7.30pm on a Thursday night and I was stuck in the office trying to sort out a minor catastrophe. My Print Buyer had long gone home like most normal people, so my only other option was to call the Dreamboat.

I pulled myself together, cleared my throat and dialed his number, half hoping he wouldn't answer so that I could just leave a message in my usual rambling style. I started daydreaming about him in his crisp navy, single breasted Boss suit. Mmmmmm.

On only the third ring my reverie was shattered...

He: Hi PPQ

Here we go. Butterflies. Escaped winged creatures. Thousands of them. All fluttering in my stomach.

Me: Umm Hi DB, I know it's terribly late, and it's awfully cheeky of me but I'm stuck and just wondered if you could help me out with x...y...z

He: Of course, it's no problem. What can I do for you?

What can you do for me? Well, for starters, there are those drinks we never had, then you could fall madly and desperately in love with me, ask me to marry you, and lastly, we could have lots of babies and live happily ever after...

Ahem. Obviously, it didn't pan out that way instead there followed a conversation of boring proportions re: specs and quantities and proof of deliveries. But also, peppered throughout to my delighted surprise, mutual teasing.

*Sigh*

Friends tell me to surrender the fantasy. He's married to his work and I apparently deserve someone who'll put me first and blah blah blah. But sometimes still, after a conversation like this, after all those butterflies (who quite frankly insist on invading my stomach whenever he's involved), I just think how lovely it would be if we ever did get to read those sunday papers together.

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