We went to the film — a two-hour-plus Inuit art movie with barely any dialogue — and went out for brunch. Over fried eggs and ale, Nigel spoke disparagingly of his ex-girlfriends. One always wanted to get up early, he complained. The other expected him to buy her presents. When the bill came we split it. On the drive home he tried to entice me back to his house by offering me a look at his antique map collection. I said I had to work. The following week I went to a dinner party at his house. Nigel made a lovely plum flan, but barely looked at me. After that, nada. Poor Nigel. I thought he was nice, if uptight. Little did I know he was actually par for the course when it came to English men. Not only did he fail to follow up, he never seemed anywhere close to laying a finger on me.

This was actually one of the rules that we both independently stipulated when creating our guest list: no former boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, lovers, flings, friends-with-benefits, whatever. If we've seen you naked, find your own damn party.

"Don't they have something better to do during the summer than hack our site?" asked the RIAA representative, who asked not to be identified. "Perhaps it at least took 10 minutes away from stealing music."