Perched on bar stools we sat, arms touching, and there was wine and hyperbolic tapas and a little more wine, too much perhaps, too late perhaps for a Monday night but we had all the time in the world and what was the point of going home anyway when all good things were right there?

So we went onto that wine bar which is a cellar really, with vaulted ceilings and dripping candles and rickety wooden tables tucked away in corners; we drank white port and definitely too much sherry for a Monday night and he put his arms around me and we kissed.

What disgraceful behaviour, I said, dishevelled.
I don't care, he replied calmly.

But it was Monday night - I fell asleep smiling on the tube on the way home.