DEAR MIRIAM: I've locked myself out of my flat and lost my keys. I'm wandering the damp, Dickensian. late-night streets and don’t know where Ill sleep. I eagerly await your counsel.
Yours, unhinged, Eponine
EPONINE, As my ex-husband Sir Tom Stoppard always used to remind me, keys are clas- sic phallic symbols- we are all thus intrinsically keyless.
Now run, don’t walk, to the home of a man with whom you have previously had casual sex. Were you con- cerned with petty labels you might call him a ‘fuck buddy’.
For now we'll just call him ‘Potentially Your Last Chance at love, babies, and sleep- ing indoors tonight. On the way stop for wine, chocolates, and condoms. Choose from among the £4 merlots wisely.
At Last Chance’s doorstep remove all of your clothes apart from your trench coat (every girl needs a classic trench!). Do be sure to attend to your socks. Recent studies have revealed that socks are ‘total boner kill- ers’. Ring his doorbell. Ask if he likes surprises. Cheerily greet ‘His Other Whore’ over the intercom. Ask yourself if you like surprises (Note: do so internally and with a wry grin).
Come in for a glass of wine. Ooze charm. Explain that you were merely sponta- neously stopping by on your way home from the tube and that you're just a little chilly, so you think you’ll leave your coat on, thanks. Discuss feminism fervently with Last Chance’s flat mate. Ask about His Other Whore’s menstrual ~ cramps. Anticipate Last Chance’s awed look as he feels you up under the blanket and notes your lack of panties. Take a mo- ment to marvel that sometimes there’s so much beauty in the world. Consider underscoring this moment with soft music.
Suggest a threesome.
If you're a frigid prude to whom women’s liberation means nothing, leave Last Chance’s flat and return to the comforts of cold streets and a Jack the Ripper wan- nabe. At least be sure to depart with a breezy, effortless line that encapsulates your ocean- deep wisdom and razor-sharp wit (e.g. “Use a condom”). They may be your last words.