SATURDAY:
A gay club. In Cardiff. At scrapy-am. The loong night after Eurovision.
ME: If I wasn't so drunk, I'd make a pass at you.
HIM: If I wasn't so drunk, I'd fend you off.
***
SUNDAY MORNING:
Um, am I in a relationship?
***
SUNDAY EVENING:
A text from him: "You've not replied. Pity. Goodbye."
Me: Huh? Did I miss something?
***
MONDAY EVENING:
A phonecall from him: "... uh, so, anyway ... My brother-in-law is also called James. He's just texted to say 'Yes. I am amazing at sex. And I have no idea what the other thing is, but yes, I'm probably good at that too.'"
Um. Interestingly, he used to be a farm labourer, but is now a banker. Imagine Sean Bean in a suit. Only young, and with his face all nicely ironed.
PS: He owns a haystack. Larks!
3 comments:
Insert your own jokes about finding the needle here...
Once again, I congratulate myself on moving your name to a safer spot in my mobile's address book.
There **are** a lot of Jameses out there, aren't there?
Is there anything deadlier than the right text to the wrong person? Or the wrong text to the right person.
Once, halfway through a date, accidentally texted the date to tell him he was dull. and fat.
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