“Are you 'Crystal Palace Andy'?”

“Well, are you?”

These are the words of my dear elder sister of the ‘I Saw You’ column in thelondonpaper. "Yes" I answer, somewhat reluctantly, wondering how often she peruses this Loot-for-the-Lonely. Nor does she appear to be the only relation/close(engaged) friend /work colleague who keeps a regular eye out for potential admirers in the London free press.

Eschewing potential exclusive serialisation income I spend another 50 pence to text rival free rag London Lite my plea which will, somewhat romantically, be displayed under the title ‘Lovestruck’

“Are you Justine from Kilburn? I met you in the Luminaire on 8/01. You gave me your phone number. I lost it. If you want to go for a drink please get in touch. Andy from Crystal Palace.”

Days pass with no reply. Justine obviously reads something improving on her way to and from work; and so do her wide circle of intelligent friends. Such are the crumbs of comfort available for me to dab at in the dry roasted packet of life as I sit surrounded by work colleagues in that well known philosophical alehouse, Wimbledon’s ‘Hand and Racket’. Comradely support is in short supply however as even the the most senior manager is joining in the general ribald banter – aka border line psychological abuse - that now seems to permanently surround my plight.

The last word before closing goes to our Finance Officer, a man who'd likely fail a Talksport audition for being too blunt:

“So you’ve [insert Justine attention seeking method here] and heard nowt?”

“That’s right, Steve.”

“Give up. She’s obviously seen one of them and just thinks you’re a bit weird; or she wasn’t going to go out with you in the first place.”

“You’re probably right, Steve. Thanks.”