"Can I ask a question?"
Breakfast Club Boy nods.
"What colour tights was the six foot penis wearing?"
It is not a question that I ever expected to have to ask, but then, had you asked me even a few weeks ago I would not have expected to have spent my birthday evening watching a play which contains the stage direction "Enter six foot penis". We shall not get on to the Lesbian Feminist Angels, the kind of language which would have my mother reaching for the soap or the fact that Breakfast Club Boy appeared on stage wearing not much more than a body stocking and a coathanger on his head. Or the fact that it contributed to a rather wonderful evening.
It is as I feared.
"Right, I think we might have been wearing the same tights".
Breakfast Club Boy laughs. "I did think you were..."
I assume that it was only the spectre of my birthday that stopped that potential mockery from emerging on Wednesday night.
"Thank you for not mentioning it".
I wait to see what is coming.
"the girl who plays it isn't that keen - so if you wanted to come and play the six foot penis in your tights, that could be arranged".
Oddly enough, I decline.