Bruce, that’s me, otherwise known as the Professor of Lurve, formerly known as the Doctor of Lurve but that was before my PhD paper titled ‘Aspects of Lurve – a Luving Look at Languid Lurve Licks’ was so well received by the GMCL, the General Medical Council of Lurve, and I took a seat at their behest at St. Cupid’s, has a small problem.

There’s this chick, right, and she is very, very, very lovely indeed. When I saw her face for the first time I almost dropped the condoms and when she turned and my eyes fell to her succulently pert backside I fumbled the lubricant. I picked it up and handed it to the bloke behind the till and he asked if I had a Boots loyalty card and I replied,” No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

You see, she is an incredibly well dressed and kempt petite, dark haired, dark skinned sex bomb of a dispensing pharmacist behind the counter at my local Boots. She is frequently in my thoughts and we have spoken on two separate occasions. Unfortunately, these were both in Boots when she descended the steps from the pharmacy to serve yours truly due to an absence of alternative cashiers. She mesmerises me so that I momentarily forgot that I am, indeed, a Professor of Lurve, and so merely mumbled such inconsequential lines as “Thank you,” and “No, I’m afraid I don’t have a loyalty card.” Actually, no, hang on, I’m giving myself a bit of a hard time there. The real reason that I didn’t make a decent first impression was that I was seeing someone else at the time and I was being completely faithful. That’s right. That’s the kinda guy I am.

Anyhoo. She didn’t really have to stop what she was doing to come and serve me as there was only a queue of two people. I, of course, have taken it to mean that she wanted to serve me because she wants to chase me down, rugby tackle me to the floor and pour honey all over my bits. You have to admit that it is a possibility.

Since the first day that I saw her about four months ago I always look through the shop windows as I pass on my way to work to see if the Dark Goddess is working. On Valentine’s Day I felt compelled to do something and so I had a friend of mine from the local sandwich shop go into boots with a bouquet and a fancy exotic pot-plant telling the target that some chap had asked her to drop them off to her. Apparently, she dropped what she was doing, grabbed the flowers and ran into the back to read the card. I was happy about that and I did not consider it to be an act of disloyalty to the then-girlfriend. Not really. I just wanted to keep everything simmering, you know. Whatever.

Since then all I have done is peer through the window to see her. Sometimes our eyes meet and she is probably thinking one of three things:

1. “That tall hairy guy is a stalker. Good thing I have my mace and a third Dan in Ninjitsu.”

2. “There goes that guy again. I wonder if he was the one who sent me those Valentines? Is he really shy? Is he ever going to make a move? *Sigh*”

3. “There he fucking goes again. If he doesn’t come in and grab bits of me tomorrow it’s tackle time!”


So, that’s the problem. How am I going to make the first goddam move? The chances of actually getting served by her are slim. I’d have to go in everyday and would end up with more dental floss and plasters than I could use in a millennia. I know, I know. I could just walk in and ask to have a word with her and then attempt to persuade her that a night out with me is a truly great idea. That’s if she needs any persuasion. Who knows? Fuck it.