This morning started out perfectly, snuggled up in bed with the cat.
Then I remembered: I don't have a cat.
I spent five more happy seconds with the cat, then decided to get it over with. Where was I? And, more importantly, what was he like?
Actually, it turned out he was rather handsome, and an interior decorator who'd made his bedroom into a shrine to Kylie (if one is going to try bondage, one may as wall use Kylie sweatbands, I suppose).
And of course, his name would be Damian.
It turned out he lived waaaay beyond Cardiff Bay. That's the worst thing about the morning after a one night stand. It's not the awkward small talk, the hungover sex, or the nescafe.... It's the horror of finding you're in the middle of nowhere.
I remember I once woke up in Swindon.