I had to say that meeting someone who is mega-star-famous was a bit strange, but then, I guess they’re just people too. Abruptly meeting a superstar in the back room of a restaurant in Calgary of all places proved that they did normal things just like everybody else.

Tink couldn’t shut up about meeting Tudor and I just… well I didn’t know what to think. Sure, his looks were phenomenal, and all the adjectives in the world could not describe the pure animal magnetism of the man. But I was having a hard time trying to unravel the enigma that was Tudor North.

He was so dry in humour, so sarcastic in his delivery. Admittedly he was, at times, an arse who seemed to find enjoyment in winding me up immensely – that being said, he did improve a fraction as the night went on. But was that genuine, or was he bullied into that by his family? He seemed unapproachable and gruff, but the real question was, was he a private person, or was he really just a wanker?

As far as meeting a celeb went, I supposed it was memorable. Not something I would want to repeat very often, but it was another life experience in the banco di vita, as Nonna Girasoli would say.

I smelled the addictive aroma of Italian coffee and dragged my tush out of bed. Tink was in the kitchen whipping up some pancakes, sporting his novelty naked-lady apron, complete with inflatable boobs and a hairy muff. How he had never had a Mrs. Doubtfire moment in that get-up was beyond me.

“Hey, my little pig’s trotter. How are you today?” he asked while whisking batter at a furious rate. Tink was very skilled in using his wrist.

“Okay thanks, the hangover seems to have settled. You?”

“Just peachy thanks, chuck.”

Tink was his usually bubbly self, and set to pouring the batter in the pan in small round pancake shapes, gradually adding chocolate chips and slices of banana.

He looked over his shoulder. “Say, did you happen go to the toilet this morning using the bathroom in the hall?”

Confused, I answered, “No, why? I always use my en-suite.” I looked up at him curiously.

Turning back to the pan and flipping a pancake he said, “Mmm, it’s just that someone left the seat up after taking a piss. I just naturally assumed it must have been the other man in the house.” A huge grin plastered on his face.

“Fuck off, Tink!” I grumbled, still harbouring resentment from the previous night and my mistaken gender identity.

Following our encounter with the Norths, Tink and I had toddled off to Calgary’s g*y scene, given it had been Tink’s night to choose the bars that we would drain of their alcohol. In true Tink-and-Tash fashion we didn't fail in causing a stir. Now, I was more than a little tipsy and Tink had gone AWOL after finding a giant hairy man with a handlebar moustache that he wanted to mount, so I hit the dance floor alone to stun Canada with more of my amazing moves.

I shimmied to the stage with vigour on hearing ‘Gangnam Style’ come pumping through the speakers and as I was riding my pony with the utmost energy and winding my imaginary lasso, my ring got hooked on a guy’s chain – yes folks, his chain – that was fixed to a collar around his neck. Unfortunately the fellow didn’t take it so well when I couldn’t get myself unstuck as easily as one would have hoped, and he started going ape-shit right in front of my face, losing me precious Gangnam-dancing minutes.

That, coupled with my already jangled nerves from my Tudor North experience, had me seeing red and unclipping my hair extensions ready for a bitch-on-bitch take down faster than you can say ‘Don’t touch the face, Don’t touch the face!’ Tink (along with his new hairy friend) arrived at the last moment to save the day and save me (and the chain-wearing bastard) from any real danger, but not before my adversary had mistaken me for a drag queen and suggested my show name should be 'Candy Made-my-ass-large’ – you know, something that suited my wide-frame. Nice.

Grrr… I totally could have kicked his arse!

“Aww c’mon it was funny.” Tink trilled. “As if you look like a guy. And you said yourself that he prodded your titties. How did he not get that those bazookas are one hundred per cent real?”

“He probably thought they were chubby man boobs, after all I do look like a ‘fat little slut’, in his charming words.”

Tink switched off the hob, and sat down opposite me at the breakfast bar, gracefully placing a plate of delicious breakfast treats before me. “Shut up, Wil. Are you honestly bothered by what he said?” seeming genuinely concerned that I had taken it to heart.

“I suppose not, but it’s never nice to be seen as masculine when you’re a girl.” I exaggerated, and stuffed a comforting piece of pancake in my mouth. Mmm… chocolate.

“I hear ya. People often mistake me for a camp man until I speak, and then they know I’m a whole lotta female perfection,” he said whilst running his hands down his sides, jumping up and swaying his hips.

“Keep making man-centred jokes at me and you will be all woman; I’ll friggin’ castrate you!” I warned.

“Okay I’ll stop, just quit with the constant threats to my manhood. It’s my best asset,” he said with a grin.

“And where your brain is, or so it seems,” I mumbled.

“Anyway, I have a surprise for you that’ll turn that pout back to a snout,” he informed me excitedly.

“Really? What?” I answered dubiously. Tink’s surprises often left me wanting or injured or both.

“Nope, I’m not telling you yet. Go and get dressed in something sporty and meet me back here.”