"You're walking funny - good weekend, eh?" leered S from behind a computer monitor.
S, you see, is about to sample the joys of fatherhood. He's got about 3 weeks until his current life is over. As such he is starting to live life vicariously through me (though I doubt he'd admit such a thing.)
As it happened, I had had an extremely good weekend. A companion and I had headed off to Paris (France, not Texas) on the spur of the moment and enjoyed an very agreeable couple of days in the sunshine, strolling around the boulevards and indulging in the occasional display of public affection.
I could have given S the lascivious details. I could have winked and explained that I'd joined a group more exclusive than the mile-high club; the mile-under club (courtesy of the train passing under the English channel.) I could have remarked that the limp was most likely the result of excessive use of the hotel room. I could have commented that the unopened 'pack of 18' I took with me was empty by the time I returned.
All these things I could have said, thus earning untold Bloke-points. Inexplicably I didn't. I simply smiled, said "ran up the steps to Montmarte" and headed for the coke machine.
For some reason I didn't want to tell the lads in the office all about it.
So I've told the internet instead. Oh well...
