I could hear the chatter and sound of the fruit machine coming from the other bar in the pub where I usually sit. I’m something of a regular in there. I go most nights when they’re showing the football on their big-screen TV. I always sit next to a bloke called Nick and his mate Andy. They never invited me to sit with them; it happened naturally as the best view of the TV was from the three stools at the end of the bar. Our chats revolve around football and our jobs. At the end of the games they usually sup up quickly and make their way home. I don’t even know exactly where either of them lives. I reached into my pocket to check on my phone whether a match was being broadcast that evening, only to discover I had left my phone in the office.

The face of the dark-haired lady entered my mind. She’s very pretty. I haven’t had a relationship since moving to London. I did take one of the secretaries from work out for a curry, but in the taxi on the way home we both got a terrible sweat on and I abandoned the project right there and then. We’ve been very cautious with each other ever since. The only other date I’ve had was a year or so ago, at a local pub restaurant where I’d arranged to meet a girl from an internet dating site. She had looked very viable in her profile and the messages we exchanged were quite appealing. When she turned up, however, she had the largest, most powerful arms I had ever seen on a woman. She was short and petite in the general sense, but her arms would have sat well on a heavyweight boxer. She was obsessed with the concept of grip and torque and boasted endlessly about her power-to-weight ratio. After about half an hour of this I went to the toilet and made my escape via a side door. Unfortunately, she had predicted this move and was waiting for me as I stepped onto the pavement. She called me a wanker and then lifted me up onto the roof of a parked Range Rover before walking off, shadow-boxing, into the night. I have never been tempted to use an online dating site since that evening.