Cheating at cheating

Faithfulness is easy. Especially when you still get hot flushes from meningitis.

Matt the Irish personal trainer and I were getting on really rather well (Buns of steel, I tell you. Brushed steel. The expensive stuff. None of that-steel-coated nonsense but solid steel you could stick fridge magnets to). Especially considering the male-strom that is Central Station on a Saturday (I know, I know... but it was on the way back from Islington and Topping and Butch were on).

But there was definitely something weird in the air. I'd started off the evening in a good mood only spoiled by the other people in the pub at Karl's party (there were women there with off-the-shoulder wraps and gold lame clutch bags). By the time I got to Central Station I was feeling a little peculiar... and then I met Matt, who seemed rather marvellous... and it was all getting a little giddy and all thoughts of the non-boyfriend were drifting very swiftly out of my head.

And then I realised I was passing out. Bless those meninges, I thought, as I staggered into the street. They've saved me from all forms of silliness. I'm going home with a stainless conscience. But not stainless steel Matt.