Free Love @ First Site by Jane Moore Page A

repression of black people next, how they're treated like second-class citizens by an "institutionally racist" society. But he won't get the irony of a white, privately educated, middle-class boy preaching to others about the lot of the poor, underprivileged blacks, as if they are somehow too downtrodden or inarticulate to speak for themselves.
    To my mind, his pompous assumption that the black community would even want, let alone need, someone like him to speak up for them is racist in itself.
    I'm really annoyed now, so I resort to trying to pick a cheap but satisfying argument. "So how old is the photo you posted on the Internet?"
    He looks momentarily thrown. "It was taken about ten years ago."
    "That explains why it looks nothing like you. Why don't you use a more recent one?"
    Shrugging, he takes a tiny sip of water. "That was all I had. It was taken by my ex-girlfriend in the early stages of our relationship and she left it behind when we split up. I don't take photos myself. Don't see the point."
    I raise my eyebrows in genuine surprise. "Oh, I
love
looking through old photos and remembering various happy times throughout my life."
    He nods sagely, as if my statement has simply confirmed his worst fears. "A lot of people feel that way. They feel there's something missing in their lives, and memories are the glue that holds them together."
    That's it. Now even
photographs
can't be pleasurable, and I can't bear this pompous bore a moment longer. I raise my hand in the direction of the waitress. "Can we have the bill, please?"
    When it arrives, he picks it up first and I inwardly marvel that, at long last, he has a redeeming feature: generosity.
    Pulling out what resembles a child's denim purse from his jeans pocket, he lays the bill in front of him on the table. "I'll pay for my vegetables, you get the drinks. I only had a water."
    My face visibly drops. When he starts counting out coppers onto the table, it caves in completely.
    "Oh, for fuck's sake. I'll get it." I grab the bill and march to the back of the cafe, desperate to hasten my exit from this godforsaken situation.
    When I return, he's still sitting with the handful of coppers in front of him. "Thanks," he says sullenly. "But it was totally unnecessary to swear."
    "Wankety wank, wank, wank, WANK!!!" I bellow, before flouncing out onto the street and breaking into a liberated sprint towards the tube station.

Seven

    T wo dates so far, and I've paid the bill both times. I must have 'sucker' tattooed on my forehead. Have I?" I jab my finger into the crease above my nose.
    "No," laughs Tab, "you haven't. You've just been unlucky, that's all. Maybe you've had all your bad dating karma in one go and the next date will be someone like Sean Penn," she says, choosing my unfathomable crush as a crumb of comfort.
    "Or Pig Penn," I mumble through a mouthful of croissant.
    We are in the
Good Morning Britain
canteen, home to various "breakfast rolls" with unidentifiable fried objects in them, pastries that could break the teeth of Jaws from the Bond films, and the salmonella poisoning of a game show contestant that was hushed up and miraculously kept out of the gossip columns.
    Tab pulls a hair out of her bacon roll, stares wordlessly at it, then places it at the side of her plate and carries on munching. It's so commonplace that neither of us consider it worthy of comment.
    I knock back a swig of black coffee. "Aaaaah! Let's hope the caffeine kicks in pronto. God knows I need it this morning."
    "Grim?"
    I nod silently. Tab knows what I'm talking about--our breakfast topics are nearly always the same, only the description changes. It's the
Good Morning Britain
makeover.
    Today, I have what I can only describe as a giant armadillo requiring my attention upstairs. Usually, there is always an attractive woman just waiting to be wheedled out from under unkempt hair, left to its own devices amid a life of daily school runs and piles of washing up. More often than not, it's a