Couple of hours from now. ‘You don’t know what age he is, where he lives, what he does, his surname … So what, he’s GORGEOUS. Live dangerously,’ I announced at volume to a small boy zigzagging towards me on a scooter, head down. He wouldn’t be doing that again. Not without a helmet. Not to my pelvis anyway. Yeah, live dangerously, I decided. What else was I going to do? Get Starsky and Hutch to run a police check on Stefan? Hire manly Marjory as my bodyguard? Was I going to send Stefan a text questionnaire: Excuse me, most gorgeous guyI’ve ever met. See before you go down in history as my FIRSTand ONLY date, d’you mindticking the following boxes todisclose whether or not youare: A. A psycho axe-murderer.B. The Devil in a suede jacket.C. Just after me for my body.(Ooooh yes please!) It wasn’t as if five foot ten, size-nine-footed Desperate Dinas like Clodhopper Quinn here could be choosers. And frankly, with a back-story like mine in romance, two hours with a psycho axe-murderer was a score in my book!
