Nigel Havers and I are having a thing

Nigel Havers and I first became seriously involved when I watched a BBC series called “Manchild,” which followed the immature antics of four rudderless, outrageously wealthy fiftysomethings.  He was the lead rudderless fiftysomething, and I was captivated by his Oxbridge accent, his ascetic, rabbity good looks and his Ken-doll perfect Frost n’ Tip hair.

Yesterday, we took our relationship to the next level, when we ran into each other at the Waitrose on Mansfield Road.  He is in Nottingham to perform in the local panto (I can’t get into it here, but it’s an English theatrical tradition involving violence, gender reassignation and candy), so it was only a matter of time, really.  He gave me a look, oh, I can’t describe it exactly; our love is oblique, a matter of tiny gestures and skittering glances hiding profound depths of passion. But I will attempt a rough translation:

Nigel’s look: “Yes, it’s me, pretending with all my humble, actorly might to be an ordinary mortal but sheepishly acknowledging that I am as dazzlingly conspicuous as the Koh-i-Noor diamond part-embedded in a dog turd. Won’t you please protect my fragile public persona by pretending along with me?  Let’s tread the boards together in an intimate performance à deux—me, an ordinary man buying a quotidian snack of fair-trade chocolate and a pot of lemon curd yogurt and you, an ordinary woman, slightly sweaty with the effort of battling the Christmas crowds and clutching a basket full of prewashed salad and Yorkshire tea loaf.  Let us pretend that we are nothing more that what the rest of the world sees, my darling. Let’s not allow the riff-raff to intrude upon the moment.  It is ours, and ours alone.

My look: Yes to everything you just said, but can I touch your hair?

Nigel’s look: No.

My look: Fair enough.

And then he was gone, taking with him that hair, a blow-dried masterpiece of middle-aged wealth and vitality that I have yet to run my fingers through.