Courtesy of the annals of B3ta:

There’s a girl you like. Big time. You adore her. She’s perfect. And she’s single. You flirt a little, but it goes nowhere. She’s wary of being hurt or messed around.

My friend Tom was that guy. And after nearly a year of groundwork and being turned down times beyond number, the girl, the perfect girl, finally agrees to go out on a date.

Tom is beside himself. ‘I’ll take her to the finest restaurant in town. The new Thai one – it’ll be perfect. For weeks, he rants and raves, gushes and giggles. Tom is on cloud nine.

We’re all rooting for Tom. As D-Day approaches, we slap him on the back, ease his nerves and wish him well.

On the night itself, most of us have forgotten, or merely pushed it to the back of our minds.

Not Alan. Oh, no. Alan’s car turns up outside everyone’s house at 8PM, beeping like a maniac. What’s going on?

Ten minutes later the answer is clear – we’re parked opposite the new Thai place. And look, just inside is Tom, the perfect gentleman, the happiest man in the world.

Al begs silence. Al’s phone appears. A number is dialed. Not a whisper is heard.

“Hello, Thai Kingom?”

“Good evening, this is doctor Wilkinson of Grantham Hospital – could you please pass on a message to a gentleman I believe is dining with you tonight? A Mr Thomas Lastname? Yes, please, could you tell him that his wife has just gone into labour? Thank you. Good evening.”

The helpful manager strolls over to the table. We lip read. Word for word, the message is relayed. The girl stands up. Slaps him. Leaves. He runs after her. A few steps outside he pauses, then stops.

He sees our car. He sees his friends in stitches. He clicks. He screams. He runs towards the car, profanities flying. Five people are laughing so hard that they are in danger of having a cardiac arrest. The car lurches away.

We avoid Tom for three weeks….