Ok, it’s another night for the contact lens and the blue date dress. I am meeting the chappy who I suspect has created this terribly sophisticated and ‘sweet’ Francaphile in his head, an illusion I imagine I’ll manage to sustain for about an hour before I blow it by swearing or he notices the patches of hair I inevitably miss when shaving my legs.

Not to worry, if he doesn’t work out I have a Swedish guy lined up who is offering to let me milk his cows.

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