He Looked Like Colin Firth

Having been a little miserable lately what with work clamping down on us like a bloody vice, I thought back to happier times and laughed out loud today at the thought of having slept with a guy many years ago purely because he looked like Colin Firth. Colin Firth, or Mr Darcy of acclaimed BBC fame, that tall dark smouldering man any woman with brains would give up her intellect for. It was one of those nights out that had become regular, with some really close friends, out for a good night at a small club in Kings Cross that was partly owned by a friend's friend or some other equally close non-acquaintance. Drinks and dancing, but predominately E-laced euphoria sustained by the energy of speed, that was always a favourite mix of mine. We'd laugh all night, crowded into the small rooms of the converted terrace house, where you could go onto the first floor balcony to take a cool sip from your drink and cool breeze through the leaves before you overheat and dehydrate. Always remember to hydrate yourself in that situation. It's so easy to forget. But we didn't and we were happy, and danced and danced and danced. And when I looked across the room in my happy state, I saw happy reflected. If not more. We danced together and chatted about this and that. Nothing was amiss, just a feeling of invincibility and utter understanding. Towards the end of the night friends began to dwindle away. We bade our farewells, and left together, back to his place. The sky was beginning to lighten and I remember looking at him in the growing light and thinking, my god, he really looks like Mr Darcy. He really, really looks like Mr Darcy. There was no hiding my delight. Then he says, my girlfriend is away at her parents this week so we'll be alright.

What?, I said. Didn't I tell you?, he said. In our state who remembers who said what when, but I know that he didn't say anything before hand. I calculated. He approached me. He spoke to me first. He suggested we come here. I was single. I didn't want anything except the moment. The beautiful moment. Nothing could be sweeter. I am still euphoric, and I was with Mr Darcy. Driving home, I made my usual call to a close friend to tell my secret. He was a perfect gentleman! He was exquisite! We were connected in our minds and souls. I even remember telling her, almost pontificating as I insisted that ecstasy played no part in my judgement of his agreeable manner and I was on top of the world and everything had its perfect ending. Everything was sublime. And it was. And I laugh that I have this strange, far away, dream-like memory.