Sunday, 1130 after a thrilling evening of The Royal and Midsomer Murders, my phone bursts into life with "A message to you Rudi" telling me I have a text message. This late. On a Sunday. W T, and indeed, F?
I flip open the phone, Captain Kirk style.
"Home safe. You were great tonight. Best fuck ever. Thanks for everything. x"
This news comes as no surprise, because I am excellent every day, but to receive texts about my prowess from random strangers is rather disconcerting to say the least. Especially when the only lust I have felt tonight is towards Wendy Craig in a nurse's uniform.
Mrs Duck: "So, who's texting you at nearly midnight, then?"
I don't know, I say. I don't recognise the number.
"What did they say, then?"
I tell her.
Mrs Duck is not amused. Not amused in the slightest, as frankly, wrong number or not, people just can't go round saying that I'm excellent.
So, to defuse the situation, I send a text in return:
"Cheers. Smashing. Great. You were rubbish."
I await a reply.