Conversations in Woolwich. Be warned.

'Have you never sniffed a black man's penis?' He yelled at me, as we danced to Korean pop in his flat overlooking Woolwich, 'Oh you must! It's the most earthy raw smell, you never forget it. I could phone a friend to come over. He would let you smell it.'

'I'm a very happily married woman,' I smiled, 'and even if I wasn't, I'm not going to smell some random guys crotch whatever you say.'

My friend looked genuinely surprised. 'What a prude you are! It doesn't have to be his penis. You'll get something similar from his armpits.'

Sometimes I wonder how I get into these conversations. Is this casual racism? It felt very odd. Is there a generic way a certain group of people smell? I don't believe it. It's just too weird. My friend is doing well enough I hope; he's talking about how crystal meth is all over the London gay scene right now. Having three close friends who thoroughly ruined themselves through addiction, he must know better than most how it screws people up. 'Don't get into crystal meth,' I said. 'Oh I won't, I won't... I mean,if there's some at a club I might... but probably not or only a little...' I went home after our champagne dinner, with a sense of perturbation. It all reminds me of gay mates in 80s London during the emergence of HIV. It's hard to tell a grown man what he should do (especially when some considered the recommendation of condoms as an attempt to punish their lifestyle, and carried on defiantly bareback) you feel like a crap friend if you don't say anything, and an overbearing mumsy if you do. Anyway. He's a smart man, he won't do anything so very stupid surely. Surely.

And then I bumped right into the buddhist bi-sexual policeman, a man who has had a bit of a crush for ages. While he is genuinely a lovely, gentle voiced man, he manages to combine the aura of perfect manners with a very palpable desire to rock my world. I haven't seen him since before I asked my mate mentioned above to tell him to knock off the messages because I was married and didn't want to know. Friend said he would speak to the policeman, but didn't. And here he was.

We caught the bus together, and chatted and everything was cool. He has a new lady friend, he's spending Christmas with her in a remote little village on the edge of somewhere, there will be dog walks, there will be time spent by the fire, there will be all things good. I wished him well, we hugged, I gave him a perfectly ordinary kiss goodnight, he got off the bus, and the messages were on my phone in seconds, thanking me for a lovely kiss (it wasn't a snog or anything, I don't know why he was so pleased with it.) Next thing you know he wants to meet up and gives me his number, and at last I had to do what I hoped my hopeless mate above would do for me. Yes, I know it was always my responsibility. I explained that not only am I married, I am very married to a man I love. 'He is my world,' I explained in my text. The gent was gallant enough, accepted what I said, told me I was beautiful and suggested I keep his number in case I ever want to come around for tea.

Tea? I wouldn't trust this man's powers of restraint past the buttering of a scone. Not that I think he would ever do anything wrong as such, he just seems so... I don't know, so keen. Within minutes of talking about his lady, he's sending me hopeful messages. It would feel off even if I was available.

Today I am going to the Assyrian exhibition at the BM with a friend I can rely upon to talk about his own genius obsessions, history, occult literature, etc... The conversation may well be odd and interesting but I can trust him never to try tempting me into sniffing anyone's crotch, or some love tryst over crumpets and lady fingers. Between him, me and Ashurbanipal, we'll be fine.