't have any complaints from me as long as the glance ends up with eyes meeting and a smile.

And thats how it was with Damian. The first step in regaining some comfort was warmly received as he took my bag and put it in the back of the ute. My sensible black dress didn't necessarily clash with the tradesman's ute but it came into it's own as Damian opened the passenger door just like a suited and capped chauffeur does in a stretch limo. I laughed out loud at his cheeky manner and jumped in. The door was shut quickly and firmly and I swore he jumped the ute tray as he appeared in the drivers seat in a nanosecond. A first stolen kiss and the engine was running. At once, I felt a mixture of guilt, fear and anticipation. We both looked straight ahead.