The Godfather

Ah, lovely literary friend:  confidante, mentor, counsellor, pimp...

She's on the phone saying:  Maz, do you remember that time you came round for supper and said that you thought the guy in the photograph was cute...   You know, my godfather?  The one whose flat I'm living in?  Well, I told him all about you, everything (everything?) and so do you want to meet him?

Yes (look at me playing hard to get...)

Great well...   there follows a long, breathless, descriptive passage during which she tells me everything she has told him about me (and apparently, brave man - it is everything) and then without conveying anything about him beyond the fact that he used to date her aunt 30 years ago, she asks me if she should continue in her role as pimp, or whether she should just give him my number.

Give him my number, I say.  I think the man has had enough details.

Okay, right, you're sorted.  Now remember, I deserve a big, big prize for this, in my next life I'm going to be showered with good things and you now owe me BIG time.

I do, I agree.

Right, lots of love, it'll be wonderful - he's amazing.

But, just...

Bye, then, mwa mwa.

No, wait!

drrrrrrrrrrrrrrr (that's the dialing tone)  She's hung up.

I call her back.

Erm, darling... small detail. 

Look, don't worry - I've already told you he's funny, charming, terrific company.  What else do you want to know?

His name, maybe?