In his first mail he asks me to marry him. His photograph shows the ultimate baby face, a blond Paul McCartney, back when he still had charm and a voice.
        The conversation isn’t great, but his long eyelashes and chubby cheeks are.
        He cancels our drink date when I’m already on the train. His excuse is a headache. His promise to make up for the wasted evening with a free lunch coaxes me back on the train a week later.
        He picks me up at Camden tube station. He doesn’t look like Paul McCartney when he still had charm and a voice. More like any old wrinkly version – without the dough.
        We fight our way through the Camden high street Saturday afternoon crowd. I glance into the shop windows and wish I could stop to try on some shoes. He nervously looks at his watch and rolls his eyes every time I dare slow down.
        The restaurant is a high wooden ceiling affair, the least intimate place to be found in London.
        I’m bored with my life story. I’ve been telling it to too many strangers over the last six months and am tempted to make up a new one. Instead, I strip it down to essentials, which makes me sound superficial and bland.
        I’m equally disinterested in his live story. I forget all details while he is still telling them. He played in bands I’ve never heard of and now teaches kids to play the guitar. He seems happy and content to never have made it as a rock star.
        Still, he is a musician, an artist, someone who might have dealt with some pretty weird people. The idea of sex, drugs and Rock’n’Roll gives me courage. I tell him about my date with James44.
        He looks at me mouth gaping and eyes rolling.
        ‘You took off your panties for this guy?’
        ‘I had to. Following his orders was what gave me all the power.’
        ‘But he gave the orders.’
        ‘But it was my decision to follow them.’
        ‘So what was the point?’
        ‘The point was that I was in control.’
        ‘How can you be in control if you did as he said.’
        ‘It was my choice to do as he said.’
        ‘What’s the difference? You still did as he said.’
        ‘Only because I wanted to.’
        ‘But he could have ordered anything he wanted.’
        ‘It was his responsibility to give orders I wanted to obey.’
        ‘But you did as he said anyway.’
        ‘Only as long as he gave orders I wanted to follow.’
        ‘So what was the point?’
        ‘The point was: I did as he said because I wanted to.’
        ‘What if he had ordered things you did not want to do.’
        ‘What would have been the point?’
        ‘Exactly my point. What was the fucking point?’
        I know I have one, but it is too unfocused to enable me to save this conversation.
        Luckily the portions are small. Neither of us orders dessert or coffee. We say good-bye in front of the restaurant.
        I walk back through Camden and stop in every single shoe store. I try on more shoes than I can count and buy a pair of black boots and a pair of pink sneakers.
        He never calls. That point at least he got.