He's a baby-faced, pint-sized 3rd year politics student. I take back earlier comments about small men. He is lovely. He's intelligent and charming and chatty and absolutely cute as a button. His name's S (for he is Sexy Stu, of course).

He's a local boy - a Geordie. He personnifes all the things I love about Newcastle. He's friendly and funny. He wears those Charity wristbands with panache and he has the most gorgeous accent, a divine mix of Geordie and RP English that's cheeky and fun (he says dee'ayuls for details. I love it!)

On Tuesday, he sat down at the bar after work.

I asked what I could get him. A lager - Fosters - please. We made small talk and, as conversation dwindled, I offered to show him my party trick.

Yeah, this one's bad.

I can turn a napkin into a pair of Madonna style triangular pointy boobs, which also make a fetching pair of cat's ears. This is undoubtedly a cool trick, but one perhaps best left aside if you're trying to impress someone as, fundamentally, it involves a tissue and holding it to your chest when it's shaped like a pair of breasts. Yeah, but it's as funny as it sounds!

I demonstrated my trick and he seemed rather impressed. So impressed that I now have his number and the promise of, perhaps, Thursday night and dare I say it - Friday. Jesus. I think I'm going to explode with excitement.

This is terribly childish, but if I see him at work afterwards I am generally too excited to sleep and lie there dreaming about what our babies are going to look like. In turn, I look forward to going to work - sometimes, I'm itching to go - and I'm positively glowing on the way there.

It's all going to end is misery, failure and tears. I just know it. But now, just now, I like to imagine that it'll all end happily ever after.