I'm in line at the restaurant queue. It's lunchtime and I only popped out because today's menu had roast dinner. And I have a thing for Yorkshire puddings. But here I am unexpectedly hearing words I never thought I'd hear.
"A lot," he continues whilst pouring gravy on his plate.
I don't know how to respond.
"Yorkshire pudding, madam?"
"No," I whisper without thinking.
I mean yes. YES!! I want a Yorkshire pudding! Oh, too late. We've already moved on to the sprouts. And no one wants those.
Should I play dumb and pretend that I haven't understood what he actually means?
"One date?" he asks holding his tray like at trophy. "Just one date, and if you don't like what you see, I'll stop bothering you like I have been,"
What? He's been bothering me? I hadn't even noticed.
I really should be saying something. 'No' springs to mind. But 'yes' pops out of my mouth.
We're at The Natural History Museum in London. Now, normally this is a happy place for me - fond memories of a school trip in Year 5 spring to mind - but today it's as if all possible fun has been sucked out.
Because we've been staring at dried out insects for an hour.
"Am I allowed to tell you that you look as beautiful as this butterfly?" he drawls.
No, you're not. Because a) my make-up is completely ruined after that woman got startled by the moving dinosaur and threw her water all over me, and b) because this butterfly is all dried out! I've seen slugs more appealing to the eye than this!
I smile and sway my yellow summer dress to imply that I'm flattered.
"Butterflies are probably the most interesting insects out there. Apart from bees, obviously,"
"They taste with their feet to find out whether the leaf they're on is good enough for laying eggs,"
"Wow," my enthusiasm lacking slightly.
"They're strong too. Like all insects they can carry about 50 times their own body weight. It would be like me carrying two heavy cars full of people," he laughs aloud at his own words. I don't even bother to pretend to find him funny.
"And caterpillars are wondrous creatures too. You know, an old wives tale states that when the black bands of a Woolybear caterpillar are wide, a cold Winter is coming,"
"Do the black bands tend to be wide around November time, say just when the weather's getting really cold?"
He's in a fit of laughter again, "You're hilarious!"
Yes. And you're not.
"Butterflies need the warmth of the sun to help them fly. Oh, and here's another interesting fact," he really needs to re-learn the meaning of the word 'interesting', "none have been found in Antarctica,"
"Well, I suppose that does make sense if they need the warmth of the sun to fly," I say. He looks at me full of wonder. I feel like I've said something horribly wrong, but to my surprise, his face creases into a broad smile. "You really are a butterfly, aren't you,"
What does that even mean?
"You always look so graceful," he continues.
"Then looks are incredibly deceiving,"
He laughs again. It's getting highly annoying.
"Do you like butterflies?"
"I like the Butterfly Ball lipstick collection by Lipstick Queen,"
And he's laughing yet again. What was so funny about that???
"Really? I saw about 15 on the way here,"
But he's stopped listening to me. "We desperately need them as they're the second largest group of pollinators. Bees being the first," he sighs as he continues to look at the dried out insects behind the glass. "And bees are disappearing too,"
"Like in Doctor Who,"
"Bees can recognise individual human faces,"
"I knew it!" I declare, "I told Tia that the same bee was buzzing around me that entire week!" and I'm really not joking. It followed me to two bars!
"They have nasty stings,"
I nod my head trying to remember a time I've been stung. It's only happened once when I was very little. I was out buying a watermelon with my grandad and a bee sat on my thumb.
"Bees are just a form of specially adapted wasps. So they may look beautiful and friendly, but deep down they can really hurt you,"
I begin to walk ahead, trying to entrance him towards the gemstone section. Hopefully he'll have less to say over there. He follows weakly, his hands gracing my waist when he catches up with me. In an instant, he's pulled me towards him, his arms cocooned around me so there's no escape.
"Can we do this again?" he asks me with an whisper, his eyes longingly scanning every contour of my face.
I was really hoping to avoid this situation. I was hoping he'd realise I'm not the girl for him, we'd go our separate ways and revert to occasionally bumping into each other at the restaurant queue. Him drowning his plate with gravy, and me stealing all the Yorkshire puds.
"Umm, I should really head home now," I tell him, pushing his arms away from me.
"Oh," he says deflated and hurt. And there it was. I'd stung him, then floated away.