Devon knows

So last weekend, I went to Devon for a friend's wedding, as I mentioned previously.  I arrived very late at night, with the wind howling and the fog swirling, and I fancied I could hear the sea crashing against the rocks.  I felt like I was in a Daphne du Maurier novel, and that any moment, a creepy housekeeper would sidle up to me saying, "You'll never take her place you know."

Thankfully, there was no creepy housekeeper, and the weekend went without a hitch.  Actually, that's probably not the ideal phraseology for a wedding.  A wedding without anyone getting hitched would not be a very good wedding at all.  You know what I mean.

So, I left TheBloke (TM) at home in the London Borough of Redbridge, and put him in charge of Monty Cat.  He assures me he mostly did dull things like buy a new mirror, put some laundry on and feed the cat.  Yet, when I got home on Sunday, his mobile rang.  His mobile never rings.  Unless it's me.

I only heard TheBloke (TM)'s side of the conversation at first.  "Hello?  Sorry?  What do you mean?  You called me!  I think you have the wrong number.  Nikki?  I didn't!  Who?"  At this point I motioned for him to put the mystery caller on speakerphone.  A girl with a Scouse accent that could strip paint was on the other end of the phone.  Hilariously, TheBloke (TM)'s South African upbringing (versus my misspent youth in front of Brookside) meant he could only understand one in three words she said.

"Yer did!" she insisted.

"When did I give you my number?" he asked.

"Last night," she asserted.  "Yer passed me on the street."

TheBloke (TM) was genuinely flummoxed, "We were packing sweets?" he queried.

"Are you black?" (or in Scouse: "Are youse blachhh?") Nikki queried abruptly.

"Erm, no."

"How auld are youse?"

TheBloke (TM) lied and said he was 20.  She said she was 17.  Then hung up.  Ten minutes later the phone rang again.

"So, do you want to go out for a drink then?" Nikki asked.

"Erm, not really.  I'm watching a film," replied TheBloke (TM) truthfully.  Though he accidentally omitted to mention he was sitting with his fiancée at the time.

"Go on," Nikki wheedled, "I'll meet you in town."

"Which town?" asked TheBloke (TM).

"Liverpool!" said Nikki like TheBloke (TM) was a bit thick.

"For a drink?" he asked.

"For a spliff," said Nikki, who, though tender of age, was clearly a bit of a stoner.  "What do you do?" she asked him.

"I'm a gay model," lied (I hope) TheBloke (TM).  Why this is the first thing that came to his mind is anyone's guess.

"Eww!  You're a Quagmire!" said Nikki.  She hung up and hasn't called since.  Neither of us knows what a Quagmire is.

So... answers on a postcard.  Did TheBloke (TM) stay in and feed the cat whilst I was in Devon?  Or did he go out on the pull in Liverpool?  And is he a part-time (or indeed full-time) gay model?  And what on earth is a Quagmire?