In which doing the right thing is infinitely less fun, again

For the past few days, Cardiff has again had the (all too rare) pleasure of Rob's company. Rob is a fascinating, enthusiastic person who happens to work in the glamorous profession of film colouring. He colours films. Makes them pretty. The first time I met him, I launched into the only thing I know about film colouring: that a lot of people are doing it wrong, resulting in floods of teal and orange.

Tonight, Rob was reading a copy of Heat magazine (more because it was there, I think, than because he dislikes his braincells). He mentioned a 'weird crushes' list, and I peeked to see if there were any on there I could relate to. There, at number one, was Benedict Cumberbatch. (I've already written a post about him; you can read it here, for the curious, but it summarises to "A+, would ogle again.")

"Ooh, yes, Benedict Cumberbatch," I said. "I feel a bit wrong for liking him now. There's a new Weebl's stuff cartoon about him. It basically says 'Dirty, dirty girls like Benedict Cumberbatch,' over and over until I feel bad about myself."
Rob laughed. "He's filth in real life, as well."
I paused, a little bit surprised but not stunned. Rob has a tendency to do this. It's that glamorous career thing - whenever we mention someone we admire, there's a one in three chance that Rob's met them.
"You've met him?"
"Yup."
"Do you have his number on your phone?" (Joking, of course. Probably.)
"Yup."
"...Oh." (Was I joking? Should I...? No. That would be creepy. I was definitely joking. Do not ask for his number do not do NOT do that, it would be creepy.)

I'm not sure whether I should be congratulated or berated for taking the high road. A mistake you don't make looks much the same as a missed opportunity from behind. Anyway, I'm sure Rob wouldn't have shared as he is far too much of a gent.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to listen to Weebl's song until the message sinks in. (Dirty, dirty girl.)