Of course, back in my day, we didn't need to rely on vampires — or even differential tolling — to spice things up. My first girlfriend was Marcella. We were kept apart not by any uneasiness over my supernatural powers, but by a more terrifying apparition known by the name of “Marcella's father”. Marcella's father was a top-ranked general in the Australian Army who had honed his hand-to-hand combat skills killing communists in the jungles of Malaysia and whose jungle-creeping techniques meant he could turn up suddenly sitting between the two of you on the couch. “Getting on well, are we?” he'd say, as he sharpened shenzhen escort girls a decorative fighting knife he'd seized from the hands of a dying communist insurgent in 1953. “The thing about the Malaysian Kris,” he would lazily observe, “is that it does damage on the way in and then more damage on the way out.”

Thirty-five years later, I find it difficult to even nod hello to a member of the opposite sex without having a sense I'm about to be stabbed for a crime that used to be called “Roman hands and Russian fingers”. With love, of course, there is always some sort of barrier to overcome; that's what supplies the necessary intensity of feeling. In the 1970s, for example, young men of my generation would purposefully wear flannelette shirts, brown cord trousers and desert boots. We'd also sport bogan haircuts — most notably the mullet, a style characterised by the phrase “business at the front, with a party behind”. 1130ypjchuji To write a good romance, you have to keep the lovers apart, which is tough in an age in which people tend to fall into bed together. The solution, increasingly, is to introduce a vampire theme, as in Twilight and True Blood. How has it come to this? Are there no other believable ways of keeping young lovers apart, besides the supernatural? Couldn't we place them in different wings of the Liberal Party — she a young climate sceptic, he a Turnbull true believer? Couldn't their passion burn long into the night; the two holding hands, leaning closer and then being repulsed by each other's views on compensation policy for the aluminium industry? “I love you Bradley”, she might say, “but I can't abide a love that will be played out on the corpse of exportable jobs in aluminium.” “I love it, Cynthia,” he'd murmur back, “when you talk about dirty industries.”

Oh, you don't like the idea of sex between Liberals? Fair enough, it is a bit yucky. Perhaps our star-crossed young couple could instead be divided by geography: she from Sydney's old-money north shore; he from Sydney's new-money eastern suburbs. “But, darling,” he'd say, “the carpet in your parents' hallway is threadbare; I didn't know you grew up in such extraordinary poverty.” “Shoosh, silly,” she would reply, “Mummy and Daddy have plenty of money but they think it's wickedness to throw something out until it's properly used up.” Says he: “Why don't they just take out margin loans and buy new stuff?” Ah, yes, wait until we publish Twilight: the Sydney Story — “two teenagers divided escort in shenzhen by the Sydney Harbour Bridge”. Readers across the planet will sigh and daydream, wondering whether Woollahra and Turramurra can ever co-exist. And just wait until the climactic scene in which she refuses to cross the bridge until after 7pm, when the differential tolling rate goes down. “Am I not worth $1.50?” he'd say in his fast, eastern suburbs way, “I thought you'd be so desperate to see me that money would be no object.” “The money is not a measure of my love for you,” she'd respond patiently, “it's just a matter of watching the pennies so the pounds watch themselves.” Oh, the barriers to love! Oh, the clash of cultures! Oh, the forces of history that divide these two!
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