It started, as ever, with a kiss.
It always starts with a kiss.
It never starts with four pints of lager, a worse for wear laptop, tatty Penneys pajamas and an overflowing ashtray, does it? That just doesn't sound romantic enough. It isn't a good enough story to recount at your imaginary promotion dinner, fancied wedding reception or to your theoretical grandchildren.
Except that's, exactly, where this story begins.
The room was illuminated by two small screens and orchestrated by the sound of eight tiny fingers tapping away.
I opened a fresh can. My Debit card was settled neatly and trophy-like on the armrest in full peripheral view.
Book! Book! Book! Book! Book!(!!!)