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that.’
    And so, we drank.
    Four pints later, Terry said: ‘Are you sure you’re sure about this, Jim?’
    ‘As sure as I’ve ever been about anything,’ I slurred.
    ‘That’s not exactly saying much, is it?’
    ‘ Plossibly not.’
    ‘ Plossibly ?’
    ‘Sorry.’
    ‘This is about number three, isn’t it?’
    ‘ Pfff , don’t be daft.’
    ‘I may be stupid, but I’m not stupid, James my boy. I’ve figured it out. Number three was the one you met again a few years ago, wasn’t she? The one you tried to rekindle the magic with, and it didn’t work. Am I right? Am I right?’
    ‘No Terry, you’re not. That was six, then nine. Number three isn’t someone I’m ever going to meet again. Sorry to disappoint.’
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘I just do.’
    I knew because I’d found out on my last date.
    I had met an attractive girl called Judith at a work’s night out the previous year. It was one of those tragically choreographed evenings with quizzes and karaoke, but being relatively new to the company at that point, I was eager to make a good impression. Long story short - my team won the quiz, I did a Meat Loaf duet, and I got a phone number.
    I plucked up the courage to call and Judith agreed to go out for dinner.
    I suggested a posh (yet inexpensive) new restaurant in Shawlands . We met in the bar and it was all going well until we were ushered to our table. The waitress who ushered us was Paula Fraser’s big sister, Andrea. We recognised one another at the same time and, I’m ashamed to say, spent a good five minutes talking animatedly about Paula in the most positive of terms. I could probably have got away with it if I hadn’t answered Judith’s query of ‘who’s Paula?’ by saying:
    ‘ Aahh , she’s my ex.’ The huge grin probably didn’t help.
    Anyway, that’s how I learned Paula was happily married and running an English language school in Munich.
    That’s also how I screwed up the most promising date I’d had in years. The remainder of the evening was spent exchanging the tiniest of small-talk. If memory serves, the tuna was lovely, the wine was pleasant, the potatoes were cooked to perfection and the both of us had to get up early the next morning.
    ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’ Terry said.
    ‘What?’
    ‘It’s bourbon time, boy.’
    ‘No, honestly, Terry. I’ve got to think.’
    ‘Wild Turkey helps you think; Woodford Reserve is a proven brain aid; Maker’s Mark helps you make your mark.’
    I loved them all, but this wasn’t the night. If ever I needed a clear( ish ) head. ‘Just a tequila, salt and lemon, mate.’

Chapter 3
    I rarely tended to do to-do lists at work, I found predicting failure depressing. I made an exception the next day, though the things I had to do had nothing to do with work, apart from the first one.
1.     Chuck job (try not to laugh in Patrick’s face)
2.     Total all debts, credit cards and loans
3.     Arrange valuation of flat
4.     Pray equity is enough to pay-off previously totalled debts
5.     Spend four week notice period planning what to do with rest of life
    I resolved to get the first three tasks sorted out before lunchtime, thus giving me as early a start as possible on the last two.
    ‘Jim, can I speak to you in the office please?’ Patrick barely slowed as he strode past my desk, and made no attempt at eye contact.
    ‘I was about to suggest that very thing, boss.’ I sprang up and fell into step a few inches behind Patrick.
    ‘Oh, eh, okay.’ Patrick picked up his pace in an effort to put more distance between us. I adjusted my own speed accordingly.
    At our last departmental training morning, the ‘enabler’ from the training company had insisted on doing a ‘personal space’ exercise. This involved half of us standing in a row against one wall while the other half faced us from the opposite side of the office. My row had to walk across the room towards our counterparts and they were to