My friends are in a state of frothy at the imminent date between (well, what I want to call him for the sake of continuity is 'Biggest Cocksucker' but given that Date Boy has apologised whole-heartedly for misdemeanours committed during first meeting, I think he should be aptly named Mr Saturday) myself and Mr Saturday.
They're all but rubbing themselves down in oil and chocolate and hitting very large pits designed for female wrestling such is their excitement at fact that I have actual date with a man who is not coasting dangerously close to decripitude. I'm slightly more reserved in the whole shebang, but I have come to learn, of late, I am some kind of vicarious vessel through whom the majority of my friends live.
Carlos has always been a touch protective of me, you see. I think this is mainly because he spent far too much valuable time making cups of tea and pouring gins and wines and little shots and buying chocolates and bringing tissues and allowing me to wipe my snotty nose on his sleeve, that he had kind of committed to not wanting to have anything to do with a possible suitor for fear of having to go through the whole motion again.
But then I think something snapped inside Carlos, a while back, at 40th of New Friend. I haven't heard the full story but I am led to believe by Carlos's guilty looks that the interaction between Carlos and Mr Saturday went something like this:
Carlos: Hey my guy/pal/tjom/buddy (I have no idea what men actually call each other when they're talking amongst themselves).
Mr Saturday: Howzit.
Chat chat in manner most mundane probably about rugby and Patrick Lambie (but not how I would talk about Patrick Lambie as I don't imagine either of them actually admitted to "having deep desire to be motorboated by Lambie" - although am not really sure.)
Carlos: So you see that chick over there?
Mr Saturday: The one with massive boobs?
Carlos: Those are totally fake.
Mr Saturday: I don't mind.
Carlos: No, like they're an illusion. Good bra. Small tits.
Mr Saturday: Ya?
Carlos: What do you think of her?
Mr Saturday: She's alright, I suppose (You suppose??? Watch your mouth, chum...)
Carlos: The thing is, she's been on the shelf for the longest time... and I'm worried that she's approaching her sell-by date. I mean the dust is starting to settle and I don't see anybody with a damp cloth approaching her, if yer know what I mean.
Mr Saturday: Huh?
Carlos: Listen buddy. The wife and I are not safe. She sits between us on the couch. She has keys to the front door and if it's not her daughter, then it's her, barging in. She's everywhere. We need to get her off our hands.
Mr Saturday: I'm kind of busy at the moment.
Carlos: She used to be a lesbian!!
(I did not. It's just Carlos's little pimping technique).
And so, friends, I have a date on Saturday. My friends are so damn excited they've all but hacked my facebook messages and cellphone records and will probably arrive at date venue having booked the table next to ours, and also having ordered a crooning violinist to watch me blush.
They're a stellar bunch, are my friends. Really effing wonderful.