Last night, staggering through the streets of Mayfair and Marylebone at 4am, I turned the corner off Oxford Street into Duke Street, and very nearly jumped out of my moisturised skin.
There, standing in the window display of French Connection, was an almost exact replica of my girlfriend. After taking several minutes to establish that it wasn't actually her (by asking that cunning question about Babe Ruth that the Yanks used to use to catch enemy spies) I took a picture:
Except perhaps for the height (my bird is taller), and the fact that my girlfriend has softer skin (and is generally a little less hollow when you knock her), the similarity really is uncanny (right down to the cream Cons). Plus, when I showed her the picture this morning, the tease just raised her eyebrows at me and handed me a cup of coffee, which I frankly found hugely unnerving.
I suspect that she's up to something (she keeps giving me those odd sideways glances that pretty girls excel at). And call me old-fashioned, but I really don't want her knowing that I prowl the streets at night, turning tricks. All told, she's a naive little thing, and as far as I know she still labours under the illusion that I'm a hotshot writer. And in the immortal words of Paul Simon: Who am I to blow against the wind?
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