An intriguing photograph – an inquisitive gaze out of big eyes – and the fact that he admits to seeing a therapist give this man the chance to buy me a drink.
        We meet in The George, the oldest pub in town close to London Bridge.
        His eyes are cold. His glasses are old-fashioned. His lips are dry. He doesn’t smile.
        He is two inches shorter than I.
        He has some job in the government. He has lived in Brussels for a year but doesn’t speak a word of French.
        He figures the world speaks English.
        He is mostly concerned with his yearly pay-rise and what sort of pension it will earn him one day. He says with my sort of salary I will end up a bag lady.
        The date lasts 30 minutes.
        I don’t feel any obligation to write but he does – to inform me that there was no chemistry.