I had my car serviced on the weekend.
As you may remember, I don't use my car much, so rather than drive it six whole blocks to the mechanic, I had the mechanic visit my house.
He was a pleasant enough bloke. Well, aside from the whole overweight and grubby thing. And the whole leaving-globs-of-freshly-hoiked-phlegm-all-over-the-pavement thing. And I would never mention the revolting haircut, bad diction and constant use of the word "fuck", because that would be distinctly impolite.
Still, I feigned some interest in what he was doing, not wanting to look like I knew nothing about cars, didn't want to know anything about cars, didn't like making conversation with grimy people I don't know, or just wished that pixies could come in the dead of night and fix my car for free. I'm nice like that.
Conversation turned, inevitably, to the weather, and then, even more inevitably because it's all I've talked about for the last month, to the fact that I ran in the City To Surf just the previous weekend.
He looked me up and down, and then said "So… you're pretty fit then, eh?".
"Oh… er… I… guess" I replied, taking a step back to give the impression that this conversation would soon be over, and I'd be racing back inside the house to find the Dettol, a wire brush, and a picture of Clive Owen.
"Did you run it with your boyfriend?" he asked, putting careful and creepy emphasis on the word "boyfriend".
"Pffft!" I said quickly, rolling my eyes. "He doesn't run!", and off I scampered.
So basically, if anyone knows of any rich, handsome, intelligent, funny, limber gentlemen who live in Sydney and don't run, let me know.
We can't have me looking like a liar, can we?