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interested than he is in
Pilates, yoga and jazz dance (all classes I’ve signed up for in the last couple
of years).
    As our date progressed and I realized
that Andy’s idea of healthy living consists of holidays with the Ramblers’
Association and eating two Shredded Wheat each morning, my enthusiasm for
physical activity increased. I even managed to drop Egyptian Dancing into the
conversation. Only that I was thinking of trying it.
    I sensed that Andy was calculating
that while I wasn’t much of a looker, I would probably be quite fun in bed with
all that fitness and flexibility.
    I began to wonder whether he had hair
on his shoulders.
     
    I don’t honestly know, however,
whether we would have made it to another date, if it hadn’t been for Honey’s
incontinence. We exchanged e-mail addresses, but I would not have contacted
him, because on the tube home I convinced myself that he was a stalker. Not as
mad as it sounds, by the way, because when I got out at my stop, I caught a
glimpse of him sitting in the next carriage down, and he quickly put his Evening
Standard up in front of his face.
    Michelle reasoned that it was
perfectly possible that he lived further down the line — why else would anyone
suggest meeting on the Finchley Road? — but I thought that was too
coincidental. Admittedly, I was in the middle of the latest Nicci French.
    When Andy’s head appeared by chance
over my fence the following Sunday, I was a bit spooked. Oddly, the fact that
he had a dog, especially a lolloping old Labrador, made him seem softer,
somehow. And he was carrying a plastic glove to clear the poo up with.
    ‘You’re easily pleased,’ Michelle
said, when I told her after.
    Turns out he didn’t have hair on his
shoulders.
     
    Having a relationship makes life
easier. You don’t get the pity. There’s someone to do the barbecue if you
decide to throw a spontaneous party in summer. When the children in your class
ask you if you have a boyfriend, you can say yes, full stop. No further
questions. A husband would be even better.
    We don’t even have to see each other
that often.
    I didn’t mean that to sound like it
did.
    My job involves a lot of preparation,
and twice a week I go to my health club or see Michelle. Twice a week, Andy
rehearses with the Metropolitan Opera which is an amateur company named after
the tube line that divides the sprawling north London suburb in which most of
its members live. We have a tacit agreement that he doesn’t talk about it, and
I don’t tell him about the amusing things the children in my class have said.
    During the week our only real fixture
is quiz night.
     
    Last year, Andy and I were regional
champions in the North Herts and Middlesex league, which is pretty amazing since
it’s just the two of us, and we have never resorted to the use of mobile
phones. Andy is brilliant at facts, I am brilliant at trivia. We make an almost
unbeatable team.
    Andy and the lovely Lydia.
    That is what the publican called me
the night of our second date when we first won and it stuck. And so did we.
     
    We have not seen each other since he
dropped me back home after New Year, and I waved the taxi down the street, then
woke my elderly neighbours up trying to get my key into their lock.
    He has not replied to my e-mails
either, but he often doesn’t, so there is really nothing to worry about.
Everyone gets drunk at New Year, don’t they? I will not even bring it up.
    ‘Broken any resolutions yet?’
    ‘Never make any,’ says Andy. ‘How
about you?’
    ‘I feel much better without it,’ I
tell him solemnly. ‘Good,’ says Andy.
    So that’s that.
    ‘How was rehearsal?’ I ask him, as if
I am interested. ‘We’ve decided to go for Cosi fan tutte .’
    ‘ Cosi fan tutte ? by Mozart?’
    ‘Full marks.’
    ‘Bit more difficult than Gilbert and
Sullivan.’
    ‘Mozart was not considered highbrow
in his time,’ says Andy.
    ‘I was there when you rented the
video of Amadeus,’ I