Morgan and I talk at lot about stereotypes; in certain ways, we fit and in glaring ways we do not. In restaurants, for instance, we invariably get sent a bottle (with compliments) to the two sexy women out eating alone (!).

A crass and repetitive assumption which led to a favourite game: Morgan, elegant, stunning, enters a restaurant and is shown to a table.
Ten minutes later I arrive, settle, order efficiently and proceed to take-in the scene. We notice each other, eye flirt. The maitre-de is called, a bottle of the best wine ordered and dispatched. With glassy expression, Morgan is presented with the offering: she glances in the direction indicated, hesitates, nods an acknowledgement.
A neat smile is dispatched with the maitre-de – who arrives, studiously unruffled, to inform me that my advances are accepted. As surreptitiously as possible, I am moved to join her.

Done properly, the silent ensuing scandal is divine. Suave and charming, I flirt; her intelligence glows. Leisurely, we enjoy the excellent food – if we are feeling particularly naughty, our stockinged feet stroke and travel. Finally, we leave - no doubts as to how we shall spend the rest of the night.

We fit beautifully.