Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.

My laid back attitude, though endearing to some, has just cost me a date, at least a weekend’s worth of sex, and potentially, marriage, babies and a home in Cape Cod.

By the time I got to the restaurant she had gone and without her phone number, surname or any specific address details I’m stuffed.

I know three things. Her name is Cheryl; she works in mortgage; she lives in Cape Cod. And, if I can’t find her on Newbury Street where we arranged to meet, or in the narrow Boston bar where we met last night, then that’s where I’m heading. Cape Cod, with the little information I have and a blatant disregard for sense and sensibility.

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