...you lucky little bugger, I say to Small Bum.
Dad runs in, from a pizzeria across the road, where he is drinking gin and tonics with some random architect lady, to meet Small Bum before we head off for dinner.
Dad: [Small Bum!] Nice to see you again!
SB: Uh...we've never met. But neverthless...a pleasure.
Dad: Where you taking Peas tonight?
SB: The Spur. They're having a R25 rib special.
[Dad thinks this is the funniest thing he's heard all his life, and starts laughing uproariously.]
Me: You'd better be joking.
Dad: Small Bum, are you coming for a flight in my aeroplane on Saturday?
SB: [ulp] I guess so!
Dad: Peas why don't you want to meet my architect date?
Me: Because I'm on my way out the door.
Dad: She's a little...big, sure. but come on! You're interested in architecture aren't you? She could be a good contact for you.
Me: Dad a fat architect isn't going to help me in my shitty retail and food magazine job. Trust me.
Dad: Maybe she can help you design a building.
[At this stage, SB is looking more than perplexed and doesn't quite know what to say or do.]
Me: Because I want to design a building.
Dad: Well...it's an option.
Me: An option for what? I'm staying over at SB's place tonight Dad, so don't wait up ok.
Dad: Please use protection.
My oath to Jabunda he said that. In front of the poor guy.
In the car on the way to the Singing Fig (that's where he took me for dinner, bless his little cotton rods):
Me: So now you know what I mean by loopy. What do you think of my dad?
SB: [formidable pause] he's a little pyscho. [last word is a high pitched shriek. Cue wild stabbing hand gesticulations, like those you'd use to describe a slasher scene in a film such as Nightmare on Elm Street.]
No, I actually think he's cool. Nuts, but cool.
We had a lovely dinner. I ate Norwegian salmon, he ate cajun chicken linguini.
I didn't mention the word 'sex.' Nor did I slip in any uncomfortable innuendos about the act of lovemaking or such. We climbed into bed and still, in my white lacy underwear, I didn't elude to anything. He made the first move by casually running his hand down my bum and beyond.
Then something happened that I cannot write about for his protection. Let's just say that my poor, wonderful, shag-initiating boyfriend has to see a urologist today.
The next time I fornicate, I fear, will be in the distant future.