Ye olden tymes.

I was riding home on the bus last night, when I spied a big tall man. I'm fairly sure his name is Rob, and that I pashed him at a busy Irish pub on Granville Street named Doolin's when I first came to Vankie.

The story goes that I was out with a bunch of 6 or so single 30 something ladies, and let's just say that prowling is a verb that springs to mind. Of course I was swept up in the attitude du noir, and I met this man in the smoking room at Doolin's. (Yes, in Canada, in pubs, they only let you smoke in terrible small rooms that make you feel as if you're some sort of alien, and help you double the dose of nicotine you're getting with all that second-hand smoke. That said, all the people in these rooms are a captive audience if you want one. I noticed the terrbily yukky smoking rooms in the Hong Kong airport. I use the word 'room' advisedly.)

Anyway, this man and I got talking, and there was beer, and before you know it, a bit of a pash. For those who know me, this is so not like my standard approach. It got to that weird space of him suggesting we go home together, and frankly, I had to refuse, because a) I rarely leap of cliffs into abysses - no matter how nice they may be, and b) I didn't know this person from a bar of soap. So, I got his number instead.

Seeing that person, and feeling pretty sure it was him was a bit weird. I was trying very hard to avoid eye contact, lest a conversation ensue, all the while dying to take a photo of him for posterity. He looked straight at me as he got off the bus! Who knows whether he remembered me or not.

He still looked like a bit of alright.