The 27-hour date

"Don't you owe me supper?" texted the Irishman.

So, we went to Miskin Manor. The same hilarious hotel a laywer summoned me to in October.

It was deserted.

The Irishman was impressed. "So, we're in an empty gothic hotel in the middle of nowhere, and I've got no mobile signal. Are you after killing me?"

We ate in an empty restaurant, in front of a roaring fireplace. We had coffee in a Citizen Kane-size lounge, underneath a towering christmas tree.

"So," said the Irishman, "Do you have a boyfriend?"

I blinked. "No," I said, laughing.

"I see," he said, "And what's his name?"

"No, really. There's no one." As regular readers will know.

The Irishman looked at me coldly. "So, I ask you if you have a boyfriend, and you start laughing nervously and look away. Sure you've got a boyfriend."

"I really, really don't. I'm hopeless. I lose boys like pens."

The Irishman carried on staring at me. "You so have a boyfriend."

"No! No-one! Well..." I paused, "I do have a slave."

Finally, the Irishman smiled. "Sure you do."

And then it was time for a taxi home. Although, the leather chairs were so cozy, and the fireplace so warm...

"I think we'd like to stay," we said to the apple-cheeked old dear at reception.

"Of course, gentlemen. Two rooms, or would you like to share a twin?"

"Just one bed will be fine."

The slightest pause.

"I see. Well, I'm sure we can arrange that."

All went well... except that, in the middle of the night, the Irishman developed a high fever.

"I'm afraid we don't supply drugs to guests," they said at reception when I asked for paracetomol.

So, like all good dirty breaks, our time contained the phrases "up all night", "sweating and moaning", "tossing endlessly", "used all the towels,", "wet flannel", "damp patch" and finally "very long shower". But not in the exciting way.

The next morning, I poured him into a taxi and took him home, where he spent the day watching cartoons semi-conscious. We drank a lot of whisky. Some of it with hot honey and lemon.

We even watched Coronation Street. All the men are nearly-pretty. All the women are ugly or drag queens. Everyone lives in terror of five harpies who work in a knicker factory.

"Well," I said, "It's all very well, but it's not The Archers."

The Irishman looked at me strangely. "Let's go out for a drink, and forget you just said that, shall we?"