My best mate Steve is just back from a glam trip to LA and is filling me in on all the gossip as we nurse giant measures of Amaretto - for some reason that's a 'thing' with us. After a while he settles back and asks me what's been going on back here in the fortnight he's been away. I take a deep breath and tell him.

After having such a nice time with the Stuntman after the gallery, I decided to get all proactive on his ass, and ask him out. But for more than just a few drinks. A friend of mine owns a bijoux little cottage on the optimistically-named English Riviera and asked me if I wanted to housesit for a long weekend.

His companion, who had caught my eye turned out to be French. And how! He was like a purebred cliché of Gallic insouciance - tall with dark floppy hair and criminally full lips that morphed lazily from sneer to smirk and back.