I'm at Oxford Circus to change for the Bakerloo Line and I'm the last one there and I'm wandering around and the trains have gone and the station is empty.
Central London, Saturday night and feeling like shit. Upset and a little drunk.
When you've had a seriously crap day and then sealed it off by being rude to one of the nicest guys you've met in a long time - there's only one thing to do...
Make the next day even worse, which is what I do.
Why, oh why have I come to the Shadow Lounge? I just don't get it. I hate the place. Why am I here?
The place is dark and the music is awful. Why is the place so dark?
I turn down the offer of a drink.
I wake up on the nightbus somewhere in fucking Wembley.
I get off, stumble around and wait for another nightbus in the opposite direction. This is because fucking cab-find-thing on the iPhone doesn't work.
Finally home. I know it's this time because I remember looking at the clock on my phone when I fell into bed.
I wake up and the rain is pouring outside and I feel like shit, physically and emotionally.
I phone Francois's phone to see if anyone answers it. It's disconnected.
I cannot believe that I actually thought he'd hidden it. And I can't believe I suggested it. I am such. a. fucking. idiot.
A text arrives from a friend. Their evening was obviously far more enjoyable than mine...
"Met a ...guy who escorted me to his house. He had a disturbingly big cock. I am not a size queen and I rarely divulge cock size but seriously. I was in shock. I still am."
(Apologies to You Know Who You Are that I've just shared that with most of the gays in London and around the world.)
I have to go to work. I am hungover and I haven't eaten. I realise I haven't been to gym since Thursday.
I am on the Central Line and we're leaving Oxford Circus heading towards White City. I'm standing in the area where the double-doors are.
There's a man standing in the opposite corner in a red T-shirt and black leather jacket. He is looking at me.
He's my height, black hair and I would say is middle 30s? He is tanned and it appears is quite worked out.
Every time I glance at him he's looking at me.
We arrive at Queensway and the tube doors open. He takes the two steps towards me...
"Hi, I really have never done this before but would you take great offence if I asked for your number?"
There is a pause. I go um.
"Oh my god, you're not gay, I'm so sorry..."
I tell him he's wrong. He pulls out his phone to take my digits, I burst into tears.
Hungover. Tired. Self esteem at zero. Still upset by the night before.
"Are you okay?"
"Sorry, I'm just really tired, I'm having a shit time but I'm really flattered."
I give him my number. He's South African, from Johannesburg. He works in HR. His name is David.
He gets off at Holland Park.
I moaned the other day about people who wear sunglasses on the Tube. Days later I am doing exactly that.
I am standing alone in the bottom of the carriage. All of the nonsense from the last 24 hours decides to re-emerge to say hello.
That hammer attack. That amazing guy I insinuated was a liar. That fuck up I made about the phone. That guy at the Widow Lounge who I said no to. That fucking nightbus I fell asleep on.
It all comes out. Crying on the tube is so crap.
At work. Shit.
I e-mail Francois asking to see him again when he returns from Paris. I will be excited if he wants to but understand if he doesn't. I really hope he will.
I can't be bothered with his weekend any more.
New week, fresh start.