He eyes her right back, his face unchanging while she speaks. And there's a long pause afterwards, while he attempts to come up with a suitable response to that.

'Do you really care what my favourite colour is, or what my ideal night goes like?'

Though when it comes down to it, there's something to be dais for convention, even though he's never asked a bird those two questions in his life.


'...I don' have a favourite colour. I'm not six. Though I s'pose I could say Man City's strip colour - sky blue. An' as for my ideal night, somethin' like this isn' far off. Come up with a football match for me, an' it'd be perfect.'

Good steak, gambling, whiskey, the real Old West - what could be better? Oh yeah; being on a promise. And he reckons he's pretty much there on that score too.

'G'on then. Your turn.'