I swear there was this time I met a big bad wolf. He was sitting at the bar, eating nuts from the complimentary bowl and taking long, slow sips of tomato juice.
My legs were cold. Dressed in a skimpy top, short black skirt and a lightweight coat, I remembered too late that it was winter in these parts.
It must have been Dutch courage whispering in my Irish Whiskey that made me approach the beast.
Smelling peaty and smokey, I sidled up to him. We chatted.
He said his name was Toby and that he was new to town.