Quite what Miche saw in me the night we met, eludes me even to this day. She was (and is) beautiful, confident and popular. I was the new guy in town, lost and bemused, having left my home to embark on a new academic life. To compensate for being thin, bookish and awkward, I'd grown my hair long. So as to look like the rock star who lived in my head. The effect was, umm, interesting.
I was talking to the cliche that you find at the end of any bar, anywhere in the world. He was drunk, and I was bored. Michelle, as I came to know her, arrived from nowhere, bouncing with energy. She placed herself between me and the pisshead and kissed me lightly on the cheek.
She said "Hi, who are you? You're new."
Now, I can't remember how I replied, but it must have been good enough for her to lead me away from the bore and into the bosom of her social group. I didn't look back. Never have.
Four o'clock that morning, we were sat on the floor at some random party, the pair of us stoned. In a crystal clear moment, that one gets sometimes with ganga, I realised that we'd talked, ensconced, for eight hours solid. Yet I couldn't remember her name. I've never been good with them, you see.
I couldn't think of a good way of weaving the "So, what's your name again?" question into the conversation. Could you imagine it!
So, I left her that morning, knowing that she was something special, but having no idea of her name. What a prick...
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