The Squaddie's back, having dumped his Arabian Prince somewhere in the Seychelles. "I told him he was a spoilt child and terrible in bed. He threatened to call security, so I slapped his arse and got a plane home. Miss me?"
I still don't know what to make of the Squaddie. He chain smokes, drinks red wine from the bottle, but likes foreign films and caviar. And his Dundee accent grinds like a waste disposal unit (I wish I could attempt to report it - can Fawkes help?).
He pops round after work, his workbag containing a laptop and a collar-and-chain. "Oh, it's not for you," he mumbles, "Got myself a slave last night."
For some stupid reason I tell him about my horrific slave-dating experience, and he laughs. "You don't kiss 'em, you daft twat, you just tell them what to do and they love it. This one was a nice young architect, so he'd even got the sling hooks in his living room. I trussed him up, beat his arse with a paddle, and made myself at home with his drinks cabinet. After an hour he begged me to stuff some love beads up his arse, but I looked at them and they were the size of cricket balls and I thought fuck that and said 'You've been bad slave, you don't deserve it,' and made myself another drink. He loved it."
Sometimes I feel I'm a GCSE mind in an A Level world.