I know what you're thinking, cuz I'm gifted that way: "How did the date go?"
I got to the Retro Bar at three minutes to eight, bought a drink and surveyed the crowd, trying to spot anyone who matched Dan's detailed description (25, 5'9", good-looking, shaved head, blue eyes, wearing a denim jacket and black hat). No-one. Then, at 8 on the dot, in walked someone wearing a denim jacket and a black hat, with a shaved head and blue eyes, about 25 and 5'9". (Spot the missing descriptor.)
"Dan?" "David?" "Yes. Er, hi. Can I get you a drink? Here. Let's find a seat."
We talked about books and we talked about films. About music and our favourite singers. We talked about childhood and schools. About parents, divorce, regret. About drink and drugs, good trips and bad. About acting and directing and playwriting and playwrighting. About ambition and the lack of it, about madness, religion, tarot cards, star signs, regression therapy. We talked about clubbing and dancing, about politics and friendship, and the politics of dancing.
But we didn't talk about sex.