Now that just sounds daft. Conjour up whatever images you will.
I hate the word dating yet find it okay to say I’m going on a date. Well, going on a court, you can’t say, I suppose, when talking about a liason with a member of the opposite sex.
Dating is something I’d associate with an antiques expert as he examines a piece of Ming Dynasty China, struggling to put an exact year on its production. For me, dating means just like stamping a date on your head with one of those rubber stamps they use in the library.
Courting sounds much better in my ears: the wooing process, the reciting poetry or talking rude jokes or whatever way you chose to woo your conquest in. It might even be farting or belching. It takes all sorts.
Then, of course, we can always drop down a level or two, actually about seven, and say something like, Mary was shagging Joseph. Of course, we all know she wasn’t. Sorry, Lord.
Right, I’ve got to go and dodge bolts of lightning. This whole thing is pants, but that’s the subject of a forthcoming post.