I’m in Paris. The other day, I was standing at the grave of Jim Morrison, taking a photo, when a voice behind me said, “Would you like me to take a photo of you with the grave?” I turned round and this very handsome Frenchman was staring at me. I said, “No, thank you” but he still stood there staring. He then smiled, looked at my legs, and tried to make further conversation. He was very nice, but I thought, “Surely there’s a time and a place to chat someone up.” I fast-forwarded six months.
Mum: “So where did you find this man you want to marry?”
Me: “At Jim Morrison’s grave.”
Mum: “Is he a grave digger?”
Me: “No. He was trying to pull me.”
Mum: “He’s not suitable.”
I then went to a kebab shop whereI had another encounter with a Frenchman.
He said, “What would you like?”
“You are very beautiful. What are you doing tonight?”
“I’m going back to London.”
“That’s a shame,” he said. “I was going to give you a discount as well.”
We all have to meet our wives, husbands, lovers somewhere, but Ican think of more romantic places than a graveyard and halal takeaway.
Afterwards, I thought, “Should Ihave pursued their interest? Just because it didn’t fit with my version of how things should be, I let it pass me by. That one at the graveyard was hot. Now I’ll have to travel the world, standing at famous people’s graves in the hope that he turns up.”