I meet the Polish footballing microbiolgist for coffee at lunchtime, and he says the single most attractive opening line a man has ever said to me:
"Christ, I'm starving. Can we got to Pizza Hut? They do a buffet, you know."
I won't bore you with why I love the Pizza Hut buffet, with its all-you-can-eat array of fake meat treats, fake cheese and shuffling consumers. But I do - and I never let myself go there. But the thrill palled when I realised I was sharing a table with a whippet-thin 22 year-old whose metabolism has ten years on me. So, I pushed some cherry tomatoes around a plate while he peeped over a tottering mountain of pepperoni.
But the great thing about being unemployed is that lunch hour never ends. In fact, it turned into sunbathing in Soho Square, surrounded by topless men drinking cider and poppers. Then, for the sheer hell of it, we went for mid-afternoon cocktails on a roof-garden. Because we had nowhere else really to be.
And then he took me home to show me his weapon. No, really. He's such a big fan of Xena, he's got an enormous chakram.