You would think I would have learnt by now not to make or accept bets. I always lose. I’m rash, over-confident and, frankly, stupid, when it comes to wagers. Recently, I lost a hundred bucks to The Wykehamist over a debate about a bottle of shampoo. Fortunately for me, he has generously not felt it necessary to come knocking on my door for the cash, preferring the smug satisfied feeling of simply knowing that he was right, and the sight of the look of horror on my face when I realized I shouldn’t have been quite so cocky being plentiful reward.
My latest act of idiocy has been to accept a bet with him, whereby the loser has to foot the bill for dinner at Nobu. I haven’t started saving yet – the challenge runs to the end of this year, so my misguided sense of optimism about my ability is still fresh. The deal on which this bet hangs? Well, it’s complicated.