The guy with the combover now has a nickname: Heathrow or Heath Bar, so you can probably make your own lovely little assertions about his real life name, and let’s just leave it at that.

I admit I behaved poorly. I admit I can do the “it’s not me, it’s you and your halitosis and ugly jacket and weird way of emphasising the second-syllable on names even when there is not supposed to be the emphasis there, but whatever, that bugs me and I don’t think I could live the rest of my life with you let alone go on another date without mentally strangling you, à la Homer and Bart Simpson-style”.

But yet there was something about Heathrow that let me to presumptuously assume he had never had a lived with a woman - admitting he purchased a used vacuum cleaner on eBay - or had ever had a girlfriend, because of his preponderance to discuss everything American Idol, and propensity to take notes during the show.

(Do you like all the big P-words I snuck in that paragraph? He also spat when talking, his mouth not able to properly pucker and pronounce the letter P.)

Which brings us to last night, when the phone rang and I absentmindedly answered it.

“Err, Heath?”

“Yeah. Look, I know we left things in a weird place, us not agreeing on who would pick the other person up for dinner, but I was hoping you’d give me a second chance.”

We did? I don’t remember that… I just remember a week of me turning my phone off every night. “Uhh…”

“Yes?”

And this is the part where I realise how much of a fantastic genius I am that it’s only taken thirty years for me to achieve this superpower. “Oh! This is a dream.”

“What?”

“I’m having a dream! WAKE UP! WAKE UP!“

And when I opened my eyes the kids were sitting on the end of the bed staring at me like, wow, Mum’s gone nuts and she hasn’t even fed us breakfast yet.