When my friend Moya and I got out of the taxi in my home city of Leeds, there was a period pad on the pavement, which set the tone for the night out we ended up having.
I wanted to get with someone, and I knew it would happen because I tend to have a lot more success in Leeds than I do in London.
The last guy was the worst; he seemed normal until, out of nowhere, he asked whether I spit or swallow? At the end of the night there was no man, there was Moya and me sitting on the pavement with garlic sauce dripping down our wrists from the overfilled kebabs.
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