A pub called Wheatsheaf (BBC Path)

The air was cool with a sharp breeze. I walked with my arms covering my chest, already regretting not wearing a jacket over my short formal black dress. We walked down a quiet, half lit street of shadows. The bookmakers and charity shops were interspersed by what I would call ‘old men’ pubs. Not my idea of nightlife.

Undeterred, we headed towards the bright lights and crowds at the foot of the street. At last there seemed to be some real life. But as soon as I built my hopes up, Monica suddenly grabbed my arm and pulled me towards a rough looking pub called the Wheatsheaf.

It was a traditional drinking place with small rooms in every direction. Each had its own strange characters. The smell of stale ale and slight hint of piss hung in the air. It soon became pretty clear that I was the only brown girl. In fact, me and Monica were the only two women other than the frumpy barmaid. It felt like the eyes of the entire place were on me. I instantly regretted coming in. But Monica didn’t, and got stuck into the locals, chatting away as if she had known them her whole life.

Monica ordered our drinks on the company card and I was soon supping my G&T. But I soon found myself out of favour as Monica got involved in a deep discussion with some brawny looking meat head.

Monica obviously dug the middle age bricklayer she was talking to at the bar. The minutes ticked by slowly. Very slowly, and loneliness soon set in. I rocked on my heels and wondered if the night was a big mistake. For one thing, I was yet to see a good looking guy. The place was populated with misfits and the dregs of society. You see, I like a long sophisticated face. Typical English… according to TV, anyway. Think Hugh Grant or Damien Lewis. But in here it was more Alan Partridge, Mr Bean or Austin Powers.

Then I saw this young black guy. He had the air of a student about him. The guy stepped up to me and introduced himself as Tyrone. He was very polite and softly spoken. There was a time in the past when my mum would have approved of Tyrone. But there was no interest on my side. He was too young for a start. In fact, he told me he was twenty one - and he may have been. But I had more than a suspicion that Tyrone was at the most an A-level student. 18 pushing 19, I’d say.

Yet I was glad of his company. Not to be alone in this strange place. He was clearly in awe of me and made me laugh when he called me an ethnic barbie. Casual racism has its charm in certain circumstances.

My new friend spent every breath to make me laugh or tell me how gorgeous I was. I couldn’t help but smile. The least I could do was give him a fake name to hunt down on Facebook when he got home.

Tyrone wanted a selfie with me, which I was happy with, as long as I could censor it first. Which I did. After three attempts I finally looked hot enough for him to keep it. I also took my own with him. After putting his arm around my waist for the selfie, he left it to linger and I soon found myself leaning into him as we spoke. It was a nice feeling, I liked the close physical contact of someone new.

Tyrone’s hand was slowly heading south to my bum. I grabbed it, and tutted. ”Excuse me, young man.”

“Sorry. I’m a bit drunk.”

“You’ll find the ideal girl, one day. But it’s not me.”

“But…”

Thankfully, before things got awkward between me and Tyrone, Monica had tired of the meathead and gestured for me to drink-up. I did just that and kissed him on his cheek. He asked for my number but I declined and reminded him to add me on Facebook… with the fake name of course. Deep down I think he knew I was bullshitting him.

I felt a little guilty.

I’ve always hated letting people down. So I stopped at the doorway, and ordered Monica to wait. “Shit. I left my lip gloss on the bar.” I turned and walked back in.