The content of the daily free newspaper handed out on street corners and outside train stations in our city consists purely of horoscopes, that evening’s TV schedules and a load of celebrity gossip.
On Thursday it showed a photo of Madonna in what I believe is called a basque and one of the girls in the office poured scorn on “the old woman in the leotard”.
“You mean the old woman who’s the same age as me?” I asked.
“Er, well, yes, but, er, like, you look much younger,” she said, digging frantically upwards.
“Seriously?” joined in GoldenEyes. “After all her botox, she still looks older than him?”
We eventually let her off the hook, but only after it was established that Madonna is not an old woman and that I still find her attractive, leotard or no leotard (I realise that there are two ways of looking at that last sentence).
I have written before about my Ghost Writer who haunts me, though in a good way, ensuring that my life is filled with enough unbelievable co-incidences and odd events to help pad out a blog. It has to be due to his intervention that at 14.34, less than an hour after the above conversation, I noticed that this was in my inbox:
Needless to say I opened it:
Madonna is asking me out.
She is asking me to go to a concert in May where she may well wear the basque, the leotard or for all I know a dress in the shape of a box-kite.
She seems to be inviting 10,000 chaperones. Perhaps I have a reputation I know nothing about.
I think we could really hit it off, but the relationship would be doomed from the start because of the media’s wish to compress couples’ names, like Brangelina for example.
Madonna and Tinman. They’d have a field day.