There's always a right time to go home. On Saturday it was when the man who'd been chatting me up was all of a sudden getting off with a bald fat guy instead.
"Return to base," said my body, too drunk to have any better ideas. So, I tried to leave.
"Sorry," the doorman said, "Security alert. Suspected bomb. We're all in here until further notice."
I went back inside, and tried not to notice that the man who'd been chatting me up was now licking fat guy's scalp. It was a small bar, so this wasn't easy.
I switched to Plan B, and chatted up someone prettier. He turned out to be called Paul and worked in a hotel ("Bar work, you know. Behind it. Under it. On it. Rich bitches."). He was out with his boyfriend's gay cricket team. His boyfriend looked rather like you'd fear a 40 year old gay cricketer would look. I was heartbroken.
Paul was defensive, "Six years, you know. It works. We go to Trade, he plays the slot machine, loses track of time, thinks I've been gone for 10 minutes. As far as he's concerned, monogamous bliss."
I looked over. His boyfriend was indeed playing the slot machine, oblivious to a fight going on next to it.
Paul shrugged. "And anyway, I'm normally very well behaved. Otherwise he'd take my gaydar profile away."
I pointed out this wasn't going to stop me chatting him up. After all, we could be blown up at any second. How would you like to spend your last minutes?
Paul glanced over at his boyfriend, "He does seem to be really enjoying that fruit machine, doesn't he? And, you're right, we could die at any moment..." He grinned.