Precious, precious beer threatened to fizz through my nostrils as a colleague, K, explained the reasoning behind her decision not to change her name upon marriage.
"I've had 30 years with the name 'Pratt' and I've got used to it. I don't think I could stand another 30 with the name 'Cockhead'"
I had to agree. I too am possessed of a faintly silly name (more silly because I was always last to be picked for the football team and, if there was an odd number of players, would be given the task of timing the match or used as a handicap.)
Still - I don't really get the whole changing name thing on marriage (to be frank, I don't get the whole marriage thing full stop; but I am slightly biased in this regard) and I'm pleased that more women are sticking with what they've grown up with, or choose to change rather than it be expected.
But I digress. As K and I chatted at the bar it became quite clear that sex was on the agenda. In the last year I've become better at understanding the signals and, aside from a number of occasions where I figured the act would screw up (pardon the pun) a beautiful friendship, have generally let my groin do my thinking for me.
Not this time though. It wasn't the twinge of guilt that K had only been married a year. Nor was it the jetlag. Nope. It was the thought of the Lovely B.
I pondered this as I went back to the solitude of my hotel room and, despite BBC World turned right up, was still forced to listen to the man next door fucking a prostitute.
