Still–I’d try RC’s suggestion on the grounds that many of them aren’t actually as soulless as that deep down, and the ones who are often enjoy what they think is a daring bit of the rough. And while interesting never trumped rich, there are more girls than even the Sultan of Brunei can handle out there.

From what you write you’d at least be bringing your chances up from circa zero to more-than-zero.

In fact–I’d turn the carlessness into an asset; there are multiple approaches:

Tragic: “I had one, but after the accident I couldn’t face driving it, so I scrapped it. Oh it was a long time ago, but sometimes I still flash back to that little face, and the blood, and all those damn quills in the tyres … ”

Enviro: “Well I thought–why not put my money where my mouth is and reduce my contribution to global warming now?–We really have to think of future generations–our kids are going to have to clean up after us.” (Also lets her know you’re thinking of kids)

Economic: “Oh I had a Porsche, but I sold it when the congestion charge came in–d’you know you can drink two bellinis for the same money? How’d you like another bellini then? Or we could pop over to my place; I’ve got a Tiki bar in my flat. Well, more like a bottle of Mount Gay and a cardboard palm tree, but first things first, right?”

(I always ask if they want a Cuba Libre–sounds sexier and they don’t know it’s cheap bar rum and coke)

Oh–and why would you ask if they have a boyfriend?–Sooner or later you’ll find out. Preferably after a long hot shag while she’s crying on your shoulder, feeling guilty and imploring you: “Don’t tell anyone, please–I’ve never done anything like this before. It’d kill Simon/Alan/Bruce/Jaswal–and I couldn’t bear hurting him like that …”

Why would you care anyway? Either he’s a twerp and you’re better, or she’s just using you for sex (never allow her to put you in the sex-proof “friend” box), or she’s just about to dump him.

Trust me, London girls are into money.

Steven, I said that Newmania had evidently used the last of his brain cells to impregnate his wife, as his comments had suddenly gone all Charles Manson Stream of Consciousness.

I have no idea what Boris thinks, except that he doesn’t think he, himself, is a poet.

Your piece didn’t scan perfectly, but there was no particular harm in it. I’m more worried about the potential to set off more of that bloody erotic verse that we JUST got shut down. If Eliza starts posting more about lions and lactation, we’ll know who to blame.

(don’t worry too much about raincoaster and her tiki bars and girl drinks, I’m a girl, and I drink beer. Trust me on the cooking thing, though)