Only men with boyfriends chat me up at the moment. Three in the last fortnight, and it's really rather distracting.
It's probably rather flattering, but only in hindsight. At the time, I'm just floored when they go, "Hey, you're great. But, well, I'm with someone."
"Well, not anymore," I'd reply... if I were better at evil, but I'm rubbish at that and instead look like a hamster with a broken wheel.
I spend ages lamenting that I always have to make the first move. Now, all of a sudden, there's an outbreak of forward men... it's just that they're attached. And faithful. And probably have dogs, ponies, yachts and stuff.
Last night, typical example. There I am, sat in the corner of the pub, trying to make myself invisible and I get chatted up. I'd rushed out of the flat, desperate to avoid the urge to smoke, and fled to Central Station. I just wanted to have a quiet drink, a subtle ogle, and to read my copy of Doctor Who Magazine in peace (I'm mentioned, fleetingly, this issue. It's like fame).
It was a mistake - it turned out to be the launch of Bear Pride [Note for non-gays: Hairy Fat Men]. Not my type - hence me hiding in the corner and letting them get on with it. It didn't work out so well - people kept trying to teach me pool or buy me beer. It turns out the phrase "Actually, I'd rather read what Billie Piper thinks about Cardiff, thank you" turns out to be the perfect answer.
Then, suddenly, someone sat down next to me. And, as the bench didn't sag, I figured it was someone slim. I sneaked a glance. It was the extraordinarily presentable barman, smiling at me. He laid one of his rather muscly, tanned arms on my shoulder, stared into my eyes, and said:
"Oh, you like Doctor Who? Cool."
A barman, crossing over, sitting down. Flirting with me. About Doctor Who. One lives for moments like this. Well, unless you're Lee ("Darling, don't do the help," he always says, although he does go rather quiet whenever they bend over to refill the fridge).
He was called Nikolas, he was from Greece, and kept saying weirdly charming things ("Joss Wheedon - you know Buffy? - he has a grasp of dialog that - yeah, works as well in comics. The situations are corny, but it's what the people say...."). All the time staring into my eyes.
Then suddenly he stands. "Sorry. You'll still be here in a bit? I'll come and find you. But first, I must dress the strippers."
Well, naturally I waited. Although Bear Strippers are certainly an experience I could have done without. Muscle. Hair. Leather. Cigars. In unusual places.
Eventually I caught up with Nikolas. He was all over me. "Hey! I'm working till two. Hang around till then?"
I mulled it over. By this time, the party was in full swing, and nude, hairy, fat man were standing around nibbling on scotch eggs. In the corner, Bear Porn was playing on the screen (It looked rather like those pictures of Saddam in the tabloids last week. Only naughty).
"Actually, I'll go in a bit. You want my number?"
At which point, he told me he was with someone, and I suddenly started to find the antics of Bad Saddam rather fascinating.
Still, the evening wasn't quite a total write-off. On the way out, I got distracted by a handsome stranger who didn't even mention a boyfriend. I remember thinking "I'm having sex. And Doctor Who Magazine is in my back pocket. Is that sacrilege? Or cool? Or just a bit weird?"
Thankfully, the comments system still isn't working. So I won't have to read Lee's vitriol.