Infidelity and cars go together like drive-ins and teen pregnancy.

In a Top-Secret, for-your-eyes-only mission last night, I discovered that Harry has a little piece of arse on the side.

Harry is my boss at Harry’s Limousines, where we convey the rich and expense-accounted around this here piece of Florida swamp. He called me mid-afternoon, with specific details. This is a direct quote:

Okay, so the job is collecting a lady friend of mine – if you can read between the lines – take her to a restaurant, and drive her home when she’s done.

There was to be no record of the trip. He left an envelope with cash for me, tip included, and I couldn’t even refill the car with gas when done, because that would leave a paper trail as well. All very clandestine.

Harry is 57 years old and a grandfather. He’s a good guy, always ready with a story, although he does express himself with passion, meaning that he shouts a lot. I have noticed that his hair has been professionally cut of late, with some blonde added to the spiky tips. Now I know why.

Between that first call and me picking up his flooze, he called me four times. No kidding, he even called at five minute prior to pickup time to make sure I had found the house.

Look, it’s none of my business, and I’m interested only because it’s fun to write about. The way he is like an overprotective den mother demonstrates that he is smitten by this woman, completely giddy with something approaching love. He’s as moony as a ten year old in the back of the bus, if you read between the cheeks.

Silly man, he’s going to get his heart handed to him.