“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.
Is everyone gay now? Has it finally been made official? I only ask because every day it feels like a new woman trots out of the closet: “Oh yes, I’m definitely on the spectrum, babes.”
I don’t want anyone to freak out or anything here, but I think I may have found happiness. I know, quick! Bottle it! Sell it! Spray it on children! Spray it on Tories! Dunk Trump in a pool of the stuff and just vacuum pack him in there like a little carrot.