Friday night Claire and Dan drove down to see us and we went to a Japanese in our hood and shared two bottles of wine between three of us.

After we went to The South London Pacific and drank wicked strong concoctions with little cocktail umbrellas. The cocktail umbrellas ended up as hair decorations, as they do when you imbibe wicked strong drinks with dark rum and pureed fruit.

It was the fifth anniversary of the bar and the joint was jumping. Stuart was on call so when he got paged to go deal with work drama there were no boo-hoos from him since he didn’t dig the place. (I haven’t quite decided if it was a real page or not.) In any case it didn’t matter as Claire, and Dan loved the place so we happily twisted the night away and played a few games of table football (foosball).

A bit after two we found ourselves standing outside and realized that each of us hadn’t wanted to leave, but had thought that one of the others had wanted to leave. We considered going back in but decided to hail a black cab and go home instead.

Plopping into bed, I decided to hit on the man that was lying there. Luckily it was Stuart. At two-thirty in the morning, he wasn’t having any of it.

Curled against him, feeling rather. . . frustrated. . . my arm draped on top of the duvet across him, I felt something. Something that normally would lead a girl to think that even though it was two-thirty in the morning that the boy laying next to her may indeed be. . . er. . . interested.

“Then what is that?” I patted the lump under the duvet.

“THAT is my arm.” Stuart lifted his arm and waved it.

“Oh.”

We laid there in the dark.

“You do know that was a compliment then. Confusing the two.”

“Go to sleep Thomas.”

In a few moments I was snoring.

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