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minutes’ head start, before I threw on my coat and left. Outside, the weather had turned biblical, hailstones plummeting from the sky as if Someone was pelting me from up on high for being a less than gentlemanly date.
    I pulled up my collar and ran to the closest taxi rank I knew, as water seeped into my boots. When I reached the end of the queue, it eased off slightly.
    ‘Not your type of pub?’ It was the girl with the dreadlocks and defiant brow. She sneezed and held the back of her hand up to her face self-consciously. Rain slid off her nose and black trails of make-up swam down her cheek. I decided there and then that she was beautiful, though I got the impression that she either didn’t know it, or at least refused to acknowledge it.
    ‘Not my type of date, if I’m honest.’
    She smiled briefly, then crossed her arms and turned back to the queue. It wasn’t moving. The rain was picking up again.
    I assumed by the fact that I was staring at the tiny seashell tattoo on her shoulderblade that our small talk was over, until she turned and said, ‘We’re going to be at least fifteen minutes here. You do realise we’re going to get drenched?’ Her eyes flickered to my jacket.
    ‘Oh, sorry,’ I said and slipped it off my shoulders to offer it to her. She burst out laughing and I felt like the new boy at school wearing shit trainers. ‘I wasn’t after your coat, honestly,’ she assured me.
    I needed to up my game. I’d spent the last couple of years coming up with a repertoire of amusing, self-deprecating pickup lines. I needed to say something now with a pinch of flirtation, a soupcon of irony and just the right amount of cheeky, wide-boy candour.
    ‘Just thought you might want to stop your hair getting wet.’ Brilliant. Just brilliant. Why she didn’t run a mile at these new depths of gormlessness is anyone’s guess.
    ‘I suspect you spent longer on your hair than I did,’ she teased, as rain fell onto her cheekbones. I must have looked put-out. ‘Sorry, I was just joking with you. Your hair’s very nice.’
    ‘That’s overwhelming, thank you,’ I said snarkily in a bid to regain some self-respect.
    She’d have been within her rights to tell me to piss off right then, but I’m happy to say that she just smiled and said, ‘Where do you live?’
    ‘Staying at a friend’s in Waterloo. Normally Cheshire.’
    ‘Hmm, very posh,’ she smirked.
    ‘Not really.’ Then her teeth started chattering. ‘You sure you’re okay?’
    She shrugged. ‘Starting to think I was a bit hasty about your coat.’
    I took it off and thrust it round her shoulders, feeling a tug of self-satisfaction. It was huge on her, a big tent of fabric that swamped her frame. I liked the look of it on her bare arms.
    ‘Are you at university here?’ I asked.
    ‘Yep. Doing English Lit. You?’
    ‘Economics. Not here though. Cambridge,’ I said.
    ‘Ah . . . definitely posh then.’ And when she smiled this time, it was big and warm and her whole face shone.
    As the taxi queue disappeared, I attempted to manufacture a moment when I could ask for her number. But when that moment came, near the front of the queue, she opened her bag and gasped.
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘I’ve lost my purse! Oh, bollocks, I’ve lost my purse!’
    A frantic minute ensued in which she persuaded half the queue to scramble through the gutter, before the car at the front got fed up and started beeping. ‘Oh Gawd,’ she sighed, looking at the heavens. ‘Looks like I’m walking.’
    This was my opportunity to do something heroic, something gallant that couldn’t fail to make her want to throw herself at me, or at least consider a snog.
    ‘Take this,’ I said, thrusting my last £20 in her hand.
    She opened her mouth to protest, then decided against it. She looked genuinely touched, genuinely impressed. I was quite taken aback myself.
    ‘Have you got enough yourself? To get home, I mean,’ she said, concerned.
    ‘Ah, don’t worry about me,