I turned up late to a drinks party on Saturday to find the boy I was seeing standing at the doorway in conversation with the boy I had accidentally (read drunkenly) kissed two weeks before. Exhibit A) Boy who is handsome, funny, clever, thoughtful and has very nice hair; Exhibit B) Boy who has not such nice hair, an oversized chin and thinks it’s acceptable to refer to Germans as ‘Nazis’. For a split second I considered diving out of the nearest window; instead I dashed into the kitchen and involved myself as quickly as possible in a game of flip cup. There’s nothing like a good drinking game to avoid awkward conversation.

Eventually Boy A found me mid beer shot, being cheered on by the bellowing encouragement of twenty men, and pressed a gin and tonic into my hand. I briefly tried to analyse this gentlemanly move. Did he simply have no idea about the whole thing? (Doubtful since gossip among my friends spreads about as swiftly as the lit Beacon of Gondor) Or did he know and was increasing his level of play against what he could have misconstrued as competition? I still have no idea, but ceased to care as the evening wore on and we barely left each other’s radar. By the time we reached the Pacific Beach Club in Stockwell - which is as ghastly as the name would suggest - we were kissing against the fake Hawaiian Tiki. At some point Big Chin grabbed a blonde and began kissing her too, only drawing away once to throw me a pointed glance.

An hour later we left the club together and began walking back towards his house. We stopped at a zebra crossing and began kissing again – he really is an excellent kisser – before he pulled away and looked at me.

‘So’ said he ‘what do you want to do?’

‘Well’ I said, still a little dizzy from the preceding kiss, ‘my place is a little further away, so perhaps we could go back to yours? I really don’t mind though - whatever’s easiest’

‘Er.. no’ said he, ‘I mean.. how are you going to get home?’

I can’t tell you how long it was before I answered this question because I had briefly slipped into a coma of embarrassment. I can’t even remember what I eventually did say, but on paper it would be heavily punctuated and make very little sense. To give you an idea:

‘I. Erm – yes – ah, that’s what I meant. Sorry. I mean, I wasn’t trying to - I’m not that sort of. Um… you know what I mean? Sorry’

It was the sort of flustered response you can feel lingering in the air after you’ve produced it, and you wish you could just stuff the words back into your mouth, chew them over and come up with something cooler. Rather like his reply:

‘I’m not sure why I’m standing on the street with a beautiful girl and sending her home’ he said, flagging a taxi, ‘but I’m a slow mover… and I like you’. Half an hour later and settled on my sofa alone with a post clubbing toast feast, I re-considered our awkward parting in a more positive light. The experience was further hashed out over lunch with the girls the following day, who concluded that sending me home made this boy the most honourable example of manhood to surface since Mr Bingley / Jesus and I absolutely must see him again. My male friends were a little less complimentary: ‘He did WHAT? Gay - ditch him.’ That evening I received a message from him telling me he’d had a great time the night before, and did I want to go to dinner with him this week…I took the girls’ advice and said yes. I’m not sure why yet, but something tells me this boy is worth it.