I glance around to make sure she is actually talking to me.
She had just asked me what I spent my previous evening doing.
I'm not very good at filling-in the time. The hours excluding nine in the morning and six at night are a constant torment. I dread the evenings; don't even get me started on the weekends. Inactivity is a devil. If I do nothing I tend to brood, which is no good for anyone.
As such much of my spare time is spent in my kitchen, making more food than I can possibly eat from an increasingly inventive array of ingredients whilst listening to the agreeable burblings from Radio fucking 2 (it's better than the bloody television) before crashing out at ten with a house full of nice smells, a full belly and enough left-overs in the fridge to make Jesus feel a bit inadequate about the whole 'fish and loaves' thing.
This seems to have impressed my colleague the Worlds Most Amusing Woman.
I am briefly stunned by her words. It is feasibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me, or at least it felt like it today.
WMAW: Blonde? Blonde!
Blonde Colleage: For fucks - what?
WMAW: Don't you think Tired would be an excellent boyfriend?
BC: Definately. [I blink at her in astonishment for a moment. She notices and clears her throat] Well - at least until he opens his mouth.
WMAW: Mmmm. You're right. He is a nasty bastard.
I have gone from being 'viable boyfriend material' (good) to 'thoroughly unpleasant piece of work' (bad) in the space of a nanosecond and - it seems, as all concerned are now talking about me in the third person - have actually vanished.
Me: Hey! Listen.....
But I've got nothing. The irritating thing is that they're both quite right.