Simon, Si for short, 54

Tinder. Si wears his health on his face, ruddy cheeks, inflated jowls. He has made an effort, tweed jacket, good shoes, and sadly, a shirt hanging out to conceal a tummy. As he moves the fat protrudes.

An intellectual who has climbed his chosen path with some success, is it nerves or natural verbosity? He does not stop talking. He ushers me into the restaurant with an arm behind my waist, beaming. We are not alone, the crushed velvet and stained oak is bursting with colourful spaghetti-strap dresses, cheap heels and laughter which comes in cackles and bursts. Welcome to Wales. People know how to live here. This is, for them, an expensive venue, a special evening out.

There is an option to choose raw meat before it is cooked. It is similar to the restaurants of St Tropez or Nice without the exotic seafood. Or evening warmth. I ponder a palid chicken breast, a defrosted prawn. Which will be fast and calorie light?

Si declares proudly that he will not go dutch. 'Have anything'.

I can't have anything, I want my husband, 100 miles away.