The Wet Look

I wake up late last Saturday and decide to login to what friends now call "The Orange Facebook". It's been a few weeks, and there's an old message from a startling New Zealander. The kind of man who seems to go out to clubs, take his top off and grin a lot.

I reply, and he messages back. "Mate, I've just got in! Come over!"
I tell him I've only just got up. "Shower when you get here." he says.

I pull on a pair of jeans and a trenchcoat and leave. Yes. That's all I'm wearing. My thinking goes like this:

• I'm in really good shape at the moment.
  
• This seems exciting and spontaneous, two things which I have decided I need to be more.
  
• Princess Diana regularly used to pop out for dates wearing only a fur coat and high heels. This will be my tribute to our Queen of Hearts.

Of course, Diana only had to step from palace to limousine. It's not like she had to travel to Kilburn on the Jubilee Line when it's pissing down.

I huddle dripping on the platform at Baker Street. I feel like a sacked stripogram. I realise I've not eaten yet, so buy a power bar. All goes well until I reach into my pocket for change, and a woman gives me a startled look. I stop feeling like a stripper and begin feeling like a flasher.

By the time I reach Kilburn the rain is horizontal, it is freezing and I'm wishing I was wearing socks. Actually, I'm wishing I was wearing everything I owned, and was wrapped up in blankets on my sofa. By the time I finally find the New Zealander's flat I am as sodden as a stray cat. He turns out to be very nice, has a lot of towels, and turns the central heating up.

Surprisingly, the New Zealander is an opera singer. We stand on his balcony smoking menthol. I have never felt less like Princess Diana.