My wife and I have just returned from an extended weekend spent with Lisa. We went shopping, we ate fine food, we hung out in student pubs, drank Aussie rosé and felt a little old compared to the other clientèle.
Lisa is well on her way, every inch the successful and confident woman. She sweet-talked us into a table at one of her town's more hard-to-get-into restaurants, something I know would have been completely beyond me.
On Saturday morning Lisa and my wife went off to the gym together leaving me curled up on the sofa watching DVDs. The postman called, bearing a couple of parcels our host had ordered from Amazon.
A middle-aged midlander, he gave me a quizzical look when I answered the door. Oversized scruffy bloke in a Weebl and Bob t-shirt and shorts. I hope he didn't notice my red OPI-painted toenails.
"Well you can't be Lisa, unless you've had the op!" he said.
Trying not to laugh, I accepted Lisa's parcels. Very perceptive, our posties.