I thought that as soon as I entered the co-working space where the event was being held, my fears would melt away and I’d morph into this confident lady, ready to mine the depths of my patchy love life for the sake of a good conversation. Instead I was greeted by Nightingall, who might just be the happiest, most comfortable-in-her-skin woman I’ve ever met. After I’d written my name in pink on a sticky label and slapped it on my boob (turns out that’s not the best place for a name tag when you’re constantly introducing yourself to strangers), I had to pick another sticker, this time a symbol. I went for a classic gold star, and that’s when the questions started. "What does that represent to you?" asked Nightingall. Oh god, here we go, I thought, I’m being psychoanalysed and I’ve still got my bloody coat on (told you I was northern). "School," I panicked, "being good." "Great! The toilets are over there, and there’s drinks and canapés in the main room." Had I passed? Was there even a test?