In the beginning there was technological incompetence...

We are a mere week into the now customary New Year resolution of ‘no drinking until February’ and already I realise this will inevitably and imminently be downgraded to ‘All right, let’s just give it as long as I can actually last out’. So imminently in fact that this evening – 8 January 2008 – will see me reject the January ennui and accept the offer of a ticket to the ‘Track and Field Winter Sprinter’ gig at Kilburn’s finest Luminarie. Still a healthy, wholesome, whole six days have passed since alcohol passed my lips. I deserve a treat.

I’m enjoying the mellifous sounds of the lovely The Clientele, and the fine company of my friends Simon, Steve and Jon, when an attractive young lady standing about two feet in front of me catches my eye. I would like to say that I spent the rest of gig subtlety glancing in her direction to see who she is with, filtering and selecting my best witty introductory remarks, but the reality is probably closer to slightly inept glances at the poor lass from behind the my Guinness.

Before you know it, the lights have come up and its last orders at the bar. I finish adding some courage to my Dutchness and resolve that if she is still in the bar when I have finished in the facilities, I will try and talk to her. Upon exiting the facilities, I am surprised to find that fate must be on nights this week as I bump straight into her. “Errrrrr…” says my brain but, despite this, I manage to start a conversation. Unbelievably it doesn’t end with a curt brush off in under a minute (Yes, I am timing it. I mean, come on, you’ve been there too, no?). Anyway, “Blah, blah and more blah.” – that’s what it sounds like I’m coming out with - and I’m waiting for Mallet’s mallet to puncture my mood. But hark! The hammer blow does not come. Instead the realisation dawns that this isn’t going quite as badly as I feared. Rather I realise something: she is funny, intelligent and pretty. This moment must not pass. “Do not hesitate!” screams my brain. Be bold. “Will you go for a drink with me?” intones my mouth. “Yes” she replies. “May I have your phone number?” I ask. Once more: “Yes.”

So, at this stage: HURRAH!

I return to my coterie. “Where have you been?” asks Simon. Who knows what conjecture crosses his mind as I reply, “Oh, just to the toilet” with an incredible smugness spreading over my chops [which can’t be a pleasant sight – sorry Simon].

I decide to retire for the evening and head for the Tube, doing a passable impression of Morecombe and Wise dancing off backstage along the way.

I arrive home and make a cup of tea. I decide to inflate my ego by looking at the name and number nestling in my phone. Hmmm. Hang on. There is just the name ‘Justine’ there. No number! No! Cue furious searching. Cue obviously futile attempts to shake my phone into coughing forth the precious secrets I thought I had entrusted it with. Alas, the number is nowhere to be found.

Bugger.

So, we have ourselves a time honoured tale: Boy goes to gig. Boy meets girl. Boy loses girl’s phone number. Boy is idiot.

But boy is not finished yet.