First, the small print: I’m an old soul. A bit of a Luddite. I read the Globe every morning and seem to dwell on the obituaries (blame the residual influence of morbidly-obsessed parents). I like children and animals, unapologetically. I would say that I’m past my partying days, but in fact I never arrived. Under certain influences (or, rather, varietals), I’m prone to get touchy-feely.

Now, the rest: I have a keen interest in the world around me and expect my ball-and-chain (er, partner) to be similarly engaged. We don’t have to share a worldview, but you have to have one. You understand the difference between debating and arguing, and favour the former over the latter. You’re a doer, not a complainer (or if you complain, you then do). You’re capable of scratching beneath the surface, reading between the lines, and uncovering hidden truths. You’re not afraid to veer wildly from sarcasm to sentimentality. You like complicated.

We will get along just fine if: if you cook (I eat); you like, tolerate, or at least have an ironic appreciation for, Bonnie Tyler (yes, I’m holding out for a hero); and you are not afraid of the sun (although, as a fair-skinned Irish lad, I should know better). If you’re president of the Ira Glass Fan Club and speak Spanish, we can sign the papers right now.

As much as I dislike the interview date, that’s where it all begins. I’m well rehearsed and my comic timing is impeccable.

I’m also learning how to play tennis, so the hope is that, at some point, if the stars align and you’ve got a racket (not of the illegal variety), a second date might come to that.

Or Boggle. I kick ass at Boggle. But perhaps the blood sports are best left to Date 3.