It's official. It was bloody hot this last week. Yesterday broke Britain's records for hottest day with a stifling 100 degrees fahrenheit.



During the heatwave Tim came over for dinner. It was nerve wracking. My flat was arid. Cooking meant sweating in the already stifling kitchen. I hadn't cooked for anyone in ages. We hadn't really spent any time in each other's company. Oh, and due to a watermelon allergy I had a rash down the side of my neck. Tim had made a series of high expectation statements about "saving up" for the evening. The pressure was on. I was eager to impress, but all of the obstacles were there.



It turned out ok. Our breezy email conversations translated well in person once I got over my nerves. It was strange, after 8 months of emailing, to have him in my flat in person. We talked for hours. Dinner was fine, although that holy grail of French cooking (and Three's Company plot mandatory), coq au vin, was unremarkable. Tim's a charming flirt who spent the night surveying -- and no doubt mentally critiquing -- my cd collection. (I knew I should have hidden the Betty Buckley albums.) We talked movies. Work. Italy. He's encouraging me to holiday there but I'm terrified of doing it on my own. At one point, stretched languidly on the floor looking at DVDs (I knew I should have hidden Barbra in Concert) I realised that I miss the company of men. The physical energy that bounces around the room. The mix of testerone and chest hair. The sexual buzz that's still perceptible in non-sexual situations. Giovanni once told me I spend too much time with straight women. He's right. At work. At play. My social circle is one big ring of Vogue-reading-fresh-painted-sexy-modern-man-trapping- womanhood. I'm crap at making friends with men. Especially gay men. Tim was a test. A mission to make a gay male friend. A test I was trying to see if I passed. I think I did. Now I just have to find a Tim I can date.