How it never goes to plan...

The plan was to study till British Library closes, go to gym, meet Gary and go to Misfits comedy club, spend Sunday visiting Camden and perhaps getting new earrings.
But this is what happened:
By 1pm, bored and uninspired by social psychology, I text Liebchen, my friendly german, who, by the way, was also working on Saturday and begged him to go see Thank you for smoking instead.
Liebchen agrees, and we end up enjoying a film and a light supper in Apogee next to Prince Charles. We part around 6.15pm, just giving me enough time to drop my track suit bottoms, shock absorber bra, t shirt in my gym locker and to have a quick power shower-steam room combo.
Gary's on time and we are heading for comedy.

I think the highlight of the evening was Paolo Ferrari, a crazy Italian bastard that blew our candle out (serves me right for insisting on the front table to be able to annoy the performers)and was totally unpredictable and for the most part nobody was sure what he was doing but his sketch was absolute joy.
Then this, (what I thought was cute) Scottish boy comes up with his cute accent and goes into his routine. I think there was something about him being skinny yet putting on weight around his waist and commenting how no woman will go for that and me saying I'm not so sure, after which he asks what, I would wanna sleep with a teletubby (Gary kindly pointed out later that their antenae might come in handy for certain tricky positions that require holding onto something), and I say no but I'd consider you. This just totally shocks him and he loses his thread and every time he looks at me (which was hard to avoid since I was 2 inches away) he blushes.
Even though he said he'd see me later, he never comes and besides I once fell for that line from some Geordie act couple of months back, so I am taking no chances this time and I sent Gary to inflict my number on a poor man.
The tiny doubt flickers in my head, like I have no clue what he's like, but that is soon outweighed by the fact he can tell jokes and the fact he speaks in Scottish accent.
Gary comes back, goes through 7 cycles of repeating how he approached the man, gave him the number and so on and then I am at peace.


But then, when we left the club, he shares concers with me that he thought the lad was losing his hair and had to comb over thick fringe. This astonishes me as I thought he just had one of those expensive and complex Toni and Guy cuts.
In the conversation that ensues, I also find out his teeth were possibly stained with mineral deposits (because Gary rememberes talking to someone whose were that night but can't remember whom) and that he had a very old mobile phone which was hard to manipulate when he was typing my number.
So far so good.


Camden falls through as I wake up to find out I've lost my voice completely and spend most of the day whispering and accusing Gary in the voice of Godfather that he gave the boy the wrong number as I am as yet to receive a text, but on closer examination of the situation, if everything is correct, the hair comb over and the teeth, now I am just praying that he maybe forgets he has my number.