I buzz the postman in and he climbs the stairs and delivers unto me a small square parcel. There are no clues on the label or the packaging as to who this might be from, but I slash the tape impatiently with my trusty Stanley knife, and rip off the outer wrapping.
As curiosity courses through me and my inner kitten squeals and hides beneath the sofa, a stylish, little Myla box reveals itself (think Agent Provocateur with added lady).
A slow smile tickles the corners of my mouth as I carefully unwrap the tissue paper to reveal a beautiful ivory satin lingerie bag with a hand-curled loop and button clasp in tangerine silk.
Inside is an exquisite strapless bra with matching lace panties. I don’t think anyone has ever sent me lingerie before. Bought it for me, fastened it on me, peeled it off me, but sent it to me through the post? Never. Not in my entire life. A stiff little card reads:
Enjoy. From New York Boy.
I was right. This is from Rugby Player and it's his much anticipated gift. I shake my head in amazement and grin widely. I am still able to do this as I have not, as yet, succumbed to Botox.
I rattle my proverbial pedestal and CC, precariously balanced at the top, crashes to the kitchen floor. Other wannabee mountaineers ascending the rock face of my affections stop in their tracks, look up, look down and wonder if it’s worth the rest of the climb.
Rugby Player now stands proudly at the top, arms folded triumphantly across his broad and manly chest, one foot planted firmly on a heart-shaped boulder. For the moment - for me - he is The Man.
I text him an effusive thank you and rip my clothes off to try the undies on. Although glamorous in the extreme, the bra is not a great fit, so I go to the Myla website and establish that I can change it. No point in keeping something I can’t wear, is there?
He’s spent £95 on some ecru lace dental floss whose company slogan is 'Accessories for your Sex Life' on the off chance that this may improve his. Unlikely if he’s in New York and I’m in London, but if a plane ticket in the sharp end of a jumbo jet was forthcoming, I could be persuaded.
At lunchtime, I get a text from Tom Cat saying he enjoyed our meeting last night, swiftly following by one from Cute Face getting ever more excited about our date tomorrow. He tells me he’s going for a haircut and I order him not to as I like my toyboys a tad unkempt. He insists he needs the haircut anyway and promises to maintain a degree of scruffiness.
We carry on texting silliness throughout the afternoon which could be why I’m developing RSI in my right thumb. Or it could be arthritis. At my age, anything is possible.
Rugby Player texts me back to say he landed in London early this morning and has six hours to kill until his next flight out again. Now I could have just left this alone, because God knows, I’ve got enough going on plus a stack of work to do, but because it’s Friday and it’s 3.30 p.m., I feel like knocking off early. So I do...