It’s happened twice this past week, a guy asking if he’ll make the final cut. The first was a teenage crush turned friend; I’m saving him for the book. The second was a complete stranger at thirty-thousand feet.
It took courage on his part. I had my headphones in, notebook out, and was doing a convincing impression of someone who neither knows nor cares that their neighbour is, well, gorgeous.
‘Can I ask what you’re writing?’ he says.
This is a first.
‘Errr, I have a blog…’
‘What’s it about?’
He laughs nervously. ‘Will I be your next post?’
Two hours later, we touch down in London. I’m on cloud nine, think I’ve met my soulmate: all fairly standard. The man at passport control must think I’ve been at the vodka minis. Soulmate now knows enough about me to either a) commit identity fraud, or b) get in touch and arrange a second meeting. His parting words, accompanied by a glance at his hand on which he has written the URL for this blog:
‘I’ll take a look!’
So I’m guessing he didn’t like what he found. Vodka, please. Single? Looks that way.