In London, Gaydar is pretty much a delivery service - admittedly, you're never quite sure what you're going to get, but at least it turns up promptly.
In Wales, Gaydar is rather more like Tamagotchi - you spend ages talking to blokes, but you very rarely actually meet. There's always some excuse.
For instance, there's this bloke from Merthyr Tydfil. He's rarely in Cardiff. I've never been to Merthyr, as I can't drive and the trains aren't frequent enough to justify hurtling through the valleys on the off-chance.
So, anyway, I walk out of a club on Saturday, and there he is, in the street. It being late at night, and both of us being drunk, it's only after we've snogged that we realise. "Hang on!" he says. "It's you isn't it?"
He in town with some Uni friends from Manchester. Who he has lost.
"Sod 'em." he says, "Shall we go somewhere?"
"Somewhere" turns out to be a building site, which has a pleasingly industrial feel -half-demolished iron fire escapes and stairs going nowhere. We can also hear people arguing in the queue at a nearby taxi rank, and the breaking of bottles.
He goes off to find his friends. I potter home. In the lift, I meet a grinning straight man.
"You've had a good evening, mate!" he says, smiling.
He sucks air ruefully. "House party. Newport. Okay, but not as good as you, I bet." He smiles again. "Where were you?"
"Yeah. That explains it." He gets out. "Well done, mate."
What a lovely thing, I thought. How like that scene in Heat where the antagonists share a sandwich. Two dignified soldiers swapping tales of battle. Although, why was he so sure I'd had a better time than him...?
It was then I glanced down at my shirt. Which looked like Monica Lewisnky's dress. Ah.