You are probably wondering, then, how things went with the Norwegian.

Come to think of it so am I.

We met for lunch rather than in the evening. A few last-minute work concerns, he said. No worries - I am generally forgiving on the matter of men and their busy schedules. I had decided to save anything potentially upsetting for the end of our meeting, as it would probably not be an aid to digestion. Also I hadn't yet decided what to say, apart from a few salient points:

1. Your situation makes me uncomfortable

2. Your feelings for me make me uncomfortable

3. If there is nothing we can do about that, could we take a step back, please?

(At heart, I believe all emotional content should be delivered in bullet-point form. So much less messy; so much less scope for misunderstanding. But I recognise that is not how other people work. More's the pity.)

The Norwegian ordered. He paid - unusual, we typically split 50/50. We talked about Heroes, recent films, and which superhero we would be (him: Spiderman, because he has girl problems; me: Batman, because he isn't a real superhero, just a man). He ate quickly, sloppily, and apologised profusely. He talked about his girlfriend, about her new job, about interest rates. Superficial things. Easy things.

And then...

'I have to ask you something,' he said in a detached tone.

'What is that?' I said, smiling, wondering what it could be.

'Do you... have you done something to your eye? It's all red.'

'Oh! That,' I said, wiping the corner with the edge of my sleeve. 'I'm a little run down is all. A bit of a cold, nothing serious.'

He nodded. Then he disappeared to the toilet for a quarter of an hour.

I sat at the table, sipped my drink, and looked at the other tables in the restaurant. Was that an established couple or an early date? Were those people family or co-workers? Was the insanely joyous greeter at the door on drugs, or was I simply imagining she must be in order to muster so much wide-eyed enthusiasm for talking to hungry members of the public at a midweek lunchtime?

He came back to the table. Said he had to be off. Hoped we would meet again before Christmas, or maybe new Year, or sometime in January. A half-wave.

I wonder what he knows.