Will Harris struggles with his friend’s issues

“So I may have done something silly,” says M, and I can tell by the expression on his face there’s no ‘may’ about it. For the past couple of weeks, M has been dating a Canadian telecoms analyst he met through a mutual hag.

There’s something else you should know about my friend: whenever he meets someone new, he goes from zero to matrimony in about 3.6 seconds. This is not something he has any control over.

It’s like in his head, there’s a photo album full of Kodak moments of him and his husband – smiling on the slopes at Chamonix, or taking the waters at Lourdes – except where his husband’s head should be there’s a big blank space that he just fills in with whatever head happens to be buying him dinner at the time. He’s like a goldfish with an Amex.

Anyway, he’s been dating this analyst for just under a fortnight, so I know this means things are starting to get serious. Which also means there’s a serious danger he’s about to royally mess things up. Which means…

“What do you mean you bought him a gift subscription to Vanity Fair?”

“Well of course it sounds bad when you say it in that accusatory tone. But it was his birthday, and it’s only 12 issues. Hardly a legitimate reason to stop returning a person’s calls.”

I haven’t the heart to point out that, once again, it looks like M’s issues have got the better of him. As far as men are concerned, my friend is the grand master of grand gestures.

I swear, scarcely a day goes by where he isn’t planning an indoor fireworks display or Googling whether swans can be trained to spell out ‘THESE HAVE BEEN THE HAPPIEST THREE DAYS OF MY LIFE’ by swimming in formation. This rarely goes down well.

“Why is it you always feel compelled to throw money at people?” I ask. “You’re lovely, and once they’re dating you and realise how lovely you are, that’s half the battle won.

You’d be better off just being yourself and trying not to act crazy. I think you should call him.”

M looks down at his phone, and nods slowly. God, I’m good, I think. If I were a therapist, I’d call this moment the breakthrough. Then I’d hit M up for a hefty cheque and use it to buy a Rothko for my office wall.

I watch as M walks towards the hallway, dialling the number as he goes. This is progress, I think. Perhaps, just perhaps, we’re finally getting somewhere. Then, in the split second before the door swings shut, I hear his voice:

“Hello, is that Condé Nast? I was wondering if I could change the delivery address on a subscription…”