"I'd prefer the former. I don't think I can actually stay with a bloke who's pants at quidditch. That's the thing, Ally, I need a man not a boy and that's all that's been coming my way lately." Angie shrugged and went for her glass again but she paused at Ally's revelation. "I won't say a word," she teased, "but I like them too. Or a Scottish one. Or Welsh," she added, smiling a bit at that. "Be nice to meet a Welshman I could get on with."
She wrinkled her nose at the thought of the last Welshman she'd spoken to. Hell, she hadn't even realised Warrington was Welsh. At least their conversation had been decent, surprisingly. "I wouldn't want an ad in the Prophet, no," Angie agreed, her lip curling at the thought. "I'd bloody well feel like a failure anyway, needing any sort of service to set me up, because I couldn't find a bloke on my own, you know?"