I never (set out) to pinch anyone's bloke, let alone Nina's. The day it all (start), picking up a bloke was the last thing on my mind. Even I (not go out) on the pull in manky old combats and a sweater that (see) better days. All I (think of) that drizzly afternoon was (find) a cab home. (start off) in mist-like fashion, the drizzle (move up) a gear, as if it (think) about (turn into) proper rain. At this point I was just up the road from Covent Garden, with drizzled-on hair and a jumper starting (smell) of a wet Shetland sheep. That was when I saw Nina (come) out of a smart little restaurant, with a bloke on her arm.

If I can misquote Jane Austen here, it is a truth universally (acknowledge) that if you are fated (bump into) someone like Nina when you (not see) her for four years, you (look) like a pig's breakfast. While she (look) like a Sunday Times fashion shoot in silk and cashmere. Only about six paces away, she (talk and laugh) in her silver-tinkle way to the bloke, who (hold) her umbrella up to stop her (get) wet. The last time I (see) her (at a wedding four years back) she (have) some tall, dark specimen in tow. Although everything about him was theoretically perfect, I (not be) particularly impressed - to me he (seem) just a bit plastic, somehow. I (not know) what it was with quite this one - he wasn't classically good-looking exactly, but the spark (hit) me at once!