Brian Luff writes…
The day Georgina met me at The Kings Head comedy club in North London she was working as a temp in central London, and her parents had just bought her a brand new PC. Yes, believe it or not, until 2002 Ms Sowerby was completely computer free.
Georgina’s leap into the internet age had actually begun just one evening before she met me, when she’d set up her first ever email account away from the office. Fate must have been taking a hand here. When she scribbled down her brand new email address for me – hoping to the heavens she had remembered it correctly – she tried to play it cool, secretly saying to herself, “How fabulous am I to have one of these squiggly things in the middle of my name, so that people can correspond with me in a technological manner in keeping with the twenty-first century”.
When Georgina got home from the gig that night, she opened Outlook Express for the first time ever, and immediately found an email from me. She was flattered that she’d been the first thing I’d thought of when I got home from the gig, and was delighted that her ability to flirt had not become entirely extinct during the preceding couple of years. She shoots, she scores.
Meanwhile, I was completely smitten. I suggested that Georgina take the day off work and that we go somewhere for a drink. Her reply was an oddly traditional one, like a line from a high school musical.
“Do you have any wheels?” she asked.
Our first date was as entertaining as I had expected it to be. I took Georgina to a famous pub in St.Albans called The Fighting Cocks – which is one of the oldest inns in the country. I thought she might be impressed, but I’m not sure she was. Georgina drank way too many Red Bulls, and I just sat and stared at her like a love struck puppy. This simply had the effect of making Georgina feel awkward and she immediately thought her mascara had smudged into panda eyes, or that she had a piece of cabbage stuck between her front teeth. But I didn’t notice her embarrassment. I just stared some more.
Half way through the evening I suggested we go for something to eat. Maybe a pizza. Georgina said she’d rather sit and watch TV, and asked how far it was to my house. An hour later we were sat on my sofa, with a bottle of Merlot on the table between us.
“Why aren’t you drinking any wine?” Georgina asked me.
“Because I have to drive.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I’ve got to drive you home, haven’t I?” I said.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “You can have as much wine as you want.”