In & out of Wandsworth, numbers on their names, funny how the missus always looks the bleedin same

The other week I was standing sentinel whilst the person of whom I was temporarily in loco parentis did the necessary between parked cars. Sound of collapse and hysterical laughter from behind me but ever the gentleman I didn't turn around. And got a plentifully hot ankle for my discretion. You would think, having lost balance and been overcome by hilarity, she'd at least have halted the flow. Then she told me she got more on her jeans than mine, so that's all right then.

Making the acquaintance of a woman of such rare grace, poise and sophistication, well, normally by now I'd be in love. She smokes like a Transdnistran factory chimney and treats the peppar in her Absolut as the only mixer needed. She agrees with me on the plight of the Groke. She knows every word of 'Cool for Cats' by Squeeze. When she speaks German it's with a Bavarian accent and that is heiß! Or heiße. I dunno.

But when it comes to the etceteras she only likes ladies. It's true, all the good ones are gay or taken. Or something.

I've been told it's my fault, wrong social circles and all that. In short I'm turning into the male equivalent of those girls in every third David Leavitt short story. But a bit older.