So there I was. Out jogging. I have no excuses, my route just appeared to veer a bit through Bloomsbury, across Soho, Mayfair, and, what have we here...? Why, Hyde Park Rose Garden at twilight. Full of single men. Goodness me. There's a surprise.
The only person who appeared to know quite why he was there was a charming old man, smiling gently at the setting sun while fondling his erect penis.
The rest of us lacked both his bonhomie and directness. Well, apart from a token cute Brazilian, who curtsied at anything that moved (and a fair few things who didn't).
It really was an odd, odd assortment. There was a German Trustafarian ("Ja! Ja! If it looks good get the cashmere in black and grey."). Also chatting on his phone was a charming looking bloke, who I nearly picked up, until I heard his conversation; "No, mum, no. Course I'll come and visit you. Course I will. I know where the Ward is. I promise, as soon as I can. But it's the money thing that's really getting me. No, no. I don't want to worry you. It's just the debts are mounting up, and if you could just see your way through to..."
And by that point, I'd really started to lose interest in the whole thing. Especially when some weird Tweenie with a combover walked up to me, clicking and whistling at me, like I was an errant beach pony.
I am many unhappy things. But I'm not a pony.
So I jogged home, chastened.