One of the delights of the summer evenings is finding a nice, quiet tree and seducing a boy under it.
The rule of the week, however, is be careful which tree you pick. Even the shadiest of corners may not be shady enough.
I was happily immersed in my latest conquest (let's call him "um, Neil", cos that's how I vaguely remember him). He worked at Christian Dior. He looked fantastic topless. And, anyway, all of a sudden, this old man wanders up from nowhere. And pauses.
Neil and I pause. We don't move. At this moment, dear reader, it is almost impossible for the two of us to move. It's like boy Jenga.
The old man pauses. And surveys us coolly.
"If you want," he says, "I can play that trombone for you."
He laughs heartily.
Clearly, he's either being mad, filthy, or generous with his musical ability.