When you can’t decide, ask the Magic 8 ball

IT’S a Thursday night and I have that feeling. That bold feeling. The get-up-to-no-good feeling. Even though it’s Thursday. After work a big sprawling gang of us descend upon the closest bar, our regular, where bar staff with zero sense of urgency serve sickening cocktails and wine you could strip walls with. We love it there.

After the happy, rational and sensible depart, the hardcore decide to make a real night of it. They pick a members’ club where men wear trilbies. After many overpriced drinks and a dance-off we are outside smoking and trying to avoid the trilbies when a very posh boy approaches. I know he’s posh because he’s got great posh boy hair, and is wearing a posh boy paisley scarf. We start talking nonsense and making stupid bets (I wager I can guess his name in three but get it in four. Max? Ben? Oli? — getting close — Oscar!) Turns out Max is his middle name so I get double points. He drags me down to the bar for my reward drink. I deduce he has no job (hence he’s unconcerned about work the next day) but that he is creating a unisex fragrance, because of course he is. One must do something with one’s time!

It comes to the stupid time of night when even I need my bed. He takes my number and texts later: “I’m at home making love to my pillow” I write: “The same pillow I’d like to suffocate you with.” (This is how I flirt). “I’d like that,” he says. “I know you would, but let’s have a safe word just in case. Yours can be trust fund,” I reply. The next day he asks if we will meet again, but with my level 8 hangover I can’t decide.

So, I take my trusty Magic 8 ball, shake it hard and ask it if I should see Oscar Maximilian Van Der Posh again. It says the same thing twice, no!