He’s been following me. Well, my blog.
‘What do you think?’
‘I like it; it’s funny!’
Good looks and impeccable taste in literature: he’s a keeper.
‘Can I ask, is it all true?’
‘Erm, well, if it was a film, I’d say ‘based on a true story’. Why?’
‘It’s quite… prolific.’
Back-handed compliment or a polite way of saying ‘you’re a slag’? He called, and we’re yet to order; let’s go with the former.
The next day, I’m replaying the conversation in my head. ‘Prolific’ is bugging me. Setting aside the whole slag thing, there’s the fact that a prolific dater is by implication fairly unsuccessful. I could defend myself, say that they’ve all been weirdoes who I’ve never wanted to see again. But that’s not quite true: some I did want to see again.