"Mr Rockford? You don't know me, but I'd like to hire you..."

And earlier this evening, I changed a tyre.

Actually, thats not, if we're being picky about it, strictly true, and won't come as a surprise to any one. Joel started looking worried half-way down the one way street we may have been going down the wrong way, because, y'know, it was one o'clock in the morning, and we may have been a little, ah, directionally challenged. The worry, as it turns out, had nothing to do with the lost thing; what I thought was a bad patch of road was actually a spectacularly shredded tyre.

Five minutes earlier; in a fit of girlish petulance, Imogen switches off the satellite navigation system.
Twenty seconds later; "Cupcake, where do we go from here?"
"Right after the traffic lights."
"And then...?"
"And then you'll have to pull over and reprogramme the sat nav."

We traversed the heady wilds of the one way street and pulled over; he popped out of the car in a hot second, while I leaned back and switched the radio on.

You know you're doing badly when you catch repeats of Radio 4 broadcasts.

It was that thought that got me out of the car, more than the muffled swearing that was coming from ballet pump level.

"Can I help you, darling?" I asked, all sugar and spice.
There was a long pause and he froze in the act of slamming the boot. "I'm sorry Cupcake, but did you just offer to help?"
"Right, fuck you then." I could always just listen to Radio 1, I figured. No need to be suspiciously nice, or he'll be wondering about your motives. He's a twat like that.
There was a slamming sound behind me. "Sure, why not?"

Bad cat.

"OK, so what do I do? . . . No! Joel, take this for a second, I think I've just smudged oil all over my cheek . . . Has it gone? Do I look like I'm trying to win an Othello look-a-like competition?"
"You would say yes, but I think right now you're looking more like a tousled kitten."

Huh.

"Right, that is it. I have oil in my hair, and I'm not playing any more."

He took over. I turned the radio up and leaned against the car; sulking, as it turns out, works far better with Womens Hour or The Archers as a background; Hiphop just doesn't quite do it when you're going for petulant.

The car was all better within five minutes.

"There's something really quite macho about changing a tyre," he said, smirking at me. "Particularly in your company. Now, what else can we do that'll make me feel like a Real Man? Any mice you'd like me to catch for you?"
"I'm homeless! Unless we go with the whole 'All the world's a stage' thing, in which case you may well be feeling macho for quiiiiiite some time."
"Right, something else then, I haven't got much time." He checked his watch while over taking a lorry. The daredevil. "I guess we can spare five minutes before we should head back; what else is there? . . . Hmm.

Imogen, may I ravish you?"