He'd suggested a Friday evening for 'catch up drinks'. (Everyone knows that that translates as a sex date, right? A Tuesday or a Wednesday is blates a brush of a forearm but a Friday night date runs into an halloumi and pine nut breakfast, some place beyond Zone 2. Right? No).
We were in a bar. And then he dropped the charity bomb:
"I'll have to make a move. I'm getting up early to feed the poor people".
Ah, the olde 'poor people' line.
"Are you joking?" I screeched into his face.
"No. I head up the team. It's really rewarding."
As rewarding as a 'meeting of minds' under a duck feather duvet???!?
And there it was. I headed back to Haringey with a Sweet and Sour pot noodle and reflected on its irony.