One winter, many years ago when I was still single, I had been skiing for a few hours when I decided to take a break and warm up in the chalet. I ordered a coffee and sat at a table near a group of women who were getting ready to set out. I overheard one of them remark that she’d forgotten her gloves so couldn’t ski with her friends. No gloves is a deal breaker in winter sports. In a moment of spontaneous chivalry, I leaned over and offered her my own gloves. She thanked me but added, “but how will I give them back to you?” In a moment of uncharacteristic boldness, I replied, “here’s my phone number. Call me sometime and we’ll meet so you can return them.” Offering a pair of gloves may not go down as the most suave pickup line, but in that moment, I might as well have been sipping a martini instead of coffee, and wearing a tuxedo under my ski clothes. You can almost hear the dialog:
“But James, I need you.”
“So does England.” Out the door, down the slope, off the cliff, the Union Jack parachute unfurls, the brass section erupts… you know the rest.
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