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their house, all the lights were off and no-one was in. I rang the bell repeatedly and even chucked a couple of small pebbles at the window. Nothing doing. I went home and awaited her call. For two days there was nothing but big silence. Worried now that some great misfortune had overtaken them, I went back to their abode that afternoon.
    When I reached, the sight of some builders erecting their scaffolding at the front of the house caused my heart to sink. Stopping one of them I asked him his business.
    â€˜We’re turning the house into flats,’ is all he would say. ‘What about the people who lived here?’ I anxiously asked.
    â€˜What about them?’ he replied, and walked off. I stood there gazing at the scene in complete disbelief, utterly confused and not knowing what I was to do. A week later, seven restless nights of frustration and heartache, a letter, addressed to me, came through the post. It simply read, ‘Sorry but we had to move. There was nothing I could do. Please take good care of yourself. I will always care for you. T.’
    To this day, I still have no clear idea of what happened except that the ground was cruelly taken from under my feet and I was pushed hard into a bottomless pit of despair and anger. Ah, let’s drop it for it still vexes me to think about it. Suffice to say, Tuesday’s masterful Houdini act left my HQ completely haywire over the whole guys and gals programme, and it was just as I was coming to that I met Sandra. As you can no doubt pinpoint, my clock was still set to Tuesday time and so I refused to see Sandra in any other light than that of the most basic. Naturally, as far as Sandra was concerned, this was not too much to her liking. For women, the act itself is rarely enough. If they are to be intimate with their bodies then it’s usually a two to one odds on fave that there should also be an intimacy of the mind and heart. It is rare, I reckon, that a woman can walk away time and time again from a close encounter of the flesh and be satisfied with that and that alone. Since we are vamping on the subject, it should also be made clear that for a lot of guys such options never come into play if only because John Thomas does not understand these ways and, what’s more, has shown little inclination to learn this lingo.
    Most of the time it’s as if gals like to build bridges which the guys then exert a lot of their time refusing to cross, all the time thinking, what will it gain me to lose freedom for the chores of responsibility. This scenario is not helped by the fact that gals become women far faster than guys become men and so there will always be a time difference between the two, like an athlete in a relay race waiting anxiously for the rest of their lives for the baton to be passed on. I ascended the Oxford Circus escalator and was up into the West End sunshine which beat down upon the masses rushing here, there and everywhere.
    To be honest I would like to give you the exact location of my meet with the Brother P. but find myself unable to do so because our regular haunt, a coffee spot we always use, is yet to be discovered and we wish to keep it clear from unsavoury characters and, no offence to your good self, but you never know who is looking in these days. Let me just say that Papa Supino’s is to be located in the deepest part of the West End and is run by an Italian family that we are inordinately fond of primarily because of their very cool way of letting us sit for hours and hours chewing the fat at one of their tables, whilst only ordering cappuccinos. The Brother P. and I are also, it must be stated, drawn to them on a deeper level and that has much to do with the way that the whole family, barring their son Paolo, are totally at ease with themselves, exuding a contentment with life and, consequently, they display their emotions far easier than a lot of the tight lipped and repressed British, a condition that even I, born