[The story so far: I meet Canadian Matt in LA. We hook up again when he comes over to London with vile gooseberry best friend Darryl. Now, with a slightly increased, sweeps week two-parter, we continue the story in Canada. Yes. It is just like a crap episode of The New Avengers....]
Matt meets me at the airport. I'm pissed, as Air Canada suddenly deluged us with booze two hours before landing. But I'm very happy to see him.
Matt is a lovely, charming, if engimatic man. Even when we're having sex, I wonder if he's just being polite. But, surely, if he's invited me over to Canada for a week, ordered me to stay in his one bedroom studio flat, and told me he's not got a boyfriend, then surely, surely, this means I'm guaranteed a shag? And some eye contact?
Long-term readers of this blog will already know that the answer isn't that simple.
While I sit having lunch with Matt and a friend who manages the airport, Matt tells him that he thinks he's back together with his boyfriend. I grip my McChicken sandwich a little tighter. "We had a fabulous time last night, I've had no sleep, and it looks as thought I'm back in his good books." He smiles happily (Matt? Smiling? This is new). "I'm in love."
And, it appears, I'm still staying in his one bedroom flat. Which is going to make fooling around for any of us rather complicated.
Here's some of Matt's story: Two months ago, Matt meets Randall, a charming American student half his age (Matt is 36). They connect, have a marvellous time, and then one night, Randall leaves him for a stripper. Matt is devastated. Then Randall's stripper gets deported for statutory rape (apparently the fifteen year olds in Philadelphia are maturing fast). Randall is now devastated. And the two appear to be comforting each other. Or are they?
Matt and I go back to his flat, and I crash out on Matt's bed. Just when I thought I couldn't be more tired or confused, it turns out to be a water bed, and I come flying off it.
Matt immediately starts telling me how confused he is about the situation. He's not sure if he has got Randall back, after all (he's just phone to say he's flying out to see the stripper). I'm unsure if this means we are touching or we aren't. All I want to do is sleep, but Matt wants to do is play music, and tell me about our exciting evening of boozing, clubbing and going to see Ru Paul. And he isn't joking.
Matt puts on some Sarah McLachlan. It was the music he played when Randall broke up with him. Then he puts on some worryingly chipper Celine Dion. It was the music he played when Randall came back to him.
"Anyhoo," he says, "Now you're here, and Randall may be going off to see his stripper. What kind of music should I play now?"
"Tell me," I said, "Have you ever heard of Girls Aloud?"