I gaze past him to the waiter approaching our table, and I feel sorry for the guy. Having to wait on an insolent teenager who may or may not stiff him his tip is definitely not my idea of a dream job. Not that this is my idea of a dream date, either.

I knew it was doomed the minute he guffawed at my suggestion of the Cock ‘n’ Bull eatery. He uttered two or three phallic jokes then spent the better part of the next hour driving the streets searching for some “juicy steak”. I didn't bother pointing out that I only eat chicken and seafood. As he jammed his jalopy monster into a space outside Le Biftheque, he howled again, dragging up the old joke like a lump of congealed beef fat that I wouldn’t have minded watching him choke on. Cock? Like dick? You want to go to some place that serves up fried dick? Open-jawed, I watch him, mortified but unable to move; like watching someone fall off a cliff.

And now here I sit, in $60 shoes, having even gone to the trouble of waxing my legs. As he again dives into the apparently limitless spins on the word cock, I feel a deep pity for our waiter, the English language, and mostly, myself.