It's a common story. A young man and a young woman meet at a bar and have a few drinks… not enough to get drunk, but enough to forget about their pesky early morning appointments. She's attractive and he's friendly. He pushes her long, silky blonde hair back and his tidy black goatee bristles as they kiss for the first time. They retire to someone's room and, well, have a little consensual fun. And suddenly it's 6am and she's remembered she's got uni at eight and by half past she's already pounding down the pavement, running for, in some sense, her life. Meanwhile, back in the bed he's slowly stirring, rising with the rising clatter of the dustmen outside the window. As he listens he remembers he's meant to be shifting some dodgy cauldrons his dad dumped on him and with a crack he's gone. And then, simultaneously, both remember where they've been. But he's in London and she never caught his name.