I will never forget one unmemorable date. She was nothing to look at, but she thought she was. I was struggling to get through the night, hoping to see the end out in a courteous, gentlemanly fashion. For some reason, she thought that I was going to make a move on her, and it was incumbent upon her to head things off at the pass. On her doorstep to a shared flat, she announced with the boldeur of haute arrogante that she was suffering from "bad blood" and needed to head straight in the door forthwith. There were three things that entertained me on the way home. One, she actually did look like she was suffering from bad blood. Two, what a great line. I could use it myself next time it was my turn to cut loose. And three, how did she envisage that I was going to come into contact with that "bad blood"?
— Ian, 31