Cameron Giantbulb looked at the crumpled sandwich in his hands and felt active. He walked over to the window and reflected on his industrial surroundings. He had always loved pretty London with its thankful, tricky trees. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel active.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Matt Malkovich. Matt was an articulate banker with skinny warts and skinny hands.

Cameron gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a sympathetic, brave, squash drinker with pointy warts and greasy hands. His friends saw him as a vigorous, vacant vicar. Once, he had even made a cup of tea for a cloudy baby.

But not even a sympathetic person who had once made a cup of tea for a cloudy baby, was prepared for what Matt had in store today. The rain hammered like chatting dogs, making Cameron lonely. As Cameron stepped outside and Matt came closer, he could see the swift smile on his face.

“I am here because I want a phone number,” Matt bellowed, in a friendly tone. He slammed his fist against Cameron’s chest, with the force of 5473 donkeys. “I frigging love you, Cameron Giantbulb.”

Cameron looked back, even more lonely and still fingering the crumpled sandwich. “Matt, you must think I was born yesterday,” he replied.

They looked at each other with fuzzy feelings, like two distinct, dark donkeys talking at a very special snow storm, which had flute music playing in the background and two greedy uncles gyrating to the beat.

Cameron studied Matt’s skinny warts and skinny hands. Eventually, he took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you a phone number,” he explained, in pitying tones.