The Floozie.

The ancient art of canoe-smuggling.

I once fell into conversation with a whore...(Don't ask - long story. Just read on).

Behind the soulless eyes lurked a burning intelligence - a sense of style infinitely superior to anything in the fashion glossies. A wet dream made human. The essence of sex. The strongest lustful urge personified. Scarlet Lady (not her real name for obvious reasons) was all these things and more. A single glance from Scarlet had the power to remind you just how wonderful life could be. She was Katherine Jenkins, Halle Berry, Kristin Scott Thomas, Audrey Tatou. She was an English Jessica Rabbit but had the added benefit of not being a cartoon character.

She was passionate yet in control, outrageously sexual yet demure, vulnerable yet strong. She had an air of melancholy that was so magnetic that I just wanted to look after her the first time I saw her...but also her to look after me too. She was clearly very intelligent and knew all about how to play men, which differentiated her from other women and also-rans. Perhaps most importantly, she had a fantastic rack and the kind of behind I'd happily eat breakfast off.

When she approached the seat next to me, I could barely look her in the eye. She had long, thick auburn hair, perfect china-doll skin, an exquisite angular nose and the most captivating green feline eyes I'd ever seen. I blushed so fiercely when she extended her hand to introduce herself that everyone around us felt embarrassed and began self-consciously talking amongst themselves.

When we went through the motions of greetings and conversation all other sounds seemed to be blocked out and I had a kind of out-of-body experience...again. I heard no sounds but her lovely, smooth voice and occasionally my own voice, though I have no idea what I was saying. It was as if I was in a strange dream. Apart of me wanted her to leave since what was happening was a little scary but I also wanted to stare at her stunning face for the rest of my life. She didn't just 'have me at hello', she had me before she opened her mouth.

Frankly, I thought... better yet, I knew for sure that she was so far out of my league that unless I won the lottery, had plastic surgery to look like Brad Pitt and had L. L Cool J give me a crash course in how to be cool, giving me her number would remain a far away dream. How wrong was I?

Anyway, long story short, I just went for it because I was certain she wouldn't remotely fancy an ugly Neanderthal like me. I had nothing to lose. All she could say was no. I couldn't freakin believe it! I felt like the cat that had got the cream. She promptly reached for her phone inside her very expensive handbag and asked what my number was. Before I go any further I should probably mention the fact that I'd actually owned that number for eight years and it was imprinted in my little brain that I could even say it in my sleep. But no. I suddenly couldn't remember it, if I had been asked what my name was at that particular moment, I probably couldn't have been able to say it either.

It was at this moment that she sensed what was going on in my little brain that she kindly reached again in her handbag and took out a piece of paper and pen to write it down. Relax. Deep breaths. With shaky legs like a straight man in heels, I took it from her and struggled to put it away because I was so excited that anyone within about fifty feet who checked out my trouser area would have assumed that I had taken up the ancient art of canoe-smuggling.

What a girl. The kind that makes men lose half their wealth. I might just call her but then I'm reminded of Kanye's song Heartless: "In the night I hear them talk of the coldest story ever told, somewhere far along this road he lost his soul, to a woman so heartless..."