Last week I had 2 dates. Two! I’m like the Hoff. I’m like the Heff. My pecs were positively quivering with anticipation. It feels good to get back into the swing of things. Sometimes when you’re busy, the search for love can get rudely shoved to the back of the queue. It’s time to shove it back up front again. The first date is all curls and soft cheeks and a laugh as naughty as a wet thigh. I take her to a Spanish bar where we drink wine at pre-Brexit prices that tastes like piss and bludgeons the back of my head the next day. “Sorry,” I say mournfully and she laughs. She’s a bit posh and well-to-do and buttoned up, but in a way where if you undid all the buttons you wouldn’t be surprised to find a pair of nipple tassels leering up at you. She likes “the penis museum in Iceland,” and “the sex museum in Naples,” and when I head to the bathroom her eyes cling to the curves of …
I’m getting political. I’ve decided to start a campaign to make people’s lives better. I’m sick of life being all me me me. I want to be civic minded. To fight for the issues that matter. To take a stand where it counts. I’m finally going to do my bit like a brave, fierce, towering suffragette. I’ll be sending out emails shortly and I hope you’ll join me in the struggle because, frankly, I’ve had enough.
Sometimes I think if there were credit ratings for hearts then mine would be junk status: BAD INVESTMENT, the signs would say, PURCHASE NOT ADVISED. All the sensible consumers would keep a wide berth, tutting: “Don’t touch that sweetie,” a mother would say, “it’s rotten.”
“So…so, let me get this straight. You went to a party at her boyfriend’s house. You got very, very drunk. You told her you loved her. And later you were sick on your hands.” “And on my coat. And a bit on the carpet.”
I’m on the tube heading to a cocktail bar when my date texts me: “So sorry, running 15 minutes late!” I tell her not to worry, head to the bar and settle into my seat with a glass of wine.