by Sean O'Hare
AS A non-smoking, packed lunch-making, gym-going bore I decided as of last week to cut out the Friday fish and chip tradition that has been in the family about as long as the faulty gene.
Instead I finished work and met my pal at Panthers Gym in Cowley, owned and managed by the ex-Gladiator, Panther.
Even with her glasses on she looks like a handful, while her husband, an ex-Mr Universe, gives the impression he doesn't suffer fools, so we didn't stay too long.
We decided to refuel on chicken and headed for Nandos.
An hour later, and with the piri-piri hot sauce still causing me discomfort we found ourselves somewhere in North London, trying to find the bar where our friend's band was playing.
Unsurprisingly we were lost, but considering my friend was using a Tom-Tom sat nav I think my tantrum was justified.
Although tempted to join the cool brigade by getting drunk and chugging cigarettes to the pluck of the bass, I somehow resisted and my reserve was justly rewarded.
Sat opposite me on the train home was the girl of my dreams. In between chomps on an apple she told me she was 24, like me lived in West Drayton and worked as a dietician, which explained the apple.
There is a lot to be said for clean living and sobriety I said, puffing my chest out while nodding her wickedly in the direction of the drunk opposite, obliviously tucking into a sloppy Chicken Royale.
My net was closing in, she was impressed, I was sure of it.
As our stop approached I prepared to ask for her number when her mobile started to ring. Not wanting to freak her out by following her around West Drayton Station at 1am, waiting for her to get off the phone, I decided to leave it...what would you have done?
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