The Marais, 4am Sunday morning.
I'm in a bar with a friend, chatting to this lovely couple we met. He's French and his boyfriend is American.
One of them is slightly built, short and dark. He has olive skin and dark eyes.
The other is thickset, a big guy with a dopey smile and blond hair, blue eyes.
The dark guy is wearing a tailored jacket and smart shoes; the blond, a polo shirt, jeans and trainers.
You know what I'm about to say, don't you?
The blond guy is the Frenchman, the dark haired one is the American.
So stunned was I by this revelation (and not at all drunk... yeah, right) that I was accosting anyone brave slash stupid enough to come within ten feet of me, and asking them to guess.
"Which one of these two is French, which one American?"
Everyone got the answer wrong.
I'm not sure how long this went on for, but it seems that the pair didn't get bored of it.
I presume that they either a) get that a lot or b) were enjoying the attention in an even-negative-strokes-are-strokes kind of way. I think it may have been both. Or maybe it was c) they were more drunk than me. Although they would have had to have started drinking two days prior to achieve that....
Anyway, whilst ever I was annoying innocent bystanders, I wasn't talking rubbish to them, and that's got to be a bonus in anyone's books.
But as the blond one gave me his number and said "call me...", I realised that maybe I hadn't been as annoying as I thought...