I met The Ex today, standing outside Sainsburys with his ginger hair 'n' all.

"Hi!"

I walked past. I backtracked. I grinned foolishly, ashamed to have been caught red-handed with a whole bar Belgian milk chocolate in my hand. I looked at it, and tried to distance myself from it. Difficult when holding the thing. "Hi."

"So...ummmm.....how's life....how are you...how's The Boyfriend...have you got a job...Sainsburys...six years...yada yada." Him, not me. I don't think I'm so utterly repulsive I turn a genuine straight guy gay in a matter of months. I thought about running away. But then I couldn't be so cold-hearted. He looked all eager.

I rambled my way along as I usually do, then - dear God, this was me getting desperate - I started talking about the football. Why oh why? I don't have the foggiest about anything football related.

"Yes. So - the football. How's it all going?" I died inwardly. How's it going?! What a question. What was I hoping to achieve?

"Ummm...there's a match. But I'm working." He looked puzzled. And scared. "Yes yes. England." I said, trying to appear aloof and all-knowing.

I continued to talk in the same way, about things I will never understand. I felt the chocolate softening in my hand. I lifted it up to my face to examine it anxiously, praying for no seepage. I forgot he was still there talking, and glazed over, muttering to the chocolate, willing it to hold out for the freezer.

He talked about his girlfriend and job and work and not going to university, and I talked to my chocolate.

I had to say bye, eventually. We were all suffering, either from the heat, or the painful conversation. The chocolate suffered especially.