I've just been on a spontaneous dinner date with my lovely boy-babette and sushi twin, chiller. When I got off the train at London Bridge I saw a young man looking lost and in some distress and like he'd just been thumped. He looked sober, and about as old as one of my lanky but rather gormless year ten boys (so tall, but about 15), so I went up and asked, in the caring and patronising voice I adopt for those rare moments at work where I try to appear unthreatening, if he was alright and if he needed any help. He looked at me in utterly dejected bewilderment and someone behind me shrieked with laughter like Bertha Rochester in drag. I spun round to see a policeman, about my age, literally rolling on the floor laughing (well, bobbing up and down in a near-supine crouch and howling). I turned back and realised I was talking to one of his colleagues, who was holding his hat under his arm, which was why I hadn't cottoned on to the fact that he was a copper. I was so embarrassed that the words "Oh God, sorry, you're a grown-up!" fell out of my mouth. And I hadn't even been drinking.
Poor, poor lamb. He'll probably have to move to a different force to live that one down.