The good news:
The doctor exceeded my expectations 10-fold. Physically; just right. Tall. Good looking in a way that doesn't invoke my inferiority complex. Nice smelling. A shadow of stubble (not too boyish, not too Dumbledore).
Emotionally; articulate, open, very self-aware. Comfortable talking about his family, but not desperate to pour over the misery of it all. Acknowledged that what we were doing would be considered wrong by most reasonable people, but agreed that he would have it no other way. Refreshingly free of the need to assert is masculinity.
Conversationally; I was bowled over by the passing of time. We sat down. We started talking about Wolf Hall. Then suddenly it was 10.30pm, he had to leave, and I was fumbling through my phone for a cab number. A dry sense of humour. A vast well of knowledge when it comes to literature. And very happy to let me gush and rant and debate about innumerable topics, without impatiently stepping on the ends of my (increasingly slurred) sentences.
The bad news:
He lives in fucking Manchester. Fuck.