Jeremy Clarke: Get your yoga mat – you’ve pulled

I went from the first yoga session of the New Year to the pub. I felt ever so noble. The place was rocking. There was a bloke at the bar looking at his watch, curious as to how long it would take the pill he’d just taken to affect his brain. I was with a woman who kept excusing herself to kiss this other woman. It wasn’t snogging exactly. Rather it was miniaturist nibbling and lip-licking. Some tongue, too. But it looked a bit theatrical. Look at us, kind of thing. Were we supposed to be surprised? Aroused? This is an agricultural town. Nobody has batted an eyelid at lesbianism or bisexuality for centuries. If they’d put their backs into it a bit more then, yes, jolly good show, and we might have spectated a bit. In the pub we were drinking gin and tonics and Jägerbombs and Sambuca shots.

When we were properly stoked, we went upstairs to this music joint next door. The band were in full flight, the place was shaking. We pushed our way right to the front, she and I, where the sweaty lead singer got me in a headlock, kissed my ear, put his mouth to it and told me how much he loved me. With malice aforethought I’d brought along some handy pocket-sized tins of gin and tonic to save time queuing at the bar. I cracked them open and gave one to the singer and he downed it in one between verses.

Then this woman and I start busting out our moves. She was a great dancer. A mover. In her spare time she works out, kick-boxes, runs up and down mountains. I’d fancied her for ages but was tongue-tied.