This morning I woke up in the arms of the hunkiest mechanic you EVER saw in your life. Oh. My. God! The boy has guns to rival even the most heavy duty army issue.

Two problems:

1. He’s 20 (“and here’s to you, Mrs Robinson…”)

2. He lives over 120 miles away from London, in a wee village a stone’s throw (and by stone’s throw I mean a country stone’s throw where people think nothing of treking 30 flipping miles to the pub) from where The Olds live.

Oh dear. Another quality choice by Tiffin. But he’s tall, broad, has a hairy chest and stubble, big arms and massive hands. You know, the type of big arms that make you feel really little when he sneaks up on you from behind and envelopes you in them (while you’re outside the pub waving your phone in the air desperately hoping for just one bar of reception to take away the “emergency calls only” text on the screen).

Seriously, kids. It was the stuff that Mills and Boons books are made of. A little bit of proper country romance. What a lovely way to end off 2007. So, I suppose you want the story?

Yesterday I ended up at The Olds’ house in the sticks. We did the only thing that there is to do in’t'country and thart is go dowwwn t’ut pub. The local was full of the usual suspects – I swear that it’s always the same faces whenever I go there – and a handful of kids hogging the pool table. There was a spread laid on (being a village, everyone had taken down a plate of something earlier) and it was as I hunted for a knife to put me butter on me bread roll that a tall, stacked young fella sidled up to me and took my hand. He raised it to his lips and planted a kiss on it, asking who I was. The name on the back of my jumper was a bit of a giveaway, but I can overlook that because it must have taken a bit of courage (or several pints of ye olde pubbe beer) to hit on a girl under the watchful eyes of the entire village including your mother and two teenage sisters (oh, the gossip).

The rest of the night involved getting hideously pissed on my stepdad’s tab, and drinking lots of red wine outside in the pub garden, where everyone knew we were, but where they couldn’t sit gawping.

Fast forward a few hours, and there’s the pair of us hiding down the side of a muddy Landrover and snogging like a pair of teenagers, although I have to admit it wasn’t that long ago for him. Then out come my parents and The Mother is crossly muttering along the lines of “well, I don’t bloody know where she is, she will have to get herself home!” Cue much laughing into hands and crouching down. They got into the car and turned it around and then busted us in the headlights – now that wasn’t embarrassing.

I don’t think the rest of the story is really all that important (hmmm, but part of it involved a church garden – classy), but Mechanic Boy drove me home this afternoon, where I faced the Spanish Inquisition and The Mother asking if I had found myself a nice young man.

Truth is, yes. He’s lovely. It was bliss waking up next to a giant of a boy who snuggled up behind me with his giant arms around me and his giant hand holding mine. So unbelievably cute! Warm, soppy… and far too young He wants me to go down for New Year and when I said that I wouldn’t, he said that he would come up and see me. Bless. I will try not to break his heart too cruelly.

WHY ARE THERE NO LOVELY HUNKY YOUNG MEN WHO WANT TO BE LOVELY TO ME IN LONDON?!?!?!?!?!