Then Sales, who is also sporting a - say - 2 o'clock shadow, asks me if he should shave or not because he has a date tonight with the guy who facebooked him after selling him a couple of tickets at the theatre last week. Ah the modern world, huh?
'Mmm, well is he clean-shaven, I mean if you rub your chins together are you going to ignite?'
He gave me the haughty stare that he seems to reserve mainly for me and deigns to initiate me into whether or not tonight will be a meeting of chins. 'No, he's smooth.'
Very, if he can chat you up on Facebook after meeting you once.
'Shave,' I say. But I'm a middle aged woman. I don't think my preferences hold much sway in boy circles, so I think again. 'Or maybe not.'
'That's very helpful...' He says. 'How was I the other night?'
'What other night?'
'When we went to the theatre together?'
'I don't remember.'
'Oh come on, you were with me, why can't you remember? Cast your mind back and think!'
I can't. It's a blank. All I can remember is the mystified look on the young woman (and her mother) who we ran into in the foyer as she wondered who the hell the old matron was who was accompanying her gay friend , though this was a problem I had anticipated with a little help from my frenemies at work.
'But what will people think when they see you?' Chief Sales had asked when I mentioned that young Sales and I were going out for a night of culture. (Look, he asked me...)
'That I'm his mother, or his aunt or something... Surely!'
She looked sceptical.
There was rhyming slang in there. I just know it.
