Last night

When they arrived I was playing CrazySexyCool by TLC. Pumping it up loud for all the neighbours to appreciate. I'm generous like that. And it being Tuesday evening I was having to compete with the party going on downstairs. Micky and Vicky only have two records by the sounds of it, some pitifully annoying thumper that I suspect was an Ibiza anthem from a couple of years ago when they last managed to get away, and the equally dire "yur bootiful" sung by one half of the sixties one hit wonders, Pinky and Perky. Possibly Pinky. Perky had the voice I seem to recall.

First impression of Kieran? Bounding Labrador. Was a bit worried he might lick my face or have a little tinkle due to his over-excitability. And there was a bit of an issue with height - he was in negative equity in regards to Sal by a good couple of inches - but he certainly more than made up for this deficit in terms of bulk. He looked like he went through a bucket of creatin a day. He could have benched pressed with his eyelids. I was seriously afeared for my furniture as he didn't seem to realise his own strength, like he'd been raised in a reinforced concrete bunker with only tonka toys for mates. I made him sit still in a chair after he'd toppled a table and knocked over a couple of speakers. Fortunately he seemed used to taking directions unquestioningly. It all added up to ex-squaddie.

I don't know what Sal had come as. Her top seemed to be made of something resembling tracing paper and the skirt was ripped up the side way beyond the watershed point. She was a head turner, no smidgen of a doubt, and may as well have worn a neon sign reading "well hello guys, yes I'm fucking naked and what you gonna do about it?"

Kieran ate everything on offer and cleared Sal's plate too. But the third glass of wine seemed to topple him into incoherent babbling and pointing at imaginary objects he was sure we'd find equally amusing if we'd just look. I had to prise the next drink from his locked fingers as he'd fallen asleep, eyes open, pupils fixed and dilated, an object lesson in the perils of steroid misuse. Sal remarked that he did this a lot, drink or no drink, and she appeared to find this genuinely endearing. She's a low maintenance kinda gal is Sally. I always liked that about her.

Sal and I spent the next few hours squatting beside the stereo squabbling over the next track and dancing maniacally around the flat misremembering the words to our favourite records. We did a great duet of Beth Orton's "Pass In Time" and yowled our way through "Only Living Boy in New York", and I can't understand why Kieran didn't wake up for her pitch perfect and deeply moving rendition of Martha Wainwright's classic "Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole". The whole street were humming along to that one.

I hadn't quite honoured the bargain to stick to a sensible amount of wine, but then neither had she and the decision to get stuck into the sixth bottle seemed automatically the right thing to do. By 2 o clock we were well pissed and sitting together by the window appreciating the view - she always liked the view of the city at night - and she was trying to find a record that would make me cry. It's a game she invented, quite cruel really. She knows that you can say any amount of shit things to me and I don't flinch, but get just the right amount of alcohol into me and soften me up with a few well chosen niceties then slip a heart-wrenching track in the mix and I'll go like a geyser. But it wasn't going to work this time, though she did get close, a couple of times. I'm not going to let on what. Don't want her cheating next time.

Kieran jerked awake at three and Sal booked a taxi to take them back to hers. He'd sobered up enough to negotiate both flights of steps unassisted without much risk of an accident. I really didn't fancy offering to precede him and break his fall should he lose control of his extremities. Would have killed me. Sal and I had a peck goodnight. I reckon it'll be another three months or so before I see her again. When she's got bored with Stretch Armstrong