“The omelette will be lovely,” I say, heading over to the dining table and draping my black suit jacket over a chair back. I grab my cup, and, humming happily, I take a sip as I open the newspaper waiting by my place setting. Then I pause as the doorbell rings.

I check my watch. It’s six in the morning. Mrs Sinclair sets her spatula down. “No need,” I call. “I’ll get it.”

The doorbell sounds again, and I huff indignantly as I throw the door open. And stop dead.

It appears that my bedmate of the previous night has not gone away. Instead, he is standing on my doorstep in a long coat and with a slightly maniacal look on his face. I blink.

“Hello, er–?” I falter, his name escaping me.

His smile grows wider. “Ta-dah!” he says loudly.

The lift door bings and a man emerges. He walks down the corridor towards us, pulling a wheeled suitcase. He stops at my neighbour’s door and starts to rifle through his pockets. Hopefully, it’s for his keys. I don’t have time to deal with a burglar this morning. Not when I have my own problems.

At the thought of the most predominant one, I turn back to the young man and my mouth falls open. It appears that the minutes when my attention was diverted were crucial ones, because his coat is now lying in a heap on the floor, and he’s completely naked.

For a moment that seems to stretch into eternity, I stare at him. The stranger, meanwhile, seems to have entirely abandoned looking for his keys, or whatever he was searching for, in favour of leaning against the door and watching us in fascination.

“What is happening at the moment?” I say faintly, trying not to look at my former bedmate’s penis. It has a small blue bow attached to it.

He gives a wide smile. “I wrapped myself up in a ribbon for you.”

“Well, not all of you,” honesty compels me to admit. “It’s mainly just your penis.”

His brow furrows. “That’s to celebrate how we met.”

“Ah,” I say while frantically trying to remember his name. “How we met. Lovely.” I have a dim memory of a club and him sucking my cock like he was a human hoover.

The man observing us snorts softly and cranes his neck to see more. I glare at him and turn back to my intruder.

“Well, that was very nice of you, Paul.”

“Paul?” he says in an affronted manner. “My name is Micky.”

“Ah yes. Paul is Danish for ‘comely one’,” I say, lying through my teeth.

He’s instantly diverted. “Is it? How lovely. Well, I’m sure I’ll learn so much about your culture when we travel together.”

“Travel together? When are we travelling together?”